11. Addy #3
I drag a hand through my hair. “That you know exactly what you’re doing, and I'm trying very hard to behave like a person with self-preservation instincts.”
His eyes drop briefly to my mouth, then lift, and just like that, every molecule of air in the room changes.
The memory of the plane comes back so hard it almost makes me dizzy, the way he looked at me then, the challenge in it, the heat, the terrifying certainty.
Except this isn’t a plane, and I’m not tipsy and furious and trying to set my own life on fire just because it’s already burning.
This is worse. Because this is sober, intentional.
He speaks very carefully when he says, “Do you think I’m not trying?”
My heart kicks.
There’s no good answer to that. None.
I should stand up, should leave. Yet, I stay exactly where I am, gripping the edge of the island like it’s helping.
“Ethan…”
His gaze flicks down again to my mouth, and this time he doesn’t even try to hide it.
I stop breathing.
The city beyond the windows blurs into light.
The apartment goes silent.
He shifts slightly, just enough that I can feel the possibility of movement before it even happens.
My pulse is everywhere, my skin is hot, and I know that if one of us moves even an inch, this whole carefully built thing is going to crack wide open.
He reaches out. One slow movement, hand coming to rest against the counter between us, close enough that if I leaned forward…
No.
Absolutely not.
My whole body jolts with panic. Real, bright panic. Because I want it, and that's exactly why I can’t let it happen.
I push off the stool so fast it nearly scrapes. “I can’t do this.”
The words come out breathless.
His expression changes instantly. “Addy…”
But I’m already backing away.
“No. I’m sorry. I just… no.” I shake my head, heart pounding so hard it feels embarrassing. “This is a bad idea. A really bad idea.”
He straightens, but he doesn’t come after me.
Thank goodness. Or maybe damn him for that too. I don’t even know anymore.
“I know,” he says.
Which somehow makes it worse, because he does know, and he still looked at me like that.
I laugh once, small, shaky, completely humorless. “Right. Great. Good. We agree.”
My face feels hot.
My hands are shaking.
This is ridiculous.
I’m twenty-eight years old and fleeing a kitchen because my hot boss almost maybe might have kissed me over takeout pasta and emotional honesty.
Luci is going to have a field day.
I point vaguely toward the hallway. “I should… go. I have… things. To do.”
“At night?”
“Yes.”
“In your room?”
“Yes.”
He watches me.
Then gives one short nod. “Goodnight, Addy.”
The way he says it, controlled, as if nothing happened, nearly kills me on the spot.
“Goodnight,” I say, and then I turn and walk away before what little dignity I have left bursts into flames.
I make it down the hallway, into my room, and shut the door with all the calm grace of a woman absolutely not having a full internal collapse.
Then I lean against it and stare at the ceiling.
“Holy hell,” I whisper.
Captain, who apparently followed me at some point, sits down beside the bed and looks up at me like he’s concerned.
“Yes,” I tell him. “That's the correct reaction.”
I shove both hands into my hair and groan.
Because what the hell was that?
What the actual hell?
I cross the room in two agitated steps, then back again.
Almost kiss.
Almost.
And somehow that feels more dangerous than the plane ever did, because there was no plausible deniability in that kitchen. We’re not strangers; this isn’t a one-off recklessness.
Just me and Ethan and all the reasons we absolutely shouldn't be doing this, layered under every look until the whole thing nearly tipped over.
I sit on the edge of the bed and put my face in my hands.
He trusts me, gave me a card for the household like it was nothing, thanked me for taking care of Oliver, and talked about the gala.
And I…
I looked at him like I forgot every smart thing I’ve ever known.
Captain nudges my knee with his nose.
I sigh and scratch behind his ears automatically. “Your owner is a problem.”
Captain wags once.
“Don’t do that,” I mutter. “You’re supposed to support me.”
He climbs halfway onto the bed like a giant emotional support marshmallow and rests his head in my lap.
I stare down at him, then let out a weak laugh. There's no point pretending in front of the dog.
“Well,” I say softly, “this is going really, really badly.”
Captain blinks at me.
And somewhere down the hall, beyond my door, Ethan is still in the kitchen.
Which means tomorrow I have to face him.
At breakfast.
In daylight.
Like we didn’t almost destroy the boundaries of this entire arrangement over wine and pasta and one look too many.
I flop backward onto the bed and stare at the ceiling again.
“This,” I tell the universe, “is why people should never live with men who look good with their sleeves rolled up.”
The universe, as usual, offers no useful feedback.
Captain sighs in my lap.
And I lie there in the darkening room, heart slowly settling, knowing one thing with absolute certainty: I cannot let that happen again.
Which, unfortunately, would be a much more convincing promise if I believed it myself.