The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(28)

“Lucy? You okay?” came Ethan’s voice.

“Ehehehenngh,” I managed. I heard the rustle of clothes—he was pulling on his pants, I guessed. Because he was probably still naked. Because I’d made him shag me. Because he was too nice to say no.

Ethan tried the door. “Open up, honey,” he said.

“Um, I need a minute,” I squeaked. The tears, hot and damning, slipped out of my eyes. Oh, Jimmy, I thought. He’d be so ashamed of me, mauling his brother, putting Ethan in an impossible position like this.

The little lock on the door popped open, and Ethan came in, clad in jeans and nothing else.

“How’d you unlock the door?” I asked, not looking at his face.

“One of my many life skills,” he answered, sitting next to me. “Lucy. Come on, honey. Don’t cry.”

“I’m so sorry,” I hiccupped. “Ethan, I’m so, so sorry.”

“What for?” he asked, taking my hand.

“I made you have sex with me,” I blubbered.

“Yes, guys hate that,” he murmured, tipping my chin up. “If anyone’s sorry, Lucy, it should be me. I’m the one who started it.”

“I was pretty much begging for it,” I said.

“And again, guys hate that.” He smiled.

“You’re not just a guy. You’re Jimmy’s brother. I’m Jimmy’s wife. We’re related. And now you’ve seen me. Naked. Naked and orange.” A hitching sob stuttered out of me.

He rolled his eyes. “We’re not related, and you’re not Jimmy’s wife anymore, honey. You’re his widow. And you look great naked, even if you’re not the right color.”

This further kindness just caused my face to scrunch up in that awful expression of uncontrollable crying. “I should probably move out,” I wept. “Find another apartment. Leave Rhode Island. Become a nun.”

Ethan laughed. “A nun, huh?”

“Don’t laugh,” I said. “I’m so ashamed, Ethan.”

“Okay, stop,” he said, his voice firm. “Lucy. Stop crying.” He turned and grabbed the box of tissues from the back of the toilet. I noted there were scratch marks on his back. God, I was a complete slut! My face contorted again.

“Here,” he said. “Blow your nose.”

I did, a couple of times. Wiped my eyes, finally getting off the last of the mud mask, it seemed. “Ethan, really, I’m so sorry. We never should’ve done this. It was wrong, and it was all my fault.”

He took a deep breath. “Lucy, listen.” He took both my hands in his and looked at me until I was able to look back. His dark eyes were serious for once. “We both miss him. We’re young, we’re healthy, we’re straight. And we spend a lot of time together. We just…comforted each other. That’s all, honey.”

For a second, it looked like he was going to say something else, but then he must’ve changed his mind, because he didn’t.

“Don’t you feel guilty?” I asked. After all, I was Hungarian and Catholic. Of course I felt guilty. Ethan was also Catholic, and Italian. Surely he felt a few pangs, a little fear of hell—

“No. I don’t feel at all guilty. Or bad in any way. My back’s a little sore, maybe. How much do you weigh these days?”

I gave a surprised snort of laughter and smacked his shoulder. His bare, rather perfect, nicely muscled shoulder. “None of your business,” I answered.

“My chiropractor might say otherwise.” He winked, looking every inch the flirt he was.

His skin was so smooth. Which I could tell because apparently I was sort of caressing that shoulder. Ethan’s torso was rather…gorgeous. The muscles in his arms moved and slid beautifully under his olive skin. Oh, look, he had six-pack abs. All that time outdoors, I guessed. And his hands…Manly, capable hands. The kind that knew what to do to a woman. Mmm.

Suddenly aware that I was ogling him, I jerked my hand away from that lovely shoulder and sneaked a look at Ethan’s face. There it was again, that little crooked smile that changed his face from not bad to mischievous and adorable.

Ethan reached out and pinched my chin. “Don’t feel guilty, you crazy orange nut job,” he said. “Okay?”

His hair was sticking up on one side. “I’ll try,” I said.

For a moment, we just looked at each other. Then, almost without meaning to, I reached out and put my hand against his lovely, warm neck and felt his pulse jump against my hand. A long, hot moment seemed to vibrate between us.

Then Ethan leaned in, slowly, slowly, and kissed me again.

And we ended up doing it on the bathroom floor, Fat Mikey yowling outside the door.

When Ethan left on Sunday night, I promised him I’d never put him in this position again. Said promise was broken the next weekend, when I jumped him the second he came through my door, and then again a few hours later, when he said he should be going and kissed me goodbye.

After a few forbidden shags, we—well, I—decided we should be friends with privileges and nothing more. I made Ethan swear that this wouldn’t change our friendship; that he’d dump me if he met someone else or wanted to get back with Parker; and that he’d never ever tell anyone about us, because the idea of my in-laws finding out that I was doing their younger son…Gah! No. As far as my mother and aunts went, God forbid they found out that I was using Ethan for sex. My family drew the line at the use of scarlet letters, but just barely. I remembered Cousin Ilona of the early menopause being labeled a hussy when, eighteen short years after her husband died, she let the postman carry in her groceries.