Page 120 of The Game Plan

He shrugs, his gaze sliding away. “Felt the need for a change.”

In a daze, I walk to him. He keeps his head down, the squared-off hinge of his jaw bunching as if he’s grinding his teeth.

“Ethan.” My hand touches his smooth cheek. God. His beard. His thick, lustrous beard is gone. A deep pang of mourning ripsthrough me. “Why?”

He shakes his head. Once, as if to say,don’t ask me. Don’t make me say it.

But I know. With a cry, I fling myself on him. And he gathers me up, holds me against him as I press my face into the warmhollow of his throat. He smells the same. Exactly the same—like birthdays, Christmas morning and pancakes at midnight.

I’ve needed to feel his solid strength and hear his steady breath, more than I realized. Tears well hot and heavy in my eyesas my fingers find the back of his shorn head.

I must be choking him, my arms are wrapped around his neck so tightly. But I can’t stop. I want to be closer, under his skin,or maybe tuck him under mine where I can keep him as safe as I can. Sobs burst out of me, rapid-fire.

Ethan’s arm wraps more snuggly around my waist, his big, warm hand on the back of my head. “You’re crying over theloss of my beard.” He doesn’t sound upset, but as if he’s confirming a long-suspected belief.

And it breaks my heart. Somehow, I manage to let him go enough to look up at his face. His eyes are solemn, sad, as if hehates seeing me cry but doesn’t know what to do about it.

His thumbs brush my wet cheeks, but he doesn’t say anything, just lets me look at his now-smooth face.

I cup one of his cheeks, press my palm against skin that’s warm and tight. “I’m crying because you thought this outer shellmeant more to me than what’s inside of you.”

His big body jerks in surprise, but I cling, not letting him go. As if he’s too tired to keep his head up, he bends down andburies his face in the crook of my neck.

Gently, I stroke his head, his close-cropped hair bristly yet soft. “You think I kissed you that first time—that I wantedyou—because of a beard? You couldn’t be more wrong. It was because you were a sexy-as-fuck, sly-as-all-hell charmer who grabbedmy attention and held it.”

A muffled grunt blows into my hair.

“I mean, look at you,” I say, even though we’re still clutching each other and I can’t see anything.

But my memory is just fine. I think of his solemn eyes and that mouth of his, that soft, wide, pouty mouth. “I’m in seriousdanger of having a young Marlon BrandoStreet-Car-Named-Desiremoment here. I kind of want you to tear at your shirt and shout ‘Stella!’ Or I guess it should be ‘Fiona!’?”

Ethan snorts, but it sounds like he’s trying not to laugh. Still, tension vibrates along his strong body, and I know he remainsupset.

When he finally answers, his voice is raw. “Rather hear you shoutmyname, Cherry.”

“So make me.”

He doesn’t move, only grows stiffer.

“Ethan, I loved your beard, but I love you more.”

He blinks down at me, then he swallows hard as if trying to clear his throat. “I love you too, Cherry.” He presses his forehead to mine. “Feels like I’ve loved you forever. I thought you knew that.”

There’s an accusation in his voice—soft but there all the same. “I do, Ethan. You’ve been so good to me.”

His grip flexes on my hips. “Then why did you do it? Why did you take the money?”

Surprise freezes me to the spot. He stares down at me, no longer soft but completely hard, stark devastation and cold angerin his eyes.

Forty-Five

Fiona

Ethan has never looked at me in anger. It’s a horrible thing to see it now. “I can explain,” I say.

He scoffs. “Just the words a guy wants to hear after he’s been metaphorically kicked in the teeth by his woman.”

My breath pushes out in an anxious rush. “I’m not going to London.”

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