Reckless(85)

Ethan has a spacious house, but it has limitations. Where’s Beverly supposed to sleep? With Mila, the human octopus? Beverly should have my room. I could sleep on the couch or on the floor in the sewing room, but I can’t bring myself to suggest it.

The idea of sleeping on the floor reeks of desperation, and that embarrasses me. Nothing used to embarrass me, but I’m starting to think it’s because I didn’t know better.

In any case, I’m not shacking up with Ethan while his mom is here.

He doesn’t say anything, and I shift in my seat.

“Look, Ethan, I know you can’t afford me, and since your mom is home, I figured you’d want to save the money.”

When I was in here cleaning his office, I caught a glimpse of his bank statements and bills, including the one from his attorney, which almost made me lose my lunch. No wonder the man is stressed out. I may not have much to my name, but I don’t have nearly the overhead that he does.

He motions behind me. “Close the door and come here.”

My eyes widen. “What?”

“You heard me.”

It takes a second to un-freeze, and I make sure the hallway is empty before I close the door. As I stride toward him, I shake my head. “I’m not having sex with you when your mom in the other room.”

That’s another reason I need to go. I can see it now, Ethan sneaking into my room, his mother hearing us, me dying of embarrassment. I want his mom to like me, and she won’t if she hears me riding her son into oblivion. It’s a small miracle we haven’t traumatized the kids with our nighttime activities.

But when I reach his side of the desk, he tugs me into his lap and gives me a slow, sweet kiss. “Don’t want you to go.”

His voice makes me shiver. It’s almost enough to overshadow the throb on my hip from the giant bruise I got this morning when I wiped out on the butter.

I almost say it. Almost tell him I love him. It’s right there on my lips, but something holds me back.

Ask me to stay.

I run my finger along the A&M logo on his t-shirt. “I don’t want to go either, but I think the writing’s on the wall.” My eyes sting, the reality of what I’m doing hitting sharp and deep, like I’ve impaled myself, but the momentum is gaining ground, and I can’t stop.

“Kat needs help, and you don’t,” I choke out. Doesn’t he see I’m obviously sucking at my job? First Mila burns her hand, and then the kids run wild with the butter, right under my nose? What if something worse had happened? I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if the kids got hurt because I was distracted.

In the silence, I start to chicken out when the reality of what I’m doing sinks in. Because I don’t want to go. If I give him space, will Allison dig her claws deeper? Will that client he had this morning get a shot with him? Will he question why he’s with me?

My heart is pounding. Can he feel it? I swallow and wait for him to say something.

Tell me to stay.

As your girlfriend, not as an employee.

Tell me you love me.

He doesn’t.

A big, calloused hand cups my face. “Is this about last night?” He sighs. “I wanted to talk about that. I…”

Driving up to the ranch while he and Allison argued on the porch feels like a lifetime ago.

I shake my head. “No.” I sniffle. “Not really.” Though it is about how he probably needs time to figure out what he wants. It might not be me.

Don’t fucking cry, Tori.

In the hallway, the thump of children’s feet tells me we’re out of time.

“You’re still my girl, right?” He tilts my chin up, so I have to look at him.

Even through my tears, his stormy blue eyes captivate me.

“Yeah.”

A question wells up in my heart: But are you still my guy?



* * *



A mockingbird tweets cheerfully in the tree outside Kat’s kitchen. The sun shines bright and high in the sky. Everything belies the misery in my bones. It should be raining and gray and cold like my sad little soul.

My sister side-eyes me again. “Are you sure you’re okay? It’s been days, and you’ve barely said a word. Are you mad at me?”

“No, of course I’m not mad at you. Stop talking to me or I’ll screw up your recipe.” Food is forgiving. Her bath and body supplies? Not so much.

I’m making a batch of bath salts for her lavender company, and I always misread the ingredients when she’s talking to me. It’s the reason I didn’t ask her to hire me instead of working for Ethan earlier this summer. I screwed up a huge order for her last year, and it was an expensive mistake. Really, I shouldn’t be measuring anything when my head is such a mess, but I can’t let my pregnant sister do this herself. I’m sure Brady could manage, but he has one more week at the tattoo parlor before he takes off on maternity leave. What’s it called for dudes? Paternity leave?

My sister tugs on my shirt. “Come on, manita. Please talk to me. I know something is wrong. You haven’t tried to embarrass me all week.”

“Oh, my God. Fine. I miss Ethan and the kids.”

She tugs a lock of hair. “I’m surprised you haven’t gone over to see them.”

I would’ve, had he asked me.

But I don’t say that.