Addicted (Ethan Frost 2)

I am. And it’s that soreness that keeps reminding me that my headlong flight into the darkness really did happen just last night. With everything that’s happened since—good and bad—the argument that caus

ed me to run in the first place seems like it happened such a long, long time ago.

“I plan on it.” I start unbuttoning his shirt slowly, carefully. “Why don’t you join me?”

A quick hand on mine stays my fingers before they can take care of more than the first two. “I’d love to, but I have a couple of business calls to make. I want to make sure the buses got everyone evacuated and ensure that the plane landed safely in Vegas. But the calls shouldn’t take too long. When I’m done, I’ll make us a light dinner. Sound good?”

“It sounds very good. Though I’ll miss you when I’m soaking in this big tub all by myself.”

Ethan grins. “Yes, well, we’ll definitely have to remedy that before we head back to San Diego. I wouldn’t want you to be lonely.”

I laugh, as he intends me to, and then watch him walk away before slipping out of my clothes and sinking into the fragrant, steaming water. About a million different thoughts bombard me the second I start to relax, but I just let them flow over me, refusing to focus on anything more strenuous than trying to decide what wines I want to try out at the vineyard tomorrow. Definitely the pinot noir, since Ethan says it’s his favorite. But I’m a sparkly girl myself and I can’t help hoping he’s got a nice moscato for me to try, as well.

Exhausted after the events of the last two days, I lounge in the bathtub for nearly an hour, slipping in and out of a light doze. When the water finally cools, I reluctantly drag myself out of the tub and go in search of my hastily packed backpack.

I find it next to the bed, and a quick rummage through proves that I really was half asleep when I packed the thing. There are no pajamas, nothing at all for me to lounge around the house in. Instead, I’ve got a pair of jeans and a couple of blouses. A bright pink halter top rounds out my abysmally bad wardrobe choices.

After studying my severely limited options for a few seconds, I decide screw it. I’m exhausted and the last thing I want is to squeeze myself back into a pair of skinny jeans for the rest of the night. Instead, I rummage through Ethan’s drawers until I come across an extra-large T-shirt that’s been worn so much that most of the lettering on the back has come off. It feels incredibly soft to the touch and at the moment, I couldn’t ask for more than that. I slide it over my head, add a pair of underwear and consider myself dressed.

I head down the hall to the kitchen, figuring I can help Ethan put the finishing touches on dinner. But when I get there, the kitchen is empty and it’s obvious Ethan hasn’t been in here since he carried the groceries in well over an hour ago.

Figuring he’s hung up on one of the numerous business calls he had to make, I rummage in the fridge, trying to decide what to make for dinner.

Since I’m still not that hungry, despite the fact that it’s after eight, I decide on a cheese plate. That way I can still have room for some of the bread pudding with rum sauce that’s been calling my name since I turned it down at lunch.

Humming softly to myself—another trick I’ve picked up that helps keep my mind busy so I don’t dwell on stuff I don’t want to think about—I pull out some grapes and strawberries to go on the cheese plate. I wash them thoroughly, still humming, which is probably why I don’t hear Ethan yelling until I actually turn the water off.

It’s an unusual sound for him—Ethan’s such an even-keeled guy that I’ve only really heard him yell once in the whole time I’ve known him—that I’m out of the kitchen and halfway down the hall before I register what it is he’s yelling about. Which, in this case, is me.

“I don’t want excuses, Anthony. I want to know what the fuck is going on. This whole thing has been a clusterfuck from the very beginning and I’m getting damn fucking sick of it!”

At first, I’m kind of shocked by the language alone—Ethan’s no angel, but he doesn’t normally swear in a repeated pattern like that unless he’s pissed about something. Really pissed. And definitely not at his employees.

But it doesn’t take long for my sluggish brain to catch on. This call is about me. About the stories in the tabloids.

“I understand that you’ve spoken with the media sources. But I also understand that you had an arrangement with them. What happened yesterday with MSNBC and what I saw today in that supermarket aisle are not reflecting that agreement.”

He’s silent for a moment, obviously listening to whatever Anthony has to say. And then he’s yelling again. “Something’s fishy here, and I want to know what it is. Media—especially media like those rags—don’t circumvent current media agreements unless they’ve got a bigger fish on the line. Someone is throwing their weight around over this and I want to know who it is. And I want it made explicitly clear that Chloe is off-limits. If they run another uncorroborated story about her again, we’re going after them. They can fuck with me but I’ll be goddamned if they fuck with her.

“And find out who’s bankrolling these fluff pieces about my brother. Someone’s got to have the deep pockets and I want to know who it is.”

Another pause, and then, “Yeah, damn right. Whoever it is has thrown in on the wrong side of this argument. They’ll get one warning and then I’m taking them apart, too. My brother’s political campaign isn’t going to last the month. Not if I have anything to say about it and I do.

“Yeah, okay, Anthony, thanks for your help. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, see where we stand. Yeah, okay. Get some—”

He turns in the middle of the sentence, freezes as he sees me standing there watching him with what I’m sure are wide eyes.

“Look, I’ve got to go,” he says, clicking off even though it sounds like Anthony is in mid-sentence.

For long seconds, neither of us move. We just stand there staring at each other across the empty expanse of hallway. Then Ethan slips his cell phone into his back pocket and walks toward me, arms outstretched in obvious entreaty. “I can explain that call—”

“You don’t need to,” I tell him, crossing the last few feet of distance between us. And then I’m wrapping my arms around his neck, pressing my lips to his. And thanking God that I had the good fortune and even better sense to fall in love with Ethan Frost.

I intend it to be a soft kiss, a sweet one.

A kiss where I thank him for the way he’s fighting for me and show him that I’m moving past every thing that’s come before.

A kiss where I show him I’m sorry for the role I’ve played in hurting us and that I’m fighting for him just as hard.