Ethan #2
From her close proximity, I catch a whiff of her shampoo. Something fruity and familiar in a way that reminds me of a hazy-warm summertime. Peaches, if I have to make an educated guess.
“Where have you been all my life?” she whispers.
“Not holding hands is what reels you in?”
“No, it’s—” Her head rears back a couple of inches, her gaze colliding with mine. “I don’t know how to explain it.”
“Explain how hand-holding does it for you?” I tease. Her eyes roll while she pokes me with her sharp, painted-pink nail. I’m not the most perceptive guy in the world, but she sure loves to touch my arm.
“Have you ever had those moments where you just know this is an opportunity of a lifetime that the universe is dangling right in front of you?” she whispers. “A gut feeling?”
Somehow, those warm brown eyes intensify with every waking second that passes by.
I can’t stop looking at her—can’t stop imagining a cinematic future where I’d say fuck it and blow off the conference, and then there’d be a montage of us doing ridiculous and extremely corny touristy things as if work and responsibilities aren’t a pressing matter.
Again, if I were ten years younger, I might have.
“I know what you mean,” I say, my voice almost rueful as I try to commit to memory every little detail of her face. The full set of her lips down to the sharp cupid’s bow. The beauty mark just below her right eye.
She touches my forearm this time with a beam, crinkled eyes and all, and elicits a crooked grin from me in response. I don’t believe in love at first sight. I don’t. But suddenly, I understand why my mom staunchly believes in the notion that when you know, you know.
She brushes a lock of dark brown hair behind her ear and tips her head to the side. “I’ve never done this before.”
“Feel up a guy’s arm?” I tease, chuckling when her hand skirts up to my bicep and squeezes it.
“Offer a guy my number,” she clarifies. “Well, be the one who initiates it.”
“Well, if it helps,” I begin, my lips coming close to the shell of her ear. Definitely peaches. “You still haven’t done it yet.”
A fluttery laugh rushes out of her. “I want to. That’s the thing. I want to give you my number and… see where it takes us from there.”
Without notice, all I can think about is inviting her over to my hotel room and discovering if every inch of her bronze skin is as sun-kissed and glowing as her face.
She turns her head, our lips separated by a measly few inches, and her sharp intake of breath is barely audible over the distinct hum of conversations happening around us. “But I need to know one thing.”
“All ten digits of my number?”
“That would help.” She blushes. “But… I need you to swear on your child’s life that you are not going to make me regret this.”
My brow cocks. “I don’t have any kids.”
“Oh, me neither,” she says without missing a beat, her eyes glittering. “I just wanted to make sure I’m not about to inadvertently give a married man my number.”
“I’m not married, either,” I say. “I swear on my firstborn I’ll have in the future.”
She huffs out a stifled snort. “Good to know we’re on the same page about wanting kids.”
“Kids?” I echo, and she spares me a cheeky grin. “Let’s put a pin on this and circle back—”
Her smile falters, and she groans. Loudly. “Oh my God. No. Don’t finish that sentence.” Her finger prods my chest. “I’m about to go to a work thing, and I need the last few hours I have left to not remind me of it.”
“You’re going to a work thing?” I say slowly. My brain’s already taken off with the idea that we might be heading to the same conference, and the fact that we’re on the same flight only helps that theory. “Me too.”
Her eyes widen as she peers at me. “Really?” She chews on her bottom lip. “Any chance you’re flying to… South Carolina?”
“Yeah. I am.” I pause. “For the conference?”
Without blinking, she nods. “At least I’ll see one familiar face there. Hopefully, he’ll take me out to dinner tomorrow?”
I chuckle. “We’ll have to see if that’s even possible. I don’t know if my manager will expect us to go out to dinner with our colleagues—I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to do the next few days I’m here.”
“Oh. Same,” she says with a quiet laugh. “Maybe you can provide an assist and help me butter up my coworker.”
“Butter up the Carson guy?”
“Yeah. He doesn’t like me,” she says. “But I don’t want to spend the entire conference fighting with him. I want things to be super pleasant between us, or else I might commit a felony.”
“Why not?” I lift a shoulder. “If we run into each other, I’ll help you with Carson.”
“And I can help you with… Bambi,” she says, “who you believe is a bot because of her ridiculous name.”
“It’s also where she’s from,” I say. “Imagine if you found out your coworker, Winnie, is from the Hundred Acre Wood.”
“Okay, you’re losing me,” she says. “Where exactly is Bambi from? I can’t exactly imagine your coworker living in the middle of the woods.”
I look forward and scrub my hand down the line of my jaw. “Malibu—if that’ll clue you in on what her name is.”
Glancing sideways, my grin slowly wipes off of my face when she visibly tenses beside me.
“Bambi,” she grits out, “is so much worse than Barbie, Carter.”