Page 29 of Designing Love
I’m so lost in my thoughts I almost miss seeing him. Almost. But it’s hard to overlook Ethan’s tall frame — broad-shouldered, effortlessly put-together in that quiet, unintentional way especially when standing in the middle of Main Street as if waiting for a bus that never comes. One hand is raking through his hair, the other clutching his phone as though it’s about to burst into flames. There’s a restless energy in him, like he’s trying to solve something with sheer focus. He doesn’t see me at all, which is surprising — my bright teal coat and size usually make me impossible to miss.
“Ethan!” I call, weaving around a local couple who wave politely but give me a strange look, probably wondering why I’m yelling in the middle of the sidewalk.
Ethan jolts in surprise, nearly dropping his phone. “Sophia?” He blinks at me in confusion, like he’s half-expecting an entirely different person to appear.
I slow as I approach him, tilting my head. “Are you okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”
He forces a small smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Uh, yeah. Fine. Just… a lot on my mind.”
I press my lips together, noticing how tense his shoulders are beneath his navy hoodie. The corners of his mouth keep twitching like he can’t decide whether to grin or grimace.
“Hmm, something tells me you’re not fine.” I place a gentle hand on his arm, half-expecting him to deny it all. Instead, he lets out a heavy sigh that seems to carry the weight of a thousand undone tasks — possibly a personal crisis.
“Let’s just say it’s been a weird day.” He tries for a playful tone, but the effort falls flat.
I readjust the stack of heavy books I’m carrying, suddenly self-conscious about the enthusiasm I’d planned to unleash on him. I want to show him all these historical design references and color swatches. Maybe now isn’t the best time, but I can’t bear the idea of letting him walk away like this, obviously troubled.
“Hey, I, um, got these books…” I heft the stack awkwardly, “from The Purring Page. Some great stuff on early twentieth-century architecture. Thought we could check them out together.”
He forces another half-smile, eyes lingering on the spines of the oversized tomes. “Right. For the Miller House. Give me those. They look heavy!”
I pass the stack and his gaze flicks away again, scanning the street like he’s searching for something — or someone. My stomach twists uncomfortably.
“Ethan.” I nudge him gently. “If something’s wrong… I mean, you can tell me.”
He meets my eyes then, a mix of gratitude and hesitance swirling in his expression. “It’s just… complicated.”
“Is it about that call you were expecting? Or something else?” I ask quietly, fighting to grab his phone and see what’s happening. Not exactly the pinnacle of boundaries, but my anxiety climbs with every twitch of his jaw.
“The call?”
“You were looking at the phone as if it was about to self-combust!”
He hesitates, pressing his lips together. “I ran into someone...”
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask softly, feeling a sudden wave of protectiveness surge inside me. I may not be the best at dealing with my baggage, but I hate the idea of Ethan stewing in negativity.
His shoulders relax fractionally, but the tension in his jaw remains. “Could we — maybe not here? I’m really not in the mood to stage a personal drama in front of half of Bluewater Cove.”
Relief floods me.At least he’s not shutting me out.“Yeah, definitely. Let’s go somewhere. I’d suggest my aunt’s beach house, but that’s about as private as a theme park.”
Ethan’s lips quirk into something resembling an actual smile. “We could, uh… go back to my place. Check out these books in a somewhat quieter environment?”
“Sounds good. Quiet. Minimal raccoon interference, hopefully.”
He nods, and we head down Main Street side by side, silent but strangely comfortable. A gentle breeze lifts the scent of coffee from Lucas’ shop.
“Do you mind if we pop in to grab coffees to go?” I ask.
“Of course not.” Ethan grins and reaches for the door.
We grab our coffees to go and climb into his truck.
When we reach his place, Ethan fumbles for his keys, expression sheepish. “Sorry. My head’s all over the place.”
“Hey, no rush.” I take the books from him, giving him space to unlock the door.
The interior of his house is neat, if a little sparse. A living room extends before us, furnished with a cozy couch, a coffee table scattered with code-laden printouts, and a large TV angled near an older gaming console. It’s not fancy or meticulously designed, but it feels… well, like Ethan — comfortable, unpretentious, and welcoming in a subdued way.
