Addicted (Ethan Frost #2)(66)

“Don’t do that. Don’t put me on some kind of pedestal—”

“I wish. I wish I could put you on a pedestal. I wish I could put you somewhere under glass, where I could keep you safe from all this shit you never should have had to deal with. I wish I would have known what Brandon was like a long time ago, wish I could have kept you out of his hands that night and every other one you had to put up with his bullshit.
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“And I want you to know—I need you to know—that when I buy you a present, it’s not because I think that you expect it. Or that I feel like I have to do it to make you happy. Because that’s not it at all, Chloe.” He leans over, presses his forehead to mine. “It’s only that I love you and I want to give you the world.”

My throat is tight before he’s even half done with his speech and it takes everything I’ve got to keep from breaking down all over again. But he’s still sounding pretty shaken and I figure in any couple, at any one time, there’s only room for one of them to be losing their shit. And right now, that one appears to be Ethan.

And so I swallow a few times, wait it out. And only when I’m certain that I can sound normal do I say, “You know, right, that I feel the same way about you? I think you deserve everything and it bothers me that you’re stuck with me. I’m neurotic and broken and so far from normal that I probably wouldn’t recognize it if it hit me over the head.”

“Stuck with you? Jesus, Chloe, I’m not stuck with you. I’m blessed with you.”

“Oh, Ethan, love, I think you’ve got that backward.”

“No. No, I don’t.”

He brushes his lips over mine and this kiss, our first kiss in what seems like forever … it’s a tapestry. A thousand stories and a thousand mistakes and a thousand glittering strands of light all threaded together to make something beautiful. To make something real.

“I love you,” he whispers against my mouth.

I laugh and if it’s a little soggy, there’s no one around but us to notice. “I don’t know why. I’m crazy.”

“Yeah, but you’re my kind of crazy, so …” He steps back then, starts to open the car door back up.

“I thought we were going grocery shopping?”

“Fuck grocery shopping. I’m taking you home.”

“Why? I mean, I’m still full from lunch, but presumably at some point we will want to eat again.”

“Yeah, well, this is where being rich comes in handy. Because I actually do have someone who’s job it is to stock up my kitchen.”

“But we’re already here. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, and this time it sounds like he thinks I really might be crazy.

“Please. I just want to do something normal for a little while. Something every other couple in America has to do.”

That sucks the argument out of him, just as I knew it would.

In minutes, we’re pushing a cart around the supermarket, picking up whatever strikes our fancy. Cherry Garcia ice cream. Brie cheese. Organic eggs. French bread. Cinnamon rolls. Tortellini salad. All in all, it takes about half an hour and goes very smoothly. At least until we get up to the cash register and I find myself staring at the tabloids as we wait our turn in line.

There’s a part of me that’s still locked in my head after our conversation in the parking lot and so it takes me a couple of minutes to actually read the lurid headlines I’m staring at. When I do, I have to grab on to Ethan to keep from falling as the whole world turns to quicksand around me.

“What’s wrong?” he asks even as he wraps a steadying arm around my waist.

I can’t speak so instead I just point at the magazines.

One of the headlines reads “Ethan Frost’s New Girlfriend: Portrait of a Gold Digger” while another takes the more subtle route: “Millionaire Playboy Ethan Frost Robs the Cradle … Or Is It the Other Way Around?” And if all that’s not horrifying enough, sitting right in the middle of all the magazines is one of the most popular gossip rags. It’s cover is a picture of Brandon, with the headline, “America’s New Sweetheart?” It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to vomit right in the middle of the conveyer belt.



Ethan gets us out of there within minutes. He bags the groceries for the checker and then all but throws his cash at her before sweeping me into the crook of his arm and bustling me out to the car. I’m so out of it at this point that I don’t even remind him to get his change.

Most of the ride home is a blur. I don’t notice any of the gorgeous scenery I waxed so poetic over during our ride to town. Don’t pay attention to the traffic that has gone from light to horrific in the space of a few hours. Don’t see or hear anything, really, except Ethan telling me over and over again how sorry he is that this is happening.

“It’s not your fault,” I tell him each time he says it. But it’s just lip service. I’m not even sure what he’s saying, let alone how I’m responding.

Eventually the shock wears off, is replaced by anger. I know Ethan’s a famous guy and I know him having a girlfriend is news. But the endemic sexism of the headlines. The idea that Ethan is only with me for my looks and I’m only with him for his money is insulting as hell—to both of us. Not to mention pretty much the opposite of how things really are. I’d be a hell of a lot happier if Ethan had less money. If he was just an ordinary guy—and he knows it.