to make it, but Ethan, you are just darling. I can already tell everyone is going to love you.”
“We’re a very close-knit group,” Mr. Hamilton says. “And more than coworkers, we like to think of everyone as family. You two are going to fit right in. Olive, Ethan, I’m just so thrilled to welcome you both to Hamilton.”
• • •
“I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU TOLD the claw story,” I say as we walk along the outdoor path, headed back to the room. “You know they’re going to Google it, which means Mr. Hamilton will see me in my underwear.”
Thankfully, the personal space bubble is back. Being around an Ethan I don’t want to punch is disorienting enough. Being around an affectionate, charming Ethan is like suddenly being able to walk on the ceiling.
That said, dinner was an undeniable success, and as happy as I am that I didn’t blow it and still have a job, I’m irritated that Ethan is consistently so great at everything. I have no idea how he does it; he’s charm-free 99 percent of the time, but then, boom, he turns into Mr. Congeniality.
“It’s a funny story, Olive,” he says, walking faster and getting a few paces ahead of me. “Should I have told them about the time you gifted me that Last Will and Testament software at the family Christmas party? I mean, honestly—”
“I was only looking out for your loved ones.”
“—I was making conversation—” Ethan stops so suddenly that I collide with the brick wall of his back.
I catch my balance, horrified that I’ve just smashed my entire face into the splendor of his trapezius. “Are you having a stroke?”
He presses his hand to his forehead, head turning so he can frantically scope out the path behind us, back the way we came. “This can’t be happening.”
I move to follow his gaze, but he jerks me behind an enormous potted palm, where we huddle close.
“Ethan?” a voice calls, followed by the click of high heels on the stone path. She follows up with a breathy “I swear I just saw Ethan!”
He turns his face to me. “Big favor: I need you to go along with me.” We’re pressed so close I can feel his breath on my lips. I smell the chocolate he had for dessert, and a piney hint of his deodorant.
I try to hate it.
“You need my help?” I ask, and if it sounds a little breathy I’m sure it’s because I ate too much at dinner and am a little winded from the walk.
“Yes.”
My smile literally unfurls. Suddenly, I am the Grinch wearing a Santa hat. “It’s gonna cost you.”
He looks pissed for about two seconds before panic wipes it away. “The room is yours.”
The footsteps get closer, and then a blond head is invading my space. “Oh my God. It is you!” she says, bypassing me completely to wrap Ethan in a hug.
“Sophie?” he says, feigning surprise. “I . . . what are you doing here?”
Detangling from the embrace, Ethan glances over at me, eyes wide.
She turns to beckon to the man standing just off to the side, and I take the opportunity to mouth—because oh my God—This is Simba?!
He nods, clearly miserable.
Holy awkward! This is way worse than running into your new boss while naked under a robe!
“Billy,” Sophie says proudly, pulling the guy forward, and I gape because he looks exactly like Norman Reedus, but somehow greasier. “This is Ethan. The guy I told you about. Ethan, this is Billy. My fiancé.”
Even in the dark I see the way Ethan pales. “Fiancé,’ ” he repeats. The word lands with a heavy thud, and it’s infinitely more awkward with Ethan described only as the guy I told you about. Weren’t Ethan and Sophie together for a couple of years?
It doesn’t take a genius to put the pieces together: Ethan’s reaction at seeing her across the path, the way he shut down when I asked about a girlfriend on the plane. A fresh breakup, and she’s already engaged? Ouch.
But it’s as if someone has pushed a button somewhere on his back, because robot Ethan is back and suddenly in motion, stepping forward to offer Billy a confident hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Moving to his side, I loop a casual arm through his. “Hi. I’m Olive.”
“Right, sorry,” he says. “Olive, this is Sophie Sharp. Sophie, this is Olive Torres.” He pauses and everything goes tight between us in anticipation of what comes next. I have the sense of being on the back