The Intimacy Experiment (The Roommate #2)(35)

The next thing Ethan knew, he was on the ground, a searing pain across the left side of his face. Through the pulsing agony, he appreciated the bitter irony. Okay, so God didn’t want him to throw any punches.

He pushed up to his elbows with difficulty. “Well, you’re never gonna get that job in finance now.”

His assailant’s fists closing around his collar, lifting him into the air, though unwelcome, were not entirely surprising.

“Hey, asshole,” someone called from the door of the bar. While he considered turning to look at the person whose sentiment he very much shared, keeping his eyes on the man attacking him seemed more prudent.

Whoever was speaking surprised the guy enough that he lost his grip on Ethan’s collar, sending him splaying back against the pavement ass-first with enough force that his teeth rattled. His tailbone screamed in protest, but it was arguably better than getting hit in the face again.

Tilting his chin to survey his savior, Ethan blinked to find Naomi launching an elbow at his assailant’s nose. The crunch of bone meeting cartilage announced she’d met her intended target.

“Bitch,” the guy yelled through a handful of blood.

Apparently, that was the breaking point for the bouncer across the street. He made his way over slowly.

“Time to go, pal.”

“She hit me!”

“No,” the bouncer said as he escorted him away, “I’m pretty sure you fell.”

Ethan tried to get to his feet and stumbled. His eye throbbed.

“Easy, cowboy.” Naomi knelt down and placed both hands gingerly on his jaw, tilting it to inspect the damage to his face. “Oh yeah. You’re gonna have a gorgeous shiner in about six hours.”

“Did you hit that guy?” It seemed entirely possible that Ethan had imagined the last five minutes.

“Trust me, he needed it.” She released his face, and he registered the loss.

“Are you okay?” He’d seen the way her eyes had gone haunted back in the bar. She looked better now, flushed and alert, but the sight of her shattered wasn’t one he’d soon forget.

She rolled her shoulders and dropped his gaze.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

He didn’t know how to tell her that even now, despite her bravery, her hands were shaking.

“If you want to leave, I’m more than happy to close out with the bar.”

Naomi shook her head and fed him a smile, offering him a hand and pulling him to his feet. “What I want to do is buy you a shot of tequila and get some ice on that eye.”

“Naomi . . .” He imagined it was hard to look disapproving with only one eye open, but he attempted it.

“Stuff like this happens to me all the time, Ethan,” she said, weariness written across her entire body.

He squeezed her hand gently. “Don’t pretend it’s okay. Not on my account.”

For the first time tonight, he noticed there were dark circles under her eyes. Faint, as if she’d tried to cover them with makeup. He had a stupid urge to run his thumb across the thin skin there, try to smooth them away.

“It sucks.” Her voice hardened from water to ice. “But I’ve got a short recovery time.”

Aggressive was the last word anyone would use to describe Ethan, but still he’d known a moment when he’d craved nothing more than to knock out that guy’s teeth and hand them to her.

“I tried to reason with him,” he said, half leaning on her as they made their way to the bar.

She reached up again to press two fingers to the tender skin around his eye. The touch was featherlight and bittersweet with the promise of pain.

“No wonder he hit you.”

Ethan wiped his watering eye on the bottom of his T-shirt. “I should have known you didn’t need me to defend your honor.”

She stopped under the neon sign heralding the bar’s name, its pink light dappling her red hair. “I didn’t mind as much as you might think.”

As they walked in, she looked back at the bar, where earlier the sounds of music and laughter had confirmed their success this evening. It was quiet now.

“If you want to talk about it . . .”

“Tequila first.” Naomi bodily deposited him on a bar stool and then whistled for the bartender. “Two double shots of Herradura and a bag of your finest ice, please.”

Movies never lingered on the aftermath of getting punched. Turned out that was because it sucked.

When the bartender handed over her requests, she took Ethan’s palm in hers and pressed the ice into it. “Keep this on until your face goes numb or the ice melts, whichever comes first.”

Ethan followed her instructions and pressed the ice to his cheek. The bag was at once soothing and awkward. She lined up the shot glasses in front of him.

“Both?”

Naomi nodded, her mouth pressed into a grim line. “That eye’s really starting to swell.”

The smell wafting off the tequila burned the insides of Ethan’s nose. “I’m not much of a drinker.”

He tipped back the shots one after the other. Alcohol blazed a path from his tongue to his stomach. He tried clearing his throat, but the movement sent a shooting pain across the left side of his face, so the sound died halfway out of his mouth.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll make sure you get home safe, Rabbi Cohen.”