Page 82 of Rare Blend
I swallow, trying to ignore the flutter in my chest.
The air between us inflates, and despite being steps away, he suddenly feels too close. Close enough for me to catch a hint of his scent, and it mingles with the faintest trace of cinnamon from the cider.
Ethan sticks his hands in his pockets, keeping his focus down while I bobble my head about as if I’m looking at the crowd, when really I can’t focus on anything but the man next to me.
“The article turned out great. Thanks for focusing it more on the winery.”
I tipped Marv, the man who delivers the paper, to deliver it to Ethan first thing in the morning. It should’ve been waiting for him at the winery when he got to work.
“Good.” I smile tightly. “I’m glad you liked it.”
Seconds tick by as we look at each other but don’t speak. It’s as if neither one of us is quite ready to address the metaphorical elephant standing between us.
“Well, this is awkward.” I huff a laugh, hoping to dissolve this stupid tension.
“Yeah, about that,” he starts, his head lifting to meet my eyes. “I was an ass yesterday. I should’ve been more excited for you. I am—I’m proud of you. And I’m happy you got the job.”
He smiles, that soft, gentle smile I selfishly hope is only reserved for me.
“Thank you.” My voice is a whisper as my throat tightens with emotion. It’s one thing to congratulate me or say he’s happy for me. It’s an entirely different feeling to say he’s proud of me.Growing up, it was the compliment I strived for the most and so rarely received. My dad was never easily impressed by my accomplishments. As soon as one was achieved, it was on to the next. The constant chasing of his praise led to burnout in my college years. Growing resentment combined with never feeling good enough made me believe that my achievements—or lack thereof—were tied to his love for me. I can feel my daddy issues surfacing, so I clear my throat and push them back down.
He nods, eyes boring into mine, before cutting away to look around us. When they meet mine again, they’re laced with…worry? Embarrassment, maybe? I can’t read him.
“We should probably talk about what happened,” he says in a low, quiet voice.
My chest sinks down to my stomach. “Right,” I breathe. “We should.”
He rubs the back of his neck. A move I’m realizing he does when he’s anxious. “I think it would be best?—”
“You regret it, don’t you?” I cut him off. “It’s fine if you do. It was a heat of the moment thing, and I?—”
“Marisa, stop,” he says firmly, shaking his head, almost in disbelief. “I don’t regret it.” His eyes travel down the length of my body, leaving behind a heated trail. “I don’t regret any of it.”
“Oh.” I swallow. I was fully prepared to brush it off to save face. Now I’m not sure what to say.
“Why? Do you?”
I hesitate only a moment and then give my head a shake. “No. I don’t regret it either.”
The corner of his mouth quirks as he looks down at me. “Good.”
I press my lips together, fighting a grin. “Good,” I echo.
“But,” he starts.
I take a deep breath. “There’s always a but.”
His smile settles to one that is more even. More wistful. “But we probably shouldn’t go down that road.”
I know this. My brain knows this. But my heart? My heart disagrees. A pressure builds around it, heavy and insistent. I bring my hand to my chest and rub my sternum, trying to ease the pain. One kiss shouldn’t have left me feeling this way. But here I am, fighting to keep my emotions in check.
“You’re right. You’re so right.” I nod quickly, trying to sound casual, even keeled. Not at all dejected like I feel.
“It’s just that you’re leaving. And?—”
“I get it.” I didn’t intend to say that with as much bite as I did, and I wince, mentally scolding myself. “Friends?” I ask, my voice way too cheerful. I even squeaked it went up so high.
God, I sound pathetic.
