Suddenly,Iwas the one going back in time—back to the nights when I’d forced myself to ignore my phone. To ignore him.And here I was, doing it again. Hurting him. Roughly half an hour after I’d promised I wouldn’t.
Four fucking years, and I still couldn’t control myself around Ethan.
Me
no
not busy
just got caught up with lunch
I might need some salve for that burn though
you win
I could at least give him that.
Since I was so keen on denying him everything else.
Madrid was already warm, that early kind of heat that clung to your shoulders no matter how fast you moved. I’d gone out before sunrise, hoping a run would settle my head.
It didn’t.
My mind kept circling the same things—emails piling up, calls from legal I still hadn’t returned, a board briefing I needed to survive without sparking panic, and the quiet but relentless question of who had signed off on the documents that started this whole mess. Every minute brought a new problem, and if I couldn’t think of something fast, the next step would be layoffs.
Then there was Henry insisting on throwing me some big birthday bash, and, as the cherry on top, navigating my relationship with Luca when my head kept wandering into places it shouldn’t. Work was an easy excuse right now, but whatever was happening between Luca and me felt increasingly misaligned. Forced. But I didn’t have the bandwidth to touch that right now.
I was halfway through rehearsing what I needed to get done today—mostly to keep from thinking about everything I couldn’t control—when something moved at the edge of my vision.
I looked up too late. Too late to avoid it.
Ethan was already jogging to me, lifting a hand in this easy, familiar wave, like running into me on an empty street at dawn made perfect sense.
Of course it was him.
And of course he fucking looked like that. It was worse than the tennis getup. Ridiculously short running shorts, a cut-out sleeveless T-shirt dipping low at the sides, and a cap barely containing the mess of golden curls. And the socks. Two-striped, criminally tight, drawing my attention straight to his calves.
Fuck. Me.
“Hey,” he said, chest heaving as he pulled out his headphones.
“Hey.”
His pale eyes did a slow once-over, and I swallowed thickly at the clear appraisal in them.
“You jog? What the fuck?” His laugh was delightfully raspy.
“Yeah, a few times a week when I have the time,” I said. He tilted his head, waiting. “Health and whatnot.”
His expression sobered a little. “But like… is it because there’s something to worry about? First smoking…”
“Oh no, not at all, darling,” I said, huffing an unwilling laugh at his worry. “It’s an age thing.”
His shoulders eased. Then his eyes did another scan, and he pressed his lips together in that shy fucking smile that undid me.
I couldn’t tell if the flush on his cheeks was from the jog or the look. “What?”
“What the fuck are you wearing?” he finally asked.
