Page 31 of Tides of Change
When had I started caring what I wore around another man? Or noticing how his clothing highlighted his fit body?
Not since Leo. Not until Ethan.
He held up a cherry tomato, his expression questioning. “Tomatoes okay in the salad?”
I dragged my focus back to his face and nodded. “Unlike some little boys I know, I’m not a picky eater.”
Ethan snorted a laugh and scattered tomatoes on top of a leafy green salad. “Well, I can also make chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese like a top chef.”
The playful words warmed the air between us, but my thoughts turned serious for a moment. When would he cook for Noah? Ethan lived in Brooklyn—his life was there. His family was there; his niece was there. The realization he’d leave Seacliff Cove once we caught the stalker weighed in my stomach like a stone. As a single dad, I’d never stand between a man and his family. Instead, I’d focus on the time we had together.
With that thought in mind, I popped open two bottles of beer, and the soft hiss broke the momentary silence. I handed one to him and brushed my fingers against his as I did.
“Thanks,” he said quietly. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
“What can I do?” I moved back and tried to ignore how close we’d been.
Ethan glanced at me, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Just stand there and look handsome.” He winked.
I froze for a heartbeat; the words hit me like a rogue wave, unexpected. Was heflirting? Did I want him to be?
I raised an eyebrow and forced my voice to stay light. “Are you objectifying me, Mr. Cole?”
Ethan’s eyes widened, and panic flashed across his face. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean?—”
“It’s okay,” I said, low and husky as I cut him off. “I like that you think I’m handsome.”
His cheeks flushed a rosy hue that had nothing to do with the oven’s heat. He nodded, and the tiniest smile tugged at his lips as he turned back to the salad. But when he placed the bowl on the table, his arm brushed mine even though he had plenty of roomto maneuver. He lingered just long enough to send a shiver down my spine.
The timer on his phone shattered the heartbeat of time. We both startled and stepped apart as if caught in the act of something we hadn’t quite admitted yet. Ethan cleared his throat and hooked a thumb toward the oven. “The lasagna…”
I nodded, unable to prevent a small quirk of a smile. “Right. Lasagna.”
He bent to pull the bubbling dish from the oven, but I didn’t miss the slight tremor in his hands as he slid a sheet of garlic bread inside.
In the quiet that followed, the air between us buzzed with unspoken words, unacknowledged feelings. Something was building, slow and steady, and I wasn’t sure whether to stoke the fire or let it burn out.
I sipped my beer, keeping my tone casual. Neutral ground seemed like the safest bet. “Did you write the screenplay for the Jake Slate TV series?”
He pulled plates from the cabinet, the dinnerware rattling. “No, a screenplay writer adapted the first book for the first season of the show, though he consulted me on the script.”
I nodded, trying not to get distracted by the way the golden glow of the lights lit up the red highlights in his hair. “That makes sense. Did you have any say in who they cast to play Jake?”
Ethan turned to the oven and pulled out a tray of perfectly browned garlic bread. The scent hit me like a tsunami—garlic, butter, a hint of herbs. My mouth watered at the delicious aroma.
“No.” He set the tray on a butcher block on the counter. “But I met Brock Mitchell. They invited me to the first day of filming.”
“No shi—oot?” I caught myself and instinctively glanced around the kitchen.
Ethan chuckled, low and warm. “You can swear around me. Noah’s not here.”
“Best to stay in the habit,” I muttered and tried to ignore the way his laughter did funny things to my stomach.
He picked up his phone, swiped the screen, and gave it to me. His hand brushed mine briefly with a spark of temptation.
I squinted at the photo. There he was, standing next to Brock Mitchell, who looked like he could toss Ethan over his shoulder without breaking a sweat. Ethan wasn’t small—tall and fit in a way that suggested he exercised—but Mitchell made him look almost fragile. Almost. But I only had eyes for Ethan. Ethan’s wide smile in the picture was what really caught my eye, a smile I rarely saw under the current circumstances. It made my breath hitch.
“Wow,” I managed, handing the phone back. “He makes a great Jake Slate.”
