Ruined (Ethan Frost 1)

You owe me an explanation. I will collect.

Fueled by anger, I type my own response.

You may try.

I hit send before I think better of it. I don’t owe him anything, and the sooner he understands that the better. A couple of margaritas and some trinkets don’t mean anything, and he’d do well to remember that.

As would I.

I settle down to work, choosing a particularly complicated court case to focus on. Usually I can lose myself in the twists and turns of testimony and judicial decisions, but today all I can think about is Trifecta and Ethan and that stupid email I sent. The more I go over it in my head, the more it sounds like a challenge. Exactly what I didn’t want it to be.

Every few minutes I click back over to my email account to see if Ethan has answered me. He hasn’t. Which is good. Better than good. It means he’s as finished with this thing between us as I am. But no matter how much I tell myself that all I’m feeling is relief, there’s something else there. A disappointment I refuse to acknowledge and a trepidation that I’m afraid not to. Because much as I’d like to believe I’ve dodged a bullet, that Ethan has written me off as surely as I’ve done him, I don’t believe it. A man doesn’t get to where he is in life by just giving up. By letting challenges go unanswered. The fact that I didn’t intend to challenge him doesn’t mean anything.

Forty-five minutes after I sent the email, I can’t take the waiting any longer. I’m jumping out of my skin, waiting for the other shoe to fall. Grabbing my purse, I tell Angela that I’m taking my afternoon break, then head for the cafeteria.

It’s no wonder I’m shaky and out of sorts—I haven’t eaten anything besides a banana all day. I’ll feel much better once I get a sandwich or something. At least that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

When I get to the cafeteria, I spot Zayn right away. He’s at the coffee bar, chatting up the new barista as she makes him some kind of iced drink. I catch his eye and wave, then move on to the pizza station. Forget a sandwich. Today calls for something ooey, gooey, and calorie-laden.

I’ve barely slid into a small corner booth on the patio when Zayn joins me. He puts a second iced coffee in front of me and says, “I didn’t know what you liked, so I went with an iced mocha. I figure most girls like chocolate. ”

“Good choice. Thanks. ”

“No problem. You look like you could use a little pick-me-up. Bad day?”

“You have no idea. ”

“That’s what I’m here for. So you can fill me in. ”

I take a bite of pizza, then laugh as a long, gooey strand of cheese winds itself around my chin. I reach for it, but Zayn beats me to it, pulling it off and then slipping it into my mouth before I register what he’s doing.

Except for Ethan, it’s the most intimately a guy has touched me in I can’t tell how long. He didn’t mean anything by it, but still it feels weird. A little uncomfortable even. I know that for most women, being touched is no big deal. But for me, even the most casual of intimacies is foreign.

I decide not to dwell on it, though, because it’s nice to have a friend besides Tori. Especially one who is smart and funny and gets what I’m talking about when I say intellectual property.

So I thank him for saving me from the cheese, and smile at the corny joke he cracks.

“See!” he crows. “I knew I could make you smile. ”

“I never said you couldn’t. ”

“That’s because you didn’t see your face when you walked in here. You looked like you were going to cry. ”

“I don’t cry. ”

“Ever?” He looks at me incredulously.

“Well, obviously

I have cried. But I don’t do it very often. And not without a really good reason. ”

“And a bad day isn’t a good reason?”

I think of Ethan and our never-to-happen date. Then I think of that damned meeting. “Nope. Today is definitely not a good enough reason to cry. ”

“I’m glad to hear that. ” He pauses, takes a sip of his drink. Then says, “I’ve got to get going. I have a meeting in five minutes. But—”

“Oh, sorry!” I interrupt, feeling like an idiot. “I didn’t mean to monopolize your time. ”