The Unhoneymooners

Ethan wanted to ask me out.

Because Ethan liked me.

Dane told him I was always angry.

I proved Dane right that very first day.

My eyes widen as an additional possibility occurs to me: What if Dane didn’t want me to date his brother? What if he didn’t want me in his business, knowing that he was the one planning all these trips, that he was seeing other women, and God knows what else?

He’s used Ethan as a scapegoat, as a shield—what if he used the convenience of my grouchy reputation to create a buffer zone? What a dick!

Bursting out of the bathroom, I turn to the left to begin my Ethan Search and run directly into his brick-wall chest. The oof that erupts from me is cartoon-level comical. He makes it worse by catching me easily and holding me at a distance, looking down warily. I have the comical image of Ethan holding me back with an outstretched hand on my forehead while I try to take swings at him with ineffectually short arms.

Stepping back, I ask, “Where were you?”

“Pool,” he says, “I was coming to grab my phone and wallet.”

“Where are you going?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Not sure.”

He’s guarded again. Of course he’s guarded. He admitted he was attracted to me, and up until this trip I’d only ever been rude to him. Then I stormed out of the room after implying he’s still a waste of my time.

I don’t even know where to start. I realize, of the two of us, I have the most to say right now. I want to start with an apology, but it’s like pushing water through a brick—the words just won’t come.

I start with something else: “I’m not trying to do that thing I do, where I look for the worst possible explanation for things, but . . . do you think Dane was trying to keep us apart?”

Ethan immediately scowls. “I don’t want to talk about Dane or Ami right now. We can’t get into it with them while we’re here and they’re there.”

“I know, okay, I’m sorry.” I look up at him for a beat and catch just a flicker of emotion behind his eyes. It’s enough to give me the bravery to push on. “But should we talk about us?”

“What us?”

“The us that is having this conversation?” I whisper, eyes wide with meaning. “The us that is on this vacation together, having a fight, having . . . feelings.”

His eyes narrow. “I don’t think us is a very good idea, Olive.”

This denial is good; it’s familiar disagreement. It bolsters my resolve. “Why? Because we argue?”

“That’s a pretty mild term for what we do.”

“I like that we argue,” I tell him, willing the sticky, tender words out. “Your ex-girlfriend never even wanted to disagree. My parents won’t get a divorce but don’t speak to each other. And—I know you don’t want to talk about it, but—I feel like my sister is in a marriage where”—I hedge, so we don’t just go down that road all over again and I get angry again—“she doesn’t actually know her husband all that well. But it’s always been safe for us to say exactly what we’re thinking with each other. It’s one of my favorite things about being with you. Do you have that with everyone?” I ask, and when he doesn’t immediately answer, I tell him, “I know you don’t.”

His brows pull down, and I can tell he’s turning this around in his mind. He may be mad at me, but at least he’s listening.

I chew my lip, looking up at him. Time for a different tack. “You said I’m hot.”

Ethan Thomas rolls his eyes at me. “You know you are.”

I take a deep breath, holding it. Even if nothing happens once we get back home—and it might be smarter for both of us if we keep our distance, because who knows what nuclear fallout there will be when I finally talk to Ami—I sincerely doubt we’ll be able to keep our hands to ourselves for the next five days.

At least I know I won’t. My anger toward Ethan has melted into a fondness and attraction so acute it’s hard to not throw my arms around him in this hallway, right now, even when he’s wearing his surly face—furrowed brows, mouth a hard line—and his hands are curled into defensive balls at his side. Maybe every time I wanted to smack him in the past, I really just wanted to press my face onto his.

I narrow my eyes back at him. I am not afraid of relying on cheap seduction.

I reach for his hand, and the movement accidentally presses my boobs together.

He notices. His nostrils flare, and his eyes move higher on my face, as if he’s trying to keep them from sinking. Ethan Thomas is definitely a boob man.