15. All The Courage （Hattie） #2
How long until my imperfections become too glaring, and he distances himself long before the official divorce?
How many lifetimes of ‘I told yous’ will Mom make me suffer?
With the engagement and the fact we’re sleeping together, I’m spending very little time at my apartment.
We should keep up appearances. People today practically expect engaged couples to live together, and staying at Ethan’s house is certainly no burden.
But it’s also just nice to be together.
When I get back from the bookstore, I head over to his place and get busy in his sprawling kitchen.
Mostly straightening up while I consider baking a pie—I’m no cook—but it’s awesome having so many luxurious bells and whistles at my disposal. The man spared no expense whenever he had this kitchen updated and modernized.
He also has a great room and a lovely sitting room that doubles as a small library. I can’t help but see my books living there while we’re married.
Temporarily, of course.
What bookaholic doesn’t dream her very own Beauty and the Beast library fantasy now and then?
It’s one of those crazy things I’ve wanted since I was a little girl—and now I almost have it.
A grand reading room I can walk through and sit in and read to my heart’s content as the sun sets the ocean on fire outside the large windows.
A dream I never thought I’d taste until now, not without a lottery win.
But Ethan Blackthorn is the kind of rich most people can’t comprehend.
He has space he might not see for weeks inside this big old house. I’m not sure he uses the library much outside of treating it like an auxiliary office.
Half the shelves are empty, filled with sparse modern stone art instead of the books.
And the books that are already there?
Oof.
They’re almost all slim business paperbacks and a smattering of girthy history titles. Plus a few old, worn storybooks from when he was a kid, which make me smile.
Hungry caterpillars, Wild Things, velveteen rabbits, and fuzzy Seuss creations never go out of style. These books make you happy whether you’re nine years old or ninety.
But who even has a library this awesome and keeps it so sparse?
Then again, he hasn’t been back in Portland that long, and this old house clearly had a big renovation. I wonder if he bought the place on a whim.
For him, it’s more of a place to crash that fits the stereotype of a billionaire’s grandson and heir to local real estate royalty.
I’m not sure it truly feels like a home—at least not yet.
Most of the days he’s here, he’s moving from the office to the kitchen to the great room to brood in front of the fire before he heads into the bedroom for the night.
The empty guestrooms feel decorative, more like living on a movie set or in a museum.
For some weird reason, that makes my heart ache.
This place is beautiful. There’s no reason Ethan should feel like a stranger in his own gorgeous home.
I let myself in through the front door with the key Ethan gave me, my mom’s words still ringing in my head with warning.
Hang on to that wonderful man!
…don’t I wish I could.
And not just because I’ve fallen in love with his house.
It’s a strange thought when the whole plan is for me not to hang on to him.
This entire arrangement—the freaking contract I signed—has a fixed beginning and end. I just hope we’ll part ways as friends when our six months is finally up.
But as I walk through the hallway, heading for the kitchen so I can pour myself a nice glass of wine after my stressful lunch, there’s a nagging sense I can’t keep avoiding.
I don’t want this to end.
Call it ridiculous.
And yes, in six months, I might feel differently.
But right now, walking through his house that’s becoming too familiar, I can’t imagine being able to walk away without missing this.
Us.
The us that doesn’t exist.
The us that can’t happen.
The us that’s a terrible figment of my imagination.
When I walk into the kitchen, though, I find Ethan leaning against the counter and stop in my tracks.
His sleeves are rolled up. His suit jacket is folded and tossed over the back of a chair at the island, and his face looks worn.
Tired.
Conflicted.
He looks the way the pit of my stomach feels.
I stop in the doorway, anxious thoughts crowding my head until all I can think about is when he’ll decide this is bonkers and send me into exile early.
After the big wedding spectacle, there’s really no good reason we have to spend much time together to keep up public appearances.
He glances up and sees me, offering a brief smile that doesn’t touch his eyes.
They’re so dark, a starless blue night without moonlight.
My heart leaps in my chest.
No point in trying to tame it, or reminding myself for the thousandth time that nothing between us is authentic.
The heart isn’t rational, especially when it wants Ethan Blackthorn.
Desperately.
But when his smile drops, the brief rush of relief and happiness at seeing him turns to dread.
“Hey, Pages,” he says.
“You’re home early. Everything okay?” I force a smile, walking around the enormous kitchen island to kiss him on the cheek.
He reaches out and presses a hand to the small of my back, holding me against him. His lips find the top of my head, and I melt helplessly when I feel him inhaling me.
Who would have thought this surly, scowly beast was capable of being so gentle when he smells me like a rose?
“Everything’s fine,” he says, but there’s still this tension in his body that doesn’t mirror his words. “Work’s done early.”
Just work? Is that all that’s fine?
Oh no. I stiffen and pull back against my better instinct.
“…how about off the clock? Is everything okay?”
“Not what I meant.” His knuckle drags across my cheek, so lightly I almost miss it. “Things are good with us, don’t worry.”
“But?” My heart slows.
“A lot’s changed in a very short time.” He releases a long, slow breath. “I want to leave the past behind and move forward, but to do that—”
He stops cold, his eyes so piercing.
“It’s okay,” I tell him, even though I’m dying to know what he’s holding back, why he’s being vulnerable.
What’s he still hiding from me?
There are so many secrets hidden in those stark blue eyes.
Sometimes they feel like they’re drowning me.
But more than anything, I don’t want to see him like this. Like some invisible fear or regret or bad memory has him by the throat.
“You don’t have to tell me now. Not unless you’re ready.” My voice is whisper-soft.
His eyes flash, anguished in a way that almost breaks my heart.
“But I do, Pages. That’s the trouble. If I ever want to move on, I need to tell you why I left Portland. You should know what happened that summer.”