Isn't She Lovely (16 page)

“Of course I’m grumpy, Kendrick. I spent two nights sleeping on the floor.”

“I gave you a pillow and a blanket!” I call after his retreating back. “And it’s not like you warned me that your friends would expect us to share a bedroom.”

“They think we’re a twentysomething couple that’s shacking up, Stephanie. Of course they expected that we’d want to share a bedroom.”

And not just a bedroom. A bed. A really big bed that I had all to myself both nights.

Honestly, I
intended
to suggest that we share the bed. Platonically, of course. It was king-sized, and a few strategically placed pillows between us could have kept the whole thing very PG.

But then that kiss happened that first afternoon on the boat. And there was no way in freaking hell that I trusted myself to share a bed with Ethan Price and keep my hands to myself.

Which is weird. I’ve never really gotten that hot-and-heavy urge with guys. I mean, sure, when I was fifteen and first with Caleb there was the usual awkward groping and necking. I wasn’t easy or anything, but it wasn’t all that long before I let Caleb get to second base.

Then I came home on that gorgeous April afternoon, and my parents were waiting for me with the news.

Cancer
.

From then on, I had no interest in getting to
any
base. I certainly wasn’t thinking about losing my virginity.

Then that night with Caleb happened, and it was all I could think about because the choice had been taken from me. And the one person I might have told—the one person I wanted to tell—was dead. My virginity and my mother gone on the same night.

If my dad knew the whole story, maybe he wouldn’t wonder why I went from a peppy little cheerleader to a despondent college student in the span of a few months.

Still, my crappy history can’t explain why after four years of not having even the slightest interest in sex, it’s becoming all I can think about with Ethan. I tried to fake interest with David and a handful of guys before that, but I always chickened out at the last minute.

Because of that, I almost can’t blame David for hooking up with Leah. I mean, he’s still an ass, but the guy didn’t make it a secret that he wanted sex. And he wasn’t getting it from me.

So what gives? I didn’t want to go all the way with my real boyfriend, but I’m lusting after my fake one?

But then, David never kissed like Ethan kisses.
Nobody
kisses like Ethan kisses. Perhaps if they did, things would be different. Perhaps if past boyfriends kissed like Ethan Price, my sexual experience wouldn’t be limited to a single night I can’t even remember.

Don’t go there, Stephanie
.

I drop my bag onto my bed and contemplate taking one of the bubble baths that I seem to be getting addicted to, but I can’t get my mind off Ethan’s crankiness on the car ride home. I thought I’d come to know all of the different Ethans, but this quiet version is unfamiliar. And kind of unnerving.

I wander into the kitchen and find him making a turkey sandwich. He cuts it in half and holds out one of the triangles to me, but I shake my head.

“You don’t have to share your food,” I say with a little smile. “You have a couple days off from being a boyfriend before your cousin’s wedding.”

He meets my eyes and takes a big bite of the section he just held out to me. “Great. Guess that means you can stop with the accidental touches for a few days too.”

I blink a little at him, surprised by the edge in his voice. “What are you talking about?”

He chews and swallows, never taking his eyes off me. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. For the past two days you couldn’t even pass by me to go take a piss without touching my arm. Couldn’t scoot by me in the kitchen without your boobs brushing against my back.”

Immediately I feel my face flame. “I was just playing the part. You said Andrea thought we were jumpy when we touched. I was just trying to make it real. Like we touched each other all the time.”

“Except we don’t.”

I throw my hands up. “Of course we don’t, Ethan! When there’s nobody around, we can barely stand each other.”

His head tilts back a little. “Really?”

No, not really
.

“Well, I mean … I guess we’ve become friends of a sort,” I hedge.

God, when did this all of a sudden become so complicated?

Oh,
right
. Probably when we made out on the bow of Andrea’s boat.

But that was all for show.
So what’s with his bad mood?

“Hey, Ethan,” I say, watching as he finishes his sandwich as though I’m not there.

“What’s up?”

I smile sweetly. “When are you going to tell me what crawled up your butt?”

The question catches him off guard, as though he’s never had to explain a foul mood to anybody before. Hell, he probably hasn’t. He’s had no siblings to answer to, and his parents, while perhaps overly interested in his love life, don’t seem the least bit interested in what makes Ethan tick.

Maybe Olivia was, but the girl cheated on him, so somehow I’m thinking she probably wasn’t exactly all that invested in what Ethan was thinking or feeling.

I soften a little at the thought. Looking at it that way, it’s sad, actually. Maybe someone who’s had everything material handed to him doesn’t have the first clue about how to ask for something that money can’t buy. Maybe he doesn’t even know what he wants.

Although if that’s the case, I’m hardly the one to teach him. I quit wanting things a long time ago, much less asking for them.

“I already told you,” he says sulkily. “I’m just tired.”

I shrug. “Got it. So take a nap already. This bad-tempered Ethan is ruining the feng shui of our apartment.”

“
My
apartment.”

I lift an eyebrow. “I just spent an entire weekend faking being in love with you, and I have to do it all over again next weekend. Until we’re done, it’s
our
apartment.”

Something flashes across his face then, and all of a sudden the apartment, which was huge by Manhattan standards, feels stiflingly small.

I don’t know why I threw out the
L
word, I really don’t. We’ve never talked about it before, and honestly it’s not even
necessary
considering that we’re telling people that our relationship is only a month old. There’s no reason we have to pretend to be in love; we just have to pretend to be moving in that direction.

So why did I say it?

“Do you want to go to a movie?” I blurt out.

“A movie?”

“Yeah. You know, overpriced tickets, sticky floors, fake-butter popcorn … a movie.”

He tilts his head. “Are you going to make me go to one of those snooty theaters where they only play highbrow shit?”

“And listen to you whine the entire time? No way. I’ll save those outings for my fellow film students. You can pick.”

“How magnanimous of you.”

I give him a toothy grin. “Reward for sleeping on the floor.”

He crosses his arms across his chest and studies me. “Fine. How about …”

I carefully hide my wince at the blow-’em-up blockbuster he names. That sort of bigbudget CGI monstrosity is my personal nightmare. But having a couple of hours to sit by Ethan without having to pretend? It sounds nice. Really nice.

I want to get back to the easy companionship we had before the trip. Before that kiss. Because now I don’t just have to play pretend when other people are around. I also have to put on a show when we’re alone. And in some ways, the act when it’s just the two of us is that much harder.

Who knew that pretending you’re
not
falling for someone would be so much more difficult than pretending you are?

Chapter Fourteen

Ethan

Stephanie and I are back to normal.

And by normal, I mean we’re treating each other as asexual roommates who bicker over who gets to choose the channel and whether we get chicken or tofu on our pad thai takeout, and we have yet to agree on the minimum distance to a destination that justifies when we can get a cab.

The kiss on the boat? Forgotten.

Those sleepless nights up at the Finger Lakes where we listened to each other toss and turn and want? Forgotten.

That day in the kitchen when I almost stupidly proposed a friends-with-benefits scenario and she saved me by suggesting a movie? Also forgotten—mostly.

Except now we’re at my cousin’s wedding, and we have to be back
on
. Although the change between faking being a couple and being ourselves doesn’t feel as drastic as it did before. Before, when we were in front of other people, it felt like someone had flipped a switch: we’d go from two opposites who are doing each other a favor to a goopy, over-the-top couple.

But tonight? Tonight as we dance, flirt, and drink champagne?

Tonight doesn’t feel fake.

I keep telling myself that it’s simply because we’re getting more used to the whole process. I tell myself that it’s not because the lines are being blurred.

Besides, there is
one
big thing tonight that’s different from the past few days: tonight the touching is back.

God help me
.

“We should dance,” she says under her breath as she gulps some water.

“We’ve been dancing,” I say, discreetly wiping sweat from the back of my neck. My aunt and uncle are paying through the nose for this wedding, which is at one of the city’s fanciest hotels, so of course there’s air-conditioning. But there are also three hundred people crammed into too small a space, and it seems like half of them have been jumping around on the dance floor with us.

“No, I mean we should
dance
dance,” she says, gesturing toward the swaying couples.

I glance down at her head. “It’s a slow song.”

“Exactly,” she says pointedly.

She’s right, of course. I’ve been feeling my mother’s eyes on us all evening. She’s probably hoping for some sign that the newness is wearing off and that we’re on our way to breaking up. I also saw the way that every single member of my extended family jolted when I introduced Stephanie—when they saw that she isn’t Olivia.

So yeah, I guess we should dance. Except I don’t want to. Not like that, not with her looking the way she does.

Her cocktail dress is bright green, and it’s one of those tie-around-the neck deals that keeps her fantastic rack covered up while leaving her back bare. A back that I’ll have to touch if we dance.

But she’s already grabbing my hand, expertly weaving through the fancily dressed guests until we’re in the middle of the dance floor. We’re right next to the bride and groom, and I watch in surprise as my cousin grabs Stephanie’s arm and whispers something before the two of them giggle like a couple of schoolgirls.

Just when did Stephanie have time to befriend Paige?

And where the hell is that black-clothed artsy-fartsy gnome who once lectured me on the underappreciated appeal of film noir?

Paige’s new husband reclaims her for their dance, and I take a deep breath as Stephanie steps toward me, fitting her body easily against mine as she slides a hand around my shoulder and cuddles up. My hand finds her back, and I think I hear her let out a little sigh as we begin to sway to some sappy nonsense.

I was right in thinking that touching the bare skin on Stephanie’s back wasn’t a good idea. The warm smoothness of it reminds me of that moment on the boat when I slipped a hand beneath her, tilting her up—

“Your relatives seem nice,” she says against my shoulder.

“That’s because it’s my dad’s side of the family,” I say, grateful for a topic of conversation that doesn’t have to do with kissing. Or skin. Or touching. “You’re lucky there are no Clark family gatherings while we’re doing our little charade. They’re a bunch of vipers.”

“Your mom seems to have warmed up to me, though.”

I hesitate. “That’s only because the Middletons are in Europe, so she can’t spend the entire evening foisting Olivia on me.”

“Olivia was invited to the wedding?”

My fingers tighten reflexively. “Yeah. But her cousin’s getting married to some Swiss billionaire this same weekend. She’ll be at the party, though,” I say, wanting to warn her.

“This big fancy Hamptons party, yeah?” she says.

I nod and take a deep breath. “Michael will be there too.”

Her eyes search my face. “That’s why you really initiated this plan, isn’t it? Not just to get your mom off your back. But because you don’t want to go to that party alone. Not when they’ll both be there.”

I pull her closer again so I don’t have to meet her eyes. “Maybe. Honestly, I’m not sure at all anymore why I’m doing this.”

It’s a loaded statement, and I’m talking about more than just Olivia and my mother. I suspect she knows it, because her fingers tighten slightly around mine.

I’m beginning to think this is the longest song in the world, and I’m torn between wanting to pull away and not wanting it to end. I turn my head slightly, my chin brushing against her hair. It smells as good as it looks. For the life of me, I don’t know why I ever thought I preferred blondes.

Stop sniffing the girl, for God’s sake
.

Stephanie shifts slightly, and the movement causes my hand, which is already low on her back, to dip lower until the tips of my fingers slide just under the fabric of her dress. We both freeze, and I order myself to move my hand. And I do, but not in the direction I should. Instead my fingers stroke just slightly, moving against the small of her back in a heated little caress.

There’s nothing indecent about the touch. It’s not like I’m palming her ass or anything, and nobody around us even notices.

But the fact that nobody notices is exactly what makes it indecent. Because I’m not doing it for them. I’m doing it for me.

I leave my hand where it is for a few heated moments in which the two of us barely move. I start to shift to safer territory, but my hand doesn’t seem to move as far as it should, and I let my pinky finger hover just beneath the fabric.