Chapter Twelve
“You know, you really shouldn’t sleep after a red-eye.”
The voice was too deep to be Colin’s. Too warm and too close and too...
“Ethan!”
He was lying on the bed beside her, rugged jaw propped on his upturned hand. “There’s a reason they call jet lag the silent
killer.”
“No one calls it that.”
She tried to push her hair out of her face. Then she gave up and tried pushing him off her bed, but he was like a Greek statue,
fully clothed but just as heavy as if he’d been carved out of stone.
“Why are you in my room?” Her mouth was too dry and her eyelids were too heavy and there was nothing but darkness outside
the window. She had no idea what time it was. She just knew that Ethan Wyatt was on her bed and that wasn’t even the weirdest
part of her very weird day.
“I knocked,” he told her simply.
“You should have—”
“I knocked loudly ,” he cut her off. “And repeatedly. You didn’t answer.”
Had she swallowed wool? Is that something that happens in England?
“Why—”
“It’s almost six,” he told her. “And Eleanor doesn’t like—”
Shoot . Maggie looked at the darkened window again as if it were a clock, but she knew he was right. It felt like she’d been out
of it for hours, and now Maggie had sleep in her eyes and wool in her throat and she was still wearing her omelet sweater
and she didn’t have any idea what one wears to cocktails in Eleanor Ashley’s library!
She flew from the bed and toward the pair of giant suitcases that sat inside the door.
“I brought those in for you.” Ethan sounded smug. “You’re welcome.”
Luckily, Maggie had packed options. So many options. Every possible, conceivable option, but as she unzipped the biggest bag
she realized she was frozen. Precious seconds were ticking by and Ethan was still there. She saw his confused face reflected
in the mirror.
“What?” Maggie snapped, waiting for a joke but he just shook his head.
“Nothing. I just thought you’d be a little roll-y suitcase kind of person, not...” He gestured to the giant bags.
“I used to be,” she said, but she still couldn’t move.
“You don’t know what to wear, do you?” He gave her the kind of grin that said he’d figured her out, cracked her like a safe.
She couldn’t possibly have any more secrets.
So she whirled on him. “No. I don’t know what to wear for Christmas cocktails with Eleanor Ashley!” She threw her hands out
wide, then grabbed her toiletry bag and most basic little black dress and ran into the bathroom to change because that was
no doubt faster than trying to push Ethan out.
“Technically, it’s Christmas Eve Eve Eve,” he called from the other side of the door.
“Get out!” she called back.
“You’re gonna need help zipping that,” he said as she threw water on her face and some dried-out mascara on her lashes. It
flaked and got in her eyes and she only had twenty seconds to brush her teeth.
But the worst part was when she pulled the dress over her head and remembered why she hadn’t worn it in a year. First, because
she’d barely left her apartment, but also...
She remembered standing in a dressing room and watching Emily roll her eyes. “Come here. You never were good at zipping.” Maggie turned but Emily caught her eye in the mirror. “Just make sure you wear
it when Colin is home. And make sure he doesn’t just unzip it,” Emily had said with an exaggerated wink wink .
Maggie couldn’t wear that dress. She couldn’t even zip that dress. But there was a voice on the other side of the door, calling, “Oh, Margaret Lavinia, we’re going to be late.”
So Maggie twisted and turned and—“Ow!”—banged her elbow on the doorframe, trying to ignore the little voice that was telling
her she really only had one option.
“Come on, Margaret Eugenia.”
Reluctantly, Maggie opened the door and Ethan went silent at the sight of her.
She’d barely had time to twist her hair on top of her head and slap on the only lipstick she owned—something called Heathen that Emily had gotten in a goodie bag at Milan Fashion Week. Maggie had always liked the color but from the look on Ethan’s
face she probably had it all over her teeth or something. And she didn’t dare say he was right about the zipper. She’d rather
die first. But she somehow managed to step into the room and turn around.
She waited for a joke about the fact that she was wearing the world’s most utilitarian bra or how she had two freckles on
her back that were positioned like teeny tiny nipples. Colin used to tease her about them. Or mock her? Maggie was no longer sure of the difference, but Ethan didn’t say a thing.
He just studied her face in the mirror, and when she met his gaze, she didn’t recognize the Ethan who stared back. There was
no teasing, no taunting, no too-cool, too-clever, too-charming grin. It was as if a mask had slipped and for one split second,
she saw Ethan, the man and not Ethan, the Guy in the Leather Jacket . And for that split second Maggie forgot how to breathe.
“Hey. She’s gonna love you.” A warm finger brushed down the line of her spine. He was looking at her like he knew her—like
he’d always known her. Better than Colin. Better than Emily. Better even than she knew herself. And all Maggie could do was stand there
as one heartbeat turned into two. Then three. And then her heart stopped beating altogether and Maggie felt herself sway.
The touch broke and the moment ended and Maggie watched his mask go on. The persona flickered to life as he said, “Besides,
your boobs look amazing in—”
“Zip it,” she ordered and the zipper slid into place and he didn’t say another word as she stormed back into the bathroom
and slammed the door.
“Do you want me to wait?” he called. Wordlessly, she opened the door and pointed. “Downstairs. I’ll wait for you downstairs.”