The next morning, I skip my run with Ethan under the guise of needing to work on my ad campaign. And it’s not a total ruse. Although my main reason is to give my heart some much-needed time and distance to figure things out, I do need to focus on Extra Energy Drink. I still haven’t thought of a slogan, let alone designed an entire campaign. I’ve tried to focus on their all-natural ingredients and the gentler, plant-based energy-boosting compounds, but I can’t think of anything that doesn’t feel prosaic and overdone. Which means even if I check off every single item on my list, it’s a moot point if I don’t have a pitch for the competition.
I tuck myself away in my room, only surfacing for an occasional snack and bathroom break. When daylight slips into the dim of evening, I slink into the kitchen, weary and dry-eyed from staring at my laptop screen for too long.
“You okay?” Ethan asks when he takes one look at my harried appearance.
I can only imagine the state of my hair since I’d combed my fingers through it in frustration all afternoon. And I vaguely recall losing a few popcorn kernels in my clothing as I mindlessly munched on endless handfuls. I brush the crumbs from my baggy sweater and sweatpants, which is definitely not the most flattering outfit I own. “I’ve been better. I’ve been racking my brain all day for the perfect catchphrase, but my mind is blank.”
Ethan adds plump shrimp to a pan of melted butter and garlic. They spurt and sizzle, sending the most tantalizing aroma into the air. “Try not to stress about it. And give yourself a break. The right words will come at the right time. Often when you least expect them.”
“Next you’re probably going to tell me to use the Force,” I tease, climbing onto the barstool to watch his culinary skills in action.
“Funny, you are,” he says in his best Yoda impression. “But I was actually going to tell you what you really need is a good meal.”
“I won’t argue with that.” I grin, grateful for nourishment other than junk food.
He grabs a pair of tongs and places a mound of angel hair pasta on a plate, followed by a generous serving of the buttery shrimp. After adding a pinch of fresh parsley, he slides the plate toward me and hands me a fork.
Leaning forward, I inhale the fragrant steam, my mouth watering. “I don’t think I can ever go back to cooking for myself,” I say without thinking.
“You know you don’t have to,” he says quietly.
I whip my head back, meeting his gaze. His eyes search mine, asking an unspoken question. A foolish, reckless part of me wants him to ask me to stay. But why? What would be the point?
A muscle flexes along his jawline, the precursor to his next thought.
I inch toward him on the barstool, practically hanging off the end.
But before he can speak, the front door flies open.
“I have a problem,” Brynn announces as she barges inside, a ball of agitated energy.
Our connection broken, Ethan moves back to the stove and fixes another plate of pasta.
Burying my disappointment at her penchant for bad timing, I turn my attention to Brynn. “What’s wrong?”
“Oliver invited me to the St. Valentine Skate-a-thon this Friday night.” She attempts to unravel her scarf from around her neck, but is so frazzled, she only winds it tighter. Her arms flail in frustration as she struggles to extricate herself from a face full of flannel and fringe.
While I have no idea what a skate-a-thon is, that’s not my most pressing question. “Oliver invited you out on Valentine’s Day?”
“Yes. No. Maybe. I don’t know.” She finally frees herself, releasing a heavy exhale of relief as she hangs her scarf on the hook.
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“I think it might be a date, but I didn’t know that at first.” Shamefaced, she shrugs out of her coat.
“What did you do?” I say in my best scolding schoolteacher voice.
“I invited you to come with us.”
“What?” This is worse than I thought.
“I know, I know. The words sort of just… came out.” She flops onto the barstool beside me. “He ran into me at the coffee cart and said his sister told him about this fundraiser for the zoo at The Rink at Rockefeller Center and asked if I’d be interested in going. So, I said, ‘Sure. Sounds fun. Quincy and I would love to go.’”
I cringe, and she slumps forward on the counter, face-planting onto her forearms. “And that’s not the worst of it,” she groans.
Gathering a breath, I brace myself. “And what’s the worst part?”
“The Skate-a-thon is a couples event,” she explains, albeit a bit muffled as she’s still facedown, her mouth pressed against her sleeve. “You’re supposed to skate in pairs, holding hands the entire time. If you let go or stop skating, you’re disqualified. The last couple on the ice wins.”
“Sounds romantic,” I blurt offhand, then realize my mistake.
Brynn whimpers, and it strikes me that she actually wants to go on this date. Which, considering her previous reservations with all things Oliver related, is a huge step for her. “There’s an easy solution,” I say calmly. “I’ll stay home so you and Oliver can skate together.”
“Yeah, that would’ve been a good idea.” She slowly lifts her head, and her sheepish expression tells me I’m not going to like whatever she says next. “But I didn’t think of that at the time, so I came up with a different solution.”
“Which is…?”
“I said you’d be bringing a date.” This time, she has the decency to look contrite.
“Oh, Brynn. You didn’t,” I moan.
“I’m sorry. I realize now I should’ve made an excuse for why you couldn’t go after all, but by the time I thought of that, he’d already bought two extra tickets online. Maybe you can ask Javier?”
“No way,” I say hastily, then add after a moment’s thought, “But maybe Harper will go with me.”
“I’ll go,” Ethan says casually.
Brynn and I swivel toward him in surprise, as if we’d both forgotten he was there. He leans against the back counter, twirling the spindly noodles with his fork tines, his lips quirked in amusement.
“Um…” Brynn darts her gaze between us, a spark of panic in her eyes. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not? You need someone else to go with you, and I happen to be free.”
“But it’s not really your thing,” Brynn insists, trying a little too hard to sway him against the idea. “I doubt you’ll enjoy it.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” He grins, and to my horror, glances in my direction.
Heat sweeps across my cheeks, and even though I divert my attention to the tangled web of pasta on my plate, I can feel Brynn’s gaze bore into me.
Part of me feels like I should jump in and say something to fix the situation…. But what, exactly?
“Then it’s settled,” Ethan says when Brynn runs out of reasons to protest. “You can be Oliver’s date, and I’ll be Quincy’s.”
Although his tone is lighthearted and teasing, the way he phrases his summation makes my cheeks flame even hotter, and I pray he doesn’t notice. Or Brynn, for that matter.
“And tell Oliver I’ll pay him back for our tickets,” he adds. “What kind of date would I be if I let another guy pay for us?”
I make the mistake of glancing up at that precise moment and catch Ethan’s playful wink.
He’s clearly hamming up the whole date angle like it’s some kind of hilarious joke, but there’s something hidden in his eyes—a furtive flicker—that makes me suspect a deeper motive than he’s letting on.
And despite my best intentions to keep things between us strictly platonic, the possibility makes me shiver.