“I will,” I promise.
I slip away, make it to the bathroom, and lock myself in a stall. I exhale hard, hand pressing to my stomach as if it’s the only steady thing in my world.
“Okay,” I whisper. “We’re doing this.”
My phone buzzes.
Ethan.
I stare at the screen like it might misbehave.
Then another buzz.
Then another.
I open the messages, and my pulse starts climbing in a way that has nothing to do with fainting.
Ethan: You look too good tonight.
Ethan: I’ve been watching you pretend you don’t know it.
I bite my lip, then I stop myself, since that’s a tell and I’m alone in a bathroom stall, which is not the place to start acting like a heroine in a romance novel.
I type back.
Me: I’m literally peeing. Please have manners.
A response comes fast.
Ethan: No.
Ethan: I’m picturing you in that dress, and I’m thinking about what’s under it.
My thighs press together, and I hate my body for being so easy.
I type with one hand, the other still on my stomach.
Me: The girls are right there.
Ethan: They’re your friends. They already know you’re trouble.
Ethan: I want you back at the table with that calm face, and I want you to know you’re going home with me.
My skin warms, and my breath shifts, and my brain tries to pretend this is inconvenient.
It isn’t.
Me: Are you trying to get me arrested for public indecency.
Ethan: I’m trying to get you wet in a bathroom stall.
I choke on a laugh, then I press my knuckles to my mouth, eyes wide.
Another message appears.
Ethan: Touch your thigh.
Ethan: Just once. Slow.
