“And she’s already engaged?” I let out a soft whistle. “Yeesh.”
“I mean, as far as she knows I’m married, so I can’t be too hurt about it.”
“You can be as hurt as you want, but you don’t have to seem hurt,” I say, and when he doesn’t answer, I realize I’ve hit the nail on the head. He’s struggling to pretend to be unaffected.
“For what it’s worth,” I whisper, “Billy looks like a tool. He’s the understudy version of Reedus, without any of the scary-sexy charm. This version just looks oily.”
Ethan grins down at me before seeming to remember that we don’t like each other’s faces. His smile straightens. “They’re just up there making out. There are, like, eight other people in this van. I can see their tongues. It’s . . . gross.”
“I bet Ethan Thomas has never been inappropriate like that.”
“I mean,” he says, frowning, “I like to think I can be affectionate, but some things are infinitely better when they happen behind closed doors.”
Heat engulfs whatever words remain in my head, and I nod in agreement. The idea of Ethan doing unknown, hot things behind closed doors makes everything inside my body turn to goo.
I clear my throat, relieved when I look away, take a deep breath, and the goo dissolves away. Dear Olive Torres: This is Ethan. He is not swoony.
Ethan leans in a little, catching my eye. “You think you can bring it today?”
“ ‘Bring it’?”
“The fake-wife game.”
“What’s in it for me?” I ask.
“Hm.” Ethan taps his chin. “How about I don’t tell your boss you’re a liar?”
“Okay. Fair.” Brainstorming what I can do to help him win the nebulous Best New Partner war I suspect we’re fighting with Sophie and Billy, I lean in, meeting him halfway. “I don’t want to get your hopes up or anything, but I look really great in this bikini. There’s no revenge like being with someone new who has a great rack.”
His lip curls. “What an empowering, feminist statement.”
“I can appreciate my body in a bikini and still want to set fire to the patriarchy.” I look down at my chest. “Who knew what a little meat on my bones would do?”
“Is that what you meant at check-in? About losing your job and baking?”
“Yeah. I’m a stress-baker.” I pause. “And eater. I mean, obviously you know that.”
He stares at me for a couple of loaded seconds before he says, “You’ve got a job now. Your baking days can be behind you, if you want.” When I look up, he glances quickly away from my boobs. If I didn’t definitively know better, I might think he was hoping I’d keep up the baking just a little while longer.
“Yes, I have a job, assuming I can keep it.”
“We got through last night, didn’t we?” he says. “You’ll keep the job.”
“And maybe the rack, too.”
He reddens a little, and the sign of his discomfort gives me life. But then his eyes do another tiny dip over the front of my cover-up, almost like he can’t help himself.
“You had no problem looking in the Skittle dress.”
“To be fair, it was a bit like you were wearing a fluorescent light bulb. It drew the eyes.”
“After all this, I’m going to have something made for you out of that dress,” I promise him. “A tie, maybe. Some sexy briefs.”
He chokes a little, shaking his head. After a few beats of silence, he confides, “I had actually just been remembering that Sophie almost got implants when we were together. She always wanted bigger . . .” He mimes cupping boobs.
“You can say it,” I tell him.
“Say what?”