that, yes. My commute home is pretty short, you know.”
“Oh, I know.”
I sink down on the barstool in the kitchen and watch as he uncorks another bottle. “She smells nice,” I say.
His lips twitch. “Who?”
“Blair. I’ve only ever seen her on TV before, or in magazines.”
“She’s in a fair bit of those,” Ethan says, handing me a glass. He leans against the kitchen island next to me—close, but not touching.
Nerves dance in my stomach at the proximity. “Not to mention… well, the others. Impressive friends.”
He raises an eyebrow. “But annoying.”
“But annoying,” I agree, wondering if it’s all the wine or his nearness that’s making my tongue this loose. “My friends are the same way. They see being single as wrong, somehow. An unnatural state that has to be fixed at all costs.”
He gives a slow nod. “But it’s one you prefer?”
I look away from his gaze. “Prefer is a strong word. Accept might be better. I’m not opposed to it. You have to find the right person—and that’s not easy.”
“No,” he says, “it’s not. I’d rather be single the rest of my life than together with the wrong person.”
“Cheers to that,” I say, holding up my glass. He toasts it gently. “Is that how you felt about your marriage?”
The words are out before I can stop them. It’s a presumptuous question, but it doesn’t explode between us. It fizzles instead as Ethan regards me. The furrow between his brows is back, making him look older than thirty-six.
“Yes,” he says. “It was wrong from start to finish.”
There’s more I want to ask. Why go through with it at all, then? But he shifts closer and the scent of him, of faint cologne and wine and man, hits me.
“Not that I have the time now,” he says, eyes on mine. “Not to myself, and not to date. None of the others understand that.”
“I get it,” I say, wetting my lips. “You have other priorities.”
“I do,” he agrees.
“Makes sense.”
“It does.” His hand shifts closer on the kitchen island, our fingers touching. His index finger against my pinky. All my senses narrow to that brief contact. I’m back on the precipice, hovering right on the edge. Flee or fight. Stay or run.
“About the other day,” I say. “You told me… well, you were very clear.”
He exhales. “I was a fool. I didn’t mean what I said.”
“You didn’t mean it?” My eyes are on our hands. I move my fingers over his—long, broad-knuckled, tan. A man’s hands. His skin is warm to the touch.
“No,” he murmurs, “I didn’t.”
My entire body tightens at what I see on his face. Gone is the carefree smile or the teasing glint in his eyes. No, his features are focused. I tilt my face upwards—it’s a natural response to his gaze, my body reacting on instinct.
And he takes what I offer.
He bends his head and presses his lips against mine. Once, twice. Tentative kisses, but there’s leashed strength behind it. Like he’s not sure how I’ll respond or if this is allowed, but he just has to try.
It’s allowed, I kiss back. It’s encouraged. And when he cups the side of my face and tilts my head back further, I sigh against his lips. Maybe that was the sign he was looking for, the permission he needed. Because he deepens the kiss, my lips opening for him, a warm sweep of his tongue over my lower lip.
Oh, dear Lord. My hands find a grip on his shirt, tugging, and he’s pulling me up and out of the chair. His hand settles on my lower back, flattening, pushing me more firmly against the solid length of his body. I keep my grip on his shirt, though—for good measure.
And all the while Ethan continues to kiss me deeply, leisurely, expertly. Nothing else matters now except that single fact. My head feels dizzy and I clasp my arms around his neck to be sure I’m not floating away.
My hands find their own path up his neck, twisting in his hair and tugging. He groans at that. “Too much?” I mumble, but he swallows the words before they’re fully out.
“Not enough,” he murmurs back. There’s such longing in his kiss—such need and want and strong, sure confidence. Trust me, it says. I know what to do. Let me do it.
I kiss him back with the same surety. His hands on my body, one sliding up to grip my hair and the other down to the curve of my ass. Tearing my lips away from