Page 7 of Trick or Treat Nurse at My Feet
"Nope, still just nursing," I say, my voice tight. "Still just gay, too, in case that was your next question."
There's an awkward pause. "Ethan, don't be like that. We're very... supportive."
"Right."
"Are you seeing anyone?" she asks with forced brightness. "Someone... nice?"
I think about Ryan, but I will never try to explain that situation to her. "Not really."
"Well, you're focusing on your studies. That's good. Plenty of time for dating later."
"Sure, Mom."
"I should go. Your father's waiting to leave for golf. Love you, honey."
"Love you, too," I say automatically before hanging up.
Tossing my phone on the bed I flop down next to it with a groan.
"That woman has the emotional range of a teaspoon," Sylas observes, pulling out a pair of tight scrubs from my closet.
"At least Ryan seems to like me," I say, staring at the ceiling. "Even if it's just behind closed doors."
Sylas pauses, scrubs in hand. "Honey, if that's your bar, we must raise it drastically." He tosses the scrubs at me. "Now, as I was saying before we were so rudely interrupted by the ice queen, strip. We have work to do."
Twenty minutes later, I'm staring at myself in the mirror, barely recognizing the person looking back. Sylas went along with my plan, but he picked old scrubs from the back of my closet. I really should have donated them because they barely fit. The scrub top stretches tight across my shoulders and chest, and the pants...
"Holy shit," Sylas breathes, circling me like a fashion predator. "Turn around."
Like the world's most reluctant ballerina, I turn slowly, feeling self-conscious.
"Your ass is CRIMINAL in these, Ethan." He fans himself dramatically. "All the working out you did this summer did you a favour, honey."
Heat crawls up my neck. "It's too much. Ryan doesn't like attention?—"
"That's the whole damn point." Sylas puts his hands onmy shoulders, meeting my eyes in the mirror. "If Lord Gaslight-a-lot is finally taking you out, we're making sure every queer eye on campus is on you."
"But—"
"But nothing. Sit down. I'm not done with you yet."
Lowering my ass onto my desk chair, I watch as Sylas rummages through his backpack, producing a makeup bag that seems to defy the laws of physics with how much it holds.
"What are you doing?"
"War paint," he says simply, pulling out brushes and palettes.
For the next half hour, I submit to Sylas's orders, wincing only slightly when he lines my eyes with more precision than should be legal.
"Hold still," he commands, dusting something over my cheekbones. "If he can't handle you at your sparkly best, he doesn't deserve you at all."
"I don't want to scare him off," I murmur.
Sylas pauses, brush hovering near my face. His expression softens. "Ethan. If being your gorgeous, glittery self scares him off, then he was never going to stay."
His words sit heavy on my chest, but I nod anyway.
"Almost done," he says, standing back to assess his work. "Just one more thing."
