7. Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
M y salad is delicious, and by the time the next course has arrived, Ethan has told me all about the island. “You must have been here a lot of times to know as much as you do about this place.”
“I’ve been competing in martial arts since I was a young boy,” he says lightly. “One of the major youth tournaments is here on the island.”
“Oh. That’s kind of a fun excuse to come to Hawaii, but it’s such a time change. Doesn’t that impact performance?”
“When you’re young, there isn’t much that affects you.”
There’s something about the way he says this, and I sip my drink and study him. “Not so much now?”
“I’m bulletproof now,” he says, and it feels like an automatic reply. A shield he wears with practiced skill.
“If only that were true,” I reply. “But none of us are. Some of us are simply better at pretending otherwise.”
“And you’re not?”
“On the contrary. I think life forces us to become good at pretending to be okay, and that translates to other places in our lives. It makes us tougher, thicker-skinned. At least, I think so. Don’t you?”
“What doesn’t break us, makes us stronger,” he replies, lifting his glass toward me.
I toast him, and when our glasses touch and I would pull back, he catches my hand. “You’re beautiful, Zoey,” he murmurs, the zip of heat between us as positively scorching as the touch of our hands.
I’m breathless when I say, “Thank you. You’re not so bad yourself.”
His lips curve. “Is that right?”
“Yes. I mean no.” My eye go wide. “Yes. I’m not good at this.”
“This?” he laughs lightly. “What is this?”
I motion between us. “This.”
“You’re not supposed to be good at it, because it’s not supposed to require effort. But it is supposed to feel good. Do we feel good, Zoey?”
I swallow hard and silently answer, Yes, yes, we do, right up until you called me by my mother’s name . I have to tell him the truth. “Ethan—”
“Are we ready for the feast?” the waiter asks, choosing right then to enter our little private hut. Ethan releases me, but not without a look of regret that does funny things to my stomach.
What is going on with this gorgeous man and me?
Several servers appear with an insane number of plates, and I’m forced to abandon my mission of honesty, at least for now. Somehow, I have to find the right moment to confess all, but as the waiter starts explaining all the food, I can’t help but wonder if I’m already too far past honest for it to do anything but ruin this night. Ethan’s so out of my league anyway. Beyond out of my league. What happens in Hawaii stays in Hawaii , I repeat in my head. He didn’t exactly say that, but I did, and I believe, at least for us, it’s true.
So why am I being shy with him? And why am I feeling guilty about a wrong name?
The only way he’ll ever find out who I am is if he looks me up later, and I don’t think that will happen. I really don’t, which twists me in knots. Do I really want to sleep with a man I’ll never see again in my life? I mean, people do it all the time. My friend, Sheila, called her one-night stand liberating.
“Enjoy,” our waiter says, waving his hands in front of us before he backs away.
I laugh as I scan the ridiculous amount of food before us and glance at him. “Are you serious? This is so much food.”
“It’s a tasting. You can try a bite of everything. Or not. Whatever you want. I thought it would be fun.”
“It is fun,” I say, and I can feel the light in my eyes. “Really, it is. Thank you for this.”
“I want you to have a memorable experience.”
“That’s already a done deal. The past forty-eight hours have been remarkable for all kinds of reasons. I mean, even if I walk away from Moore’s, the idea that they wanted me is confidence-building. The idea that I might say that’s not enough for me is daring.”
“Nothing wrong with daring.”
“When is it arrogant in the wrong ways?”
“When it’s greedy.” He lifts his fork. “Try the food before it gets cold.” His eyes light up with mischief. “I dare you.”
The way he says those words is clear. He’s not talking about the food.
Him daring me is all about what comes after the food.
For now, though, I pick up my fork and start the tasting process, laughing with him as he tells me stories about his childhood visits to the island, which include a brush with a shark. “Okay, I never want to go in the water again.”
“Have you been in since you got here?”
“No. I haven’t had time, and I leave in the morning—well, the afternoon.”
“Maybe you should stay an extra day.”
“Are you?” It’s out before I can stop it.
“I am, actually,” he replies. “And then I fly straight to Paris on business. Have you ever been?”
I laugh. “No. I have been here and Colorado, and even in Colorado, I never leave my home city. One day, when I’m rich and nearly famous like you—or maybe I will be famous because I walked away from Moore’s and I then become the next Chanel—then, then I’ll go to Paris.”
His eyes are bright as he says, “I do believe you’ll be rich and famous. I feel it in my gut, and my gut is never wrong.”
I smile then, with brightness to match his eyes. “Yes. Yes, I will. And that is me practicing the positive thoughts and belief in myself my mother taught me to have.”
“I think I’d have liked your mother.”
Just not my father, I think, and I can feel my smile softening. It’s right about then that the waiter arrives to check on us. After a bit of shuffling, there is a delightful single dessert sitting between us and coffee in our cups. “This is my all-time favorite Hawaiian dessert,” Ethan explains. “It’s Haupia cake, which is basically coconut cake with coconut pudding inside. There’s crushed pineapple underneath the icing.
We both reach for our forks, and I haven’t missed the fact that we are sharing, or how intimate this little—or rather, huge—dinner has become. “I’m so stuffed, but there is no way I’m not trying your favorite cake.” My fork digs into the obviously moist cake, and soon I’m savoring the delicious treat. “This is amazing. I think I need to take one home when I’m not this full.” I set my fork down and reach for my coffee. Dinner is almost done. I’m not sure if I need caffeine to sober me up, or more alcohol to ensure I don’t get cold feet. Because the well-lubricated part of my brain won’t say no to him walking me to my room or more.
And I’m not sure if that’s smart.
I’m also not sure there is any amount of coffee that will cure just how drunk I am on this man.
A few minutes later, the meal has been charged to his room, and we’re standing—okay, I sway slightly, and he catches my waist, steadying me. My hand lands on his impressively hard chest, and somehow my hips soften into his. The burn between us is wicked, and every part of me is on fire. “I’m going to walk you to your room,” he says softly. “Unless, of course, you object.”
“I thought you said you’d walk me to my room if I asked you to?”
His eyes light. “Ask me to walk you to your room,” he urges.
“That sounds a bit like an order.”
“I’m simply not ready to use up the question you promised me. Asking you is a question.”
“If I asked you to walk me to my room, does that count as my question?”
“Yes,” he says.
“I think we need a new deal.”
Amber heat glints in his eyes. “No new deal,” he says. “Ask me to walk you to your room.”
No regrets, I think. I have to ask him. So what if he has a question and I do not? There’s really nothing he can ask me that can scare me off right now, not with this much expensive scotch whiskey coursing through my body. Or is it whiskey scotch? Not that it matters. Whatever it is, it’s in my body, numbing my nerves and inhibitions, affecting my decision-making. It’s encouraging me to just go for it with Ethan—all in, and no looking back. And so, I do, but with a twist that saves my question—just in case I need it. “Walk me to my room, Ethan.”