“Haven’t done this in a while,” he said, holding it out in front of him.
“Me neither.”
His hair brushed my cheek as he tipped his head back onto my shoulder. “Why now?”
I took another drag, my free hand lifting instinctively to his hair, fingers sliding through it, nails scraping lightly against his scalp. “I saw my dad earlier.”
“Yeah?” Ethan angled his head to look up at me.
I nodded. “He fell asleep a few minutes in. But he saw me.” My voice dropped. “Said my name. That he was sorry.”
Ethan pulled back slightly, just enough for me to see his eyes widen. “Wow.”
I huffed out a quiet laugh. “Tell me about it.”
A shiver ran through him, small but unmistakable, like the cold had finally slipped past his sweats. Without thinking, I tucked him into my side, my palm sliding up and down his arm to warm him.
He didn’t protest. If anything, he leaned in. “Are you doing okay?”
I shrugged, the movement lifting him with me. “Better than the last couple of days. It’s just been… a lot.”
His lips pressed together at that, but before I could decide what it meant, he slipped the cigarette back between them. “It has been…”
“Did you find anything?” I asked.
Ethan nodded. “A few irregularities in the projections. I flagged the areas that don’t track and sent everything back so they can reconcile the numbers.” He watched me for a moment. “Do you want to look it over?”
The old reflex kicked in. Review it. Confirm it.
I paused, taking a long drag. Then I shook my head on the exhale. “Tomorrow.” I scrubbed a hand over my face. “Thanks for helping. Don’t know what we’d do without you.”
His chest rose and fell as he smoked, flicking the ash away before bringing the cigarette back to his mouth, and I watched every small movement up close. Entranced.
I stubbed my cigarette out in the ashtray as his knuckles brushed over my skin. I looked down to find his finger hooked around my necklace, his eyes fixed on it.
“You’d get another research assistant,” he said lightly, killing his smoke too.
A chuckle slipped out of me as I shook my head. “Impossible. There isn’t anotheryou.”
“You’re good with words, Mr. Langley. I’ll give you that.”
I smiled. “You think I’m smooth-talking you?”
“I know you are,” he said. “That’s your thing.”
Amused, I let a low sound escape me. “Do you still think that? That I’m only saying what you want to hear?”
“Obviously.”
His hair slid between my fingers as I reached for him again, twisting it gently and tugging, drawing him closer until we were nose to nose, his breath warm against my mouth.
“My thing,” I said softly, “is meaning every ridiculously infatuated word I’ve ever said to you. I don’t do flattery. Not with you. You should know that by now—I’ve been hopeless where you’re concerned since the moment I saw you.”
His lashes fluttered, and for a second he didn’t say anything—just watched me, like he was deciding whether to believe me.
“See?” he murmured.
“What?”
