5. All That Glitters （Hattie） #2
I don’t belong. All the ladies around me are skinny and regal and perfectly polished. They probably weren’t born with body hair. And all the men look like they’re accustomed to dropping a cool two million on a beach house they use three times a year.
Breathe. Smile. Nod. Mumble.
I feel like a toy.
Ethan guides me to another group, and we repeat the same awkward song and dance. I think I’m the only one in the room getting eaten up by nerves.
He’s just as polished as everyone else, at ease in a way I can’t be.
For the first time in ages, I wonder what he’s really been up to all these years.
It was kinda abrupt, the way he enlisted and left Portland, apparently without ever looking back.
He was still just a kid.
Margot was certain he’d go right into the family business, if he didn’t breeze through college first.
Leonidas was sure, too, she’d thought.
But he didn’t.
For some reason, the Blackthorn empire only found him years later, seemingly reluctantly.
I risk glancing up at his face, holding in a gasp.
Hard jaw, lethal cheeks, the sculpted graze of stubble that makes him look older and harder than he used to be.
Jeez, everything about him is abrasive.
Is it really a surprise?
He might have gone off to do who knows what in the Army, but he was always a moody young man, just like he is now. He’s just gotten better at hiding it.
He frowns down at me, meeting my gaze in a flash of midnight eyes.
Tingles.
Uncomfortable freaking tingles spark through me like a current as my eyes dart away too fast.
Note to self: do not look at him when it isn’t necessary.
It’s right up there with staring into the sun.
I guess I can add that to the endless list of inappropriate movements at these bashes for the wealthy.
Across the room, Margot laughs, throwing her head back. Her stance is perfectly calculated to show off the long lines of her legs.
She’s so effortlessly elegant.
I’ll never understand why she doesn’t date more. It wouldn’t be hard for her to find a rich and handsome husband at these balls, surely.
That’s what happens when you’re born into it, I guess.
A gong chimes shortly after Ethan has made his introductions, summoning us to dinner in a gigantic great room.
I hope he can’t feel my sweaty hand on his arm as he leads me across to our own table in a secluded corner.
Joy.
I’m not expecting the gentleman act when he pulls out my chair and helps me into my seat. When he sits across from me, his gaze lands on me for a heartbeat.
Silence.
Eerily intense.
My face heats.
We haven’t really had a private conversation with just the two of us yet, which is absurd when we’re technically engaged.
When we were kids, he had no interest in talking, beyond screwing with my head. I wasn’t exactly dying to spend time with a boy who lacked a moral bone in his body, either.
So now here we are.
I pour myself some wine and take a sip.
There are no menus—Ethan must have ordered for us in advance, so I can’t even pretend to browse my meal options. Seconds later, the first course arrives—a summer corn soup with crab that gives me a welcome distraction.
Just as we’re finishing, another plate slides in front of me. I have perfectly cooked salmon with a savory glaze laid out in front of me.
The smell is heaven.
My eyes flick to Ethan’s beef Wellington, then to his face.
“I remembered you like fish,” he says.
What.
I can’t help the double take. Thankfully, he doesn’t appear to notice.
I dig my fork in the food and sigh happily after a bite.
“That’s nice of you. We need to talk at some point, though.”
He looks at me. I can’t help thinking he looks at home in silence.
It wraps around him like a second skin, adding to his guarded mystique. But it’s making me a little antsy, amplifying the buzz from the attention being thrown my way.
“Anytime. What specifically?” He leans back in his chair, finally looking me full in the face.
“Well, um… what should we talk about on dates?” He should know—he must have way more experience than me.
“This isn’t that kind of date, Hattie,” he growls.
Good. I was starting to worry Mr. Insufferable was gone.
I give my best attempt at a professional smile. Pretend he’s a difficult customer . Just like at the bookstore.
“People should see us talking, right?”
He sighs. Poor man.
Talking to me must be such a chore. It makes me want to shut up, but I force myself to find a topic that won’t push too many of his oh-so-sensitive buttons.
Impossible, probably, but I give it a go anyway.
“What’s your favorite color?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Are we in second grade?”
“Well, what’s on your mind?”
He runs the rim of his wineglass against his bottom lip before he answers, thinking, and I do my best not to admire it.
“I don’t think I have a favorite color.”
“What? That’s ridiculous. Everyone has a favorite color.”
“Really,” he says skeptically, a drawl that heats my cheeks. Thankfully, the fifty layers of foundation means he can’t see it. “In that case, what’s yours?”
“Red,” I say immediately, smirking. Was that really so hard? “It’s just the best. Nice and vibrant.”
“What study backs that up?” He leans in, exchanging his almost-scowl for an almost-frown. I’m not sure it’s an improvement. “You can’t make a claim like that without the data to support it.”
“Really, dude? You’re trying to pick a fight over colors?”
He leans back in his chair and snorts, the corner of his mouth turning up. Just a fraction. “All right. Give me something worth arguing over.”
“Okay, fine. Tell me why your mother’s the Blackthorn, but you and Margot have the family name. She never took on your father’s name?”
A whisper of a smile.
“My parents are unorthodox people. Dad realized early on we’d be better off with a name that carries weight.
When the time came to get our names on the birth certificate, he insisted.
Hell, my mother never changed her name when they tied the knot, and around the time I was two, Dad decided to hyphenate his name. ”
Whoa.
Unusual for sure, but not harmful, right?
I smile and nod, taking another sip of wine.
“You asked,” he teases. “Believe me, that’s a light intro to the eccentric streak in this family. Should I brief you now on the rest, or later?”
I swallow roughly.
“Um, I suppose I should know what I’m marrying in to. Is their weirdness why you left Portland years ago?”
His almost-smile disappears. Irritation rolls over his face like a gathering storm.
“Margot must have told you,” he snaps, tossing the rest of his wine back in one gulp. “I enlisted.”
Oof, touchy.
Getting more out of him feels like trying to milk a rock.
“Okay, fine. You went into the Army and you served your time—thank you, by the way. But what happened? Is that what kept you from coming home?”
“Portland isn’t really home,” he growls, raising an arrogant eyebrow again. “And what do you think happened, Pages? A cakewalk called Syria.”
“What, you mean it’s classified?”
He shakes his head.
Then he gives me nothing, staring at his plate as he eats.
The silence shoots heat through my veins. So does that ridiculous nickname.
Pages.
How many times did he snarl it with the ugliest tone when we were kids?
All because I loved to read and I could talk with Margot and Leo forever about grown-up subjects.
“You know what? Fine,” I snap. “Don’t talk to me then, asshole.”
A woman glances over from the next table.
I throw up a fake smile so bright it hurts.
Ethan presses his lips together, but this time I think it might be because he’s tempted to smile.
“I could only hack the military life for so long,” he says, his voice softening.
“The place was a damn mess with so many groups at each other’s throats and you were always on edge, but it was doable.
Later, we were stretched thin, and the government decided to get creative.
That’s when the mercenaries came, private groups with a ton of leeway.
That’s when I was done. They brought in bad actors, men who were happy to do things no ordinary soldier could get away with. ”
“What things?” My pulse quickens.
His eyes are flat.
“Better you don’t know. It doesn’t matter now. That’s why I came around and made peace with the family business, after I had some time to clear my head out west. Compared to that snake pit overseas, Blackthorn Holdings didn’t have nearly as many vipers.”
“Oh,” I say lamely. “I suppose that’s understandable.”
This time, Ethan does smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. They’re like the empty pages at the end of a book, blank and unreadable.
“Less danger, for one. In business, I’ll always make it home in one piece, even if I don’t follow orders like a wind-up toy. There’s also only half as many backstabbers.”
The bleakness in his expression chills me.
But there’s something else, too.
Some kind of guarded hurt that aches like a bruise when it’s touched. I also know he’s not going to talk about it for long if I keep poking.
“Tell me about you,” he says abruptly. He’s toying with the stem of his glass now, looking at me intently.
The weight of that question feels heavy, and my stomach squirms.
“Um.” I fumble around for my train of thought. “Well, nothing as interesting as your career, I’m sure.”
“Tell me. I haven’t been in this game that long.
My career change doesn’t count for much.
” His gaze sharpens. “Let me guess: college, work promotion? Margot always talked like you had it figured out from age ten. Surprised you weren’t married off by now—and damn good thing you weren’t, for my sake. ”
My heart clenches.
“Actually… I haven’t figured out exactly what I want to do yet.” I shift awkwardly in my seat. All this would be easier if he wasn’t looking at me like that. “I started a library program, but it didn’t work out.”
Yes, I dropped out.
Far from a college grad, I’m a quitter and a loser.
Two fun terms shelved right next to failure in Mom’s girthy thesaurus.