“Please. I just want to do something normal for a little while. Something every other couple in America has to do.”
That sucks the argument out of him, just as I knew it would.
In minutes, we’re pushing a cart around the supermarket, picking up whatever strikes our fancy. Cherry Garcia ice cream. Brie cheese. Organic eggs. French bread. Cinnamon rolls. Tortellini salad. All in all, it takes about half an hour and goes very smoothly. At least until we get up to the cash register and I find myself staring at the tabloids as we wait our turn in line.
There’s a part of me that’s still locked in my head after our conversation in the parking lot and so it takes me a couple of minutes to actually read the lurid headlines I’m staring at. When I do, I have to grab on to Ethan to keep from falling as the whole world turns to quicksand around me.
“What’s wrong?” he asks even as he wraps a steadying arm around my waist.
I can’t speak so instead I just point at the magazines.
One of the headlines reads “Ethan Frost’s New Girlfriend: Portrait of a Gold Digger” while another takes the more subtle route: “Millionaire Playboy Ethan Frost Robs the Cradle … Or Is It the Other Way Around?” And if all that’s not horrifying enough, sitting right in the middle of all the magazines is one of the most popular gossip rags. It’s cover is a picture of Brandon, with the headline, “America’s New Sweetheart?” It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to vomit right in the middle of the conveyer belt.
Ethan gets us out of there within minutes. He bags the groceries for the checker and then all but throws his cash at her before sweeping me into the crook of his arm and bustling me out to the car. I’m so out of it at this point that I don’t even remind him to get his change.
Most of the ride home is a blur. I don’t notice any of the gorgeous scenery I waxed so poetic over during our ride to town. Don’t pay attention to the traffic that has gone from light to horrific in the space of a few hours. Don’t see or hear anything, really, except Ethan telling me over and over again how sorry he is that this is happening.
“It’s not your fault,” I tell him each time he says it. But it’s just lip service. I’m not even sure what he’s saying, let alone how I’m responding.
Eventually the shock wears off, is replaced by anger. I know Ethan’s a famous guy and I know him having a girlfriend is news. But the endemic sexism of the headlines. The idea that Ethan is only with me for my looks and I’m only with him for his money is insulting as hell—to both of us. Not to mention pretty much the opposite of how things really are. I’d be a hell of a lot happier if Ethan had less money. If he was just an ordinary guy—and he knows it.
Who the hell are these tabloids to judge me based on the fact that I’m a student and an intern? I work for one of the most prestigious corporations in America and I’m applying to law school in less than six months. Surely that should count for something?
It doesn’t, of course it doesn’t. The truth rarely matters unless it can sell magazines. Nothing proves that more than a magazine calling Brandon Jacobs “America’s Sweetheart.”
We finally—finally—make it back to the house and Ethan parks the car before running around to my side to help me out. “I’m not an invalid,” I tell him as I get myself out of the car and up to the front door. “I really am fine, you know. It was just the shock of it, after everything we had just been talking about.”
“I know. And I’m so—”
“If you tell me you’re sorry one more time, I’m really not going to be responsible for my actions. But if it makes you feel better, you can carry in the groceries while I languish on the couch like a damsel in distress.”
“I’m good with that.”
I roll my eyes at him. “Somehow I knew you would be.”
I, however, have never been much for languishing, so as Ethan carries the bags in, I make quick work of putting them away in his state-of-the-art kitchen. I thought the kitchen in the La Jolla house was fancy, but this one is something else. Two stoves, a built-in grill, refrigerator and warming drawers not to mention huge double ovens. Napa is known as one of the food capitals of the world and I can’t help wondering if that’s why this kitchen is such a chef’s paradise. If it’s just part of the culture here.
And yes, I am well aware that I’m focusing on things like Ethan’s Sub-Zero refrigerator and state-of-the-art range because it keeps me from thinking about those tabloids. And about the fact that I’m once again being called a whore—only this time it’s not just my classmates who get to hear the insults. It’s the whole damn world.
When I’m done putting away the last of the groceries, I wander through the huge family room and down the hall, looking for Ethan. I find him in the back of the house, in the master suite. He’s running a bubble bath with my new lavender bath oils and the entire bathroom smells like a summer meadow.
“Careful,” I tell him, sliding my arms around his waist from behind. “You keep smelling this good, with your pretty face, someone’s going to think you’re a girl.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” he tells me, tossing a quick grin over his shoulder. “I like girls.”
“I think I’ve heard that about you somewhere.” I press a few kisses between his shoulder blades, reveling in the way his whole body just melts at my ministrations.
“You okay?” he asks after a minute. He’s careful to keep his gaze focused on the running water while he waits for my reply.
“I’m fine.” And if it’s not quite the truth, well then no one needs to know that but me. “Besides, if I’m going to be your girlfriend, I’m going to have to get used to the barbs. There’re a lot of women who would give their favorite pair of Louboutins to be in my position.”
“Don’t you mean your shoes?” Ethan says with a quiet smirk.
“Oh, absolutely. My bargain flip-flops really are all the rage right now.”
He finally turns then with a laugh and wraps me up in a huge bear hug. And maybe it’s weak of me, but I can’t help burrowing in. Can’t help clinging for a couple of long, quiet moments.
“Why don’t you take a bath?” he suggests when I finally let go. “After that run last night, you’ve got to be sore.”