Page 47 of Designing Love
Closing my eyes briefly, I picture Ethan’s face, gentle smile, the quiet strength that grounds me. This isn’t running away; it’s moving forward toward him.
Soon enough, I’ll be back in Bluewater Cove.
21
MOVIE NIGHT
Ethan
When I finally shoulder the back door open, I’m balancing an unwieldy box of soft-close cabinet hinges and a guilty suspicion that Claire has already let herself in. The suspicion proves correct: she’s perched at my kitchen island like a queen on her throne — ankles crossed on the stool’s lower rung, half-devoured chips spread before her, and a look that says she’s been plotting for at least twenty minutes.
“About time,” she calls, tapping a chip against the rim of a jarred salsa she must’ve pilfered from my pantry. “Bluewater Cove’s most elusive handyman finally returns.”
I drop the hinges with a thunk. “Pretty sure I texted you I was at Jenkins.”
“Text received. I still reserve the right to complain.” She gestures grandly to the other stool. “Plant yourself. We have matters of the heart and hinges to discuss.”
I raise a brow. “Those are normally separate meetings.”
“Tonight, they’re a combo platter.” Claire waves the chip bowl in my direction. “Dinner?”
“Kevin at Jenkins gave me a stale protein bar when the registers crashed. Chips are a clear upgrade.” I grab a handful and sit.
“So. Vancouver Girl. Status report.”
I try not to smile too broadly, which clearly fails because Claire’s grin widens. “Sophia’s good,” I say, aiming for casual. “She’s knee-deep in closing meetings, but we text often.”
“And?” Claire stretches the word like taffy.
“And…” I twist the cap off my water bottle, stalling. “I’m kind of… smitten.”
Her chip pauses midair; her mouth forms an exaggerated O. “Smitten? As in birds-singing, heart-skipping, can’t-focus-on-your-coding smitten?”
“Birds no, coding yes. It’s suffered terribly.” I rub the back of my neck. Saying it out loud feels weirdly vulnerable. “She’s the first woman I’ve ever been this easy around — like I can breathe normally, even in silence.”
Claire slaps the counter in mock offense. “Excuse me. We’ve cultivated a decade of top-tier comfortable silences. You wound me.”
“Claire, you’re my buddy.” I laugh, reaching for another chip. “Entirely different category.”
“Buddy.” She plants both elbows on the island, eyes wide with theatrical hurt. “Friend-zoned in my own kitchen. The betrayal.”
“My kitchen,” I remind her. “And, for the record, you kicked me to the friendship curb five years ago.”
She snorts, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a dolphin squeak. “Oh please. On our only date, you ordered water and spent twenty minutes explaining server uptimes. He waxed poetic about redundancy clusters.”
I throw my hands up. “I was nervous. Meanwhile, you rocked up with anchovy pizza. That’s a dealbreaker.”
“Anchovies are sophisticated,” she protests.
“Anchovies are sentient salt.”
Claire laughs so hard she snorts again. “Point is, we dodged a very fishy bullet.”
“Agreed.” I tap my chest. “Crewmates forever.”
She salutes with her chip. “So, this Sophia situation… It’s real?”
“It feels real.” I toy with the torn hinge box. “I don’t overthink with her. That’s… new.”
