Page 66 of Unless It's You
Me
I do, and hush. But for this one... I don’t think I want it to be Ethan
Gemma
Why ever not? That feels totally not horrifically awkward
Me
Shut up. You’ll finally be back in town after abandoning me during my time of need, so you gotta do this one thing for me
Gemma
I’ll be there, bestie
I just gotta get through these last days and hope everything doesn’t fall apart.
26
STELLA
Friday, July 26
BUCKET LIST DAY 19
I’m so damn nervous to face Ethan again. When I last saw him, he had me pinned against his front door, giving me a goodbye kiss that lasted five minutes and almost had us heading back inside.
I picked up drinks from the coffee shop on the way into the office—black for Ethan, vanilla latte for me—but his sits untouched on his desk, which is still vacant at ten o’clock. The final meeting before the shoot next week isn’t until ten-thirty. He doesn’t have to come in for it. He can call in, like the director will.
If he doesn’t show, does that mean he’s changed his mind about us? Whatever we are? Because I wouldn’t blame him. I wouldn’t want to be with a filthy liar, either. Part of me knows I should just tell him about meeting up with Ben. But the other—much louder—part of me knows it would make everything so much more complicated.
I flip over my phone and tap it awake. No new notifications. My computer’s asleep, which emphasizes the fact that I’ve gotten exactly no work done since I arrived an hour and a half ago, despite being even more overwhelmed than I was three weeks ago. Why did I even get him coffee? Now it’s ice-cold on his desk. I drop my head in my hands and breathe deeply. I should go pour it out.
“Hey.”
I whip my head up to drink in Ethan, standing at his desk next to mine, a concerned expression on his face, the space between his eyes crinkled together.
The sight of him is even better than the fantasies I’ve had over the past three days. Probably because I know what’s under that untucked, checkered button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing tattoos and waves of muscles on his forearms. The bottom half of his body is covered by the cubicle barrier, but I can imagine his hip-hugging jeans, maybe the ones that were crumpled on his floor Monday night. His beard is now neatly trimmed, but still a good three inches from his chin, and his lips are slightly parted. I know what those lips can do. My cheeks turn to fire.
And he’s holding two coffees.
“Hi,” I squeak out.
“I got us triple mochas with whipped cream and an extra shot of espresso.” He moves one hand toward me. “It’s still disgusting, by the way.”
I bite my lip and stand. “Thank you.”
He nods. “I’m not sure there’s any coffee in there, even though I specifically asked for extra.”
“Well, you don’t have to drink it, because I got you a black coffee. It’s probably cold.”
I reach for the drink he’s holding, letting my fingers gently layer on top of his, not touching the coffee cup at all. The touch, which sends tingles up my arm and through my body, makes every doubt disappear. This must be right—he and I touching each other. A brush of fingers isn’t enough. Who cares about Ben? Helen? I just want this man’s hands on my bare skin. Nothing else matters.
“Sorry I was late,” Ethan says, his face expressing even more. What’s going on in that gorgeous head of his? God, but I want to know.
“Ethan!” Tessa’s voice singsongs down the hallway.
Ethan’s nostrils flare dramatically, and I pull my hand away, careful to take the mocha with me.
