Addicted(81)

“Why don’t you take a bath?” he suggests when I finally let go. “After that run last night, you’ve got to be sore.”

I am. And it’s that soreness that keeps reminding me that my headlong flight into the darkness really did happen just last night. With everything that’s happened since—good and bad—the argument that caused me to run in the first place seems like it happened such a long, long time ago.

“I plan on it.” I start unbuttoning his shirt slowly, carefully. “Why don’t you join me?”

A quick hand on mine stays my fingers before they can take care of more than the first two. “I’d love to, but I have a couple of business calls to make. I want to make sure the buses got everyone evacuated and ensure that the plane landed safely in Vegas. But the calls shouldn’t take too long. When I’m done, I’ll make us a light dinner. Sound good?”




“It sounds very good. Though I’ll miss you when I’m soaking in this big tub all by myself.”

Ethan grins. “Yes, well, we’ll definitely have to remedy that before we head back to San Diego. I wouldn’t want you to be lonely.”

I laugh, as he intends me to, and then watch him walk away before slipping out of my clothes and sinking into the fragrant, steaming water. About a million different thoughts bombard me the second I start to relax, but I just let them flow over me, refusing to focus on anything more strenuous than trying to decide what wines I want to try out at the vineyard tomorrow. Definitely the pinot noir, since Ethan says it’s his favorite. But I’m a sparkly girl myself and I can’t help hoping he’s got a nice moscato for me to try, as well.

Exhausted after the events of the last two days, I lounge in the bathtub for nearly an hour, slipping in and out of a light doze. When the water finally cools, I reluctantly drag myself out of the tub and go in search of my hastily packed backpack.

I find it next to the bed, and a quick rummage through proves that I really was half asleep when I packed the thing. There are no pajamas, nothing at all for me to lounge around the house in. Instead, I’ve got a pair of jeans and a couple of blouses. A bright pink halter top rounds out my abysmally bad wardrobe choices.

After studying my severely limited options for a few seconds, I decide screw it. I’m exhausted and the last thing I want is to squeeze myself back into a pair of skinny jeans for the rest of the night. Instead, I rummage through Ethan’s drawers until I come across an extra-large T-shirt that’s been worn so much that most of the lettering on the back has come off. It feels incredibly soft to the touch and at the moment, I couldn’t ask for more than that. I slide it over my head, add a pair of underwear and consider myself dressed.

I head down the hall to the kitchen, figuring I can help Ethan put the finishing touches on dinner. But when I get there, the kitchen is empty and it’s obvious Ethan hasn’t been in here since he carried the groceries in well over an hour ago.

Figuring he’s hung up on one of the numerous business calls he had to make, I rummage in the fridge, trying to decide what to make for dinner.

Since I’m still not that hungry, despite the fact that it’s after eight, I decide on a cheese plate. That way I can still have room for some of the bread pudding with rum sauce that’s been calling my name since I turned it down at lunch.

Humming softly to myself—another trick I’ve picked up that helps keep my mind busy so I don’t dwell on stuff I don’t want to think about—I pull out some grapes and strawberries to go on the cheese plate. I wash them thoroughly, still humming, which is probably why I don’t hear Ethan yelling until I actually turn the water off.

It’s an unusual sound for him—Ethan’s such an even-keeled guy that I’ve only really heard him yell once in the whole time I’ve known him—that I’m out of the kitchen and halfway down the hall before I register what it is he’s yelling about. Which, in this case, is me.

“I don’t want excuses, Anthony. I want to know what the f*ck is going on. This whole thing has been a clusterf*ck from the very beginning and I’m getting damn f*cking sick of it!”

At first, I’m kind of shocked by the language alone—Ethan’s no angel, but he doesn’t normally swear in a repeated pattern like that unless he’s pissed about something. Really pissed. And definitely not at his employees.

But it doesn’t take long for my sluggish brain to catch on. This call is about me. About the stories in the tabloids.