Page 9 of Ethan & Grace

“Hey.”

I flinched at the sound of a deep voice—the one that had haunted far too many of my dreams. I spun around, and there he was: Ethan. He was sitting in front of his laptop at the kitchen island, a book marked up with countless Post-it notes beside him. Was he . . . studying? It looked like it, based on the fact that he was wearing his black-rimmed glasses, which he usually ditched in favour of contact lenses. It was a bizarre sight. Had I stumbled into a parallel universe? I’d caught Ethan in plenty of compromising situations before but had never once seen him studying. It was disconcerting. But there was one thing that hadn’t changed: My body responded to him with a hunger I was powerless to resist.

“Hey, Beelzebub,” I greeted him, doing my best to keep my voice neutral.

He looked just as incredible as he had the last time I’d seen him, at the Pearl Gala. That evening, he’d worn an elegant black three-piece suit; now he was sporting dark jogging bottoms and a grey hoodie. Even the baggy clothes couldn’t disguise his athletic build. It was the way he carried himself, his broad shoulders and upright posture. I would have slumped on his backless stool like a sack of potatoes, but he somehow managed to look graceful.

Ethan gave me a once-over. “You’re back.”

I smiled, which astonishingly didn’t feel forced or pinched, for the first time today. “Yes. Did you miss me? Why am I even asking? Of course you missed me. I know I’m the absolute highlight of your day.”

Ethan removed his glasses, and somehow even that very ordinary gesture looked seductive on him. He got up and made his way over to me. The closer he got, the clearer his blue eyes became. They were as beautiful as the sea—and just as dangerous. At first glance, they seemed deceptively calm, but a closer look tended to reveal the jagged rocks lurking just beneath the surface. Only today, I couldn’t see the rocks, no matter how hard I tried. There was something else in his eyes, though. Something that threw me, because I’d never seen it in Ethan before.

Just then, I realised what it was: pity.

Fuck.

My.

Life.

Ethan Darlington, king of arseholes, self-professed womaniser, and full-time egomaniac, pitied me. How pathetic must I have looked for someone like him to feel sorry for me?

He stopped a few steps away. Apart from his hands, which were shoved casually into his pockets, he seemed stiff and strangely awkward. “I heard what happened to your sister, and—”

“Don’t you dare,” I hissed, a finger raised.

“What?”

My stomach clenched. “Don’t you dare be nice to me.”

He stopped short. “I just wanted to—”

“Forget it!” I cut him off again. I couldn’t bear to hear even a single word of comfort coming from his mouth. But it was already too late. My lower lip began to tremble. Maybe it was the morose looks my colleagues had been giving me all day. Maybe it was being so close to where the accident had happened. Or maybe it was simply that Amy was dead. Whatever the reason, I couldn’t hold it in any longer. The wall around my heart had completely crumbled, suddenly setting my grief free.

The tears I’d been holding back all day shot to my eyes. I blinked rapidly a few times, hoping to stop them from falling, but it was no use. I was too weak, and my pain was too big. A pathetic gasp escaped me, and suddenly I was crying in front of the very man I’d been hoping could distract me from this.

I covered my face, desperate not to let Ethan see me like this. Today couldn’t possibly get any worse. Or could it? I heard him step closer until he was right beside me. Even in the state I was in, his presence was impossible to ignore.

I felt a soft touch on my shoulder, and I braced myself to be thrown out of his flat. The last thing a guy like him wanted on his hands was a sobbing woman. But to my surprise, Ethan didn’t drag me to the door. Instead, he pulled me to him. A jolt shot through me, and suddenly, I was in his arms.

Under other circumstances, I would have pushed Ethan away, because my dislike of arrogant arseholes was much greater than the physical pull between us. But I didn’t have the strength to resist the comfort he was offering me. My fingers dug into his hoodie as if of their own accord. He pulled me in even closer, which only made me cry harder.

I wasn’t even sure why I was crying. Over Amy? Was I crying because I had lost not only my sister but also my life as I knew it? Because losing Amy had made me an outcast, since my colleagues didn’t know what to do with my grief? Or because my parents and little brother couldn’t bear the sight of me?

Ethan didn’t say anything. He had no soothing platitudes or words of comfort. He didn’t whisper calming things into my ear or promise everything would be OK. He just held me tight until it felt like his strong arms were the only thing keeping me upright. As reluctant as I was to admit it, being held by Ethan felt good. He may not have liked me any more than I liked him, but the way he held me suggested otherwise. Enclosed by his scent, the flood of tears constricting my throat began to slow after a while. It was both a relief and a disaster. The clearer my vision was, the clearer my mind became—and with it, the realisation that I was letting myself be comforted by Ethan Darlington. Something he would tease me about for the rest of my life. Or at least for as long as I worked for the hotel.

I pulled away from him, wiped my face dry, and fixed my eyes on the damp patch my tears had left on his hoodie. I couldn’t bring myself to look at his face, where I was sure I’d find a smug grin. I was embarrassed to have broken down in front of him. Ashamed, I wanted to march straight out of his flat and never come back, but I didn’t want to make myself look even weaker. I was strong. I could face my feelings.

“Are you feeling better?” Ethan asked, his voice surprisingly gentle.

I held back my remaining tears to steady my voice. “I . . . I think so.”

“Good.” As if he’d just been waiting for me to say I was fine, he stepped back, taking with him his warmth and comfort. “Because when you’re done bawling, you can get back to work.”

This was the Ethan I knew and despised. Every last trace of kindness had vanished. But his spite gave me the strength to straighten up and look him in the eyes. His expression was guarded, but deep down, I caught a flicker of something. And that was when it hit me: He wasn’t being cruel because he was an arsehole. He was being cruel because I’d asked him not to be nice to me. Which, in a twisted way, was actually kind of sweet.

“What is it, Gracie?” he asked. I hated when he used that cutesy nickname, but I didn’t want to call him out on it—he’d only use it all the more. “Are you hard of hearing? Or why are you standing around? Get to work. The rubbish won’t take itself out.”