Page 39

Sandra claps. “And that’s a wrap. That’s great, guys. We have a lot of footage to work with.”

The spell breaks and we jolt apart.

Ethan swipes his eyes with his fingers before unleashing one of his strained smiles into the crowd.

I clear my throat and heave out a few deep breaths before I stand and do the same.

My pulse gallops in my ears.

I can barely hear myself think.

My heart feels like it’ll give up on me at any second.

Judging from the flush creeping up his neck and how his fingers fidget with his cuff links, I’d guess he feels the same.

But nothing happened.

It was just a basic interview—professional questions.

It felt like much more.

Like he flipped open the pages of my book and read the passages aloud.

Or perhaps he already had my pages memorized.

I feel naked.

What on earth?

Nothing makes sense.

I don’t know him that well, and yet, the way I feel with him—this searing intensity and palpable connection.

I do know him. Deeply.

Why does it feel like I’m staring at a riddle and the answer is on the tip of my tongue?

I glance up, finding Rex scanning us with sharp eyes, confirming what I thought before.

The playboy persona is a front.

He gives me a sad smile and claps like everyone else, who obviously hasn’t noticed anything amiss .

Ethan strides away, his fingers raking over his perfectly arranged hair, rendering it a disheveled mess.

An image of me scribbling in my journal appears in my mind.

But I can’t make out the words.

The snippet disappears almost instantly, followed by the same flash of piercing headache.

Closing my eyes, I count to ten until my pulse settles, and when I reopen them, the room is in a flurry of activity with folks packing up their things, straightening the apartment.

I see John helping people with their coats and scarves.

Unable to keep still, I walk to the glass wall lined with framed photos.

I recognize a few of them from the office, but these photos are in color, not black and white.

This time, I can make out the details—the tropical beach, the colorful sunset in the background bouncing rays of light against the jeweled colored pebbled sand, and the desert sand dunes with dark waters on the horizon.

He’s in each of them, once again standing off-centered, the same bittersweet smile on his face.

My heart tugs, an inexplicable yearning gripping me.

With my mind still racing from the nonevents a few moments ago, I lean in closer, examining what he’s holding in his hand—a leather-bound book, like a journal.

I move on to the other photos.

Him standing in front of a restaurant—Bhut Kitchen—his face haggard with an unkempt beard.

Ethan at what looks like a Sotheby’s auction, holding a small golden item and the same journal in his hand.

Him leaning against a wall of books in a vintage bookshop.

Ethan releasing a paper lantern to join the thousands of floating fireballs in the deep navy sky.

There’s something inscribed on the lantern—but it’s too small.

I can only make out one letter.

An “N.”

Then, heat coils around me, sinking into my skin .

I know it’s him without turning around.

“Your routines. Traveling must throw them off.” I squint, still trying to make out the words on the lantern.

“One trip a year. It’s part of my schedule,” he murmurs before stepping next to me.

“Have you thought about traveling?”

I smile.

This, I have an answer for.

“Yes. I’m making a list of places I want to go. A bucket list of some sort. I lost almost a decade of my life and I won’t waste a single minute of it. I have a motto. Don’t wait to live, because the clock keeps ticking.”

He lets out a heavy sigh and doesn’t reply.

I turn toward him, finding him staring at the lantern photo with the same wistfulness I saw during the interview.

“They say if you write wishes on the lanterns, they’ll come true.”

“Did yours come true?”

He swallows, his corded throat rippling.

“Yes.” His voice is hoarse, unused.

“Then why don’t you seem happy?”

Ethan stills—I don’t think he’s even breathing.

Then he slowly turns toward me, his bottomless gaze once again speaking to me in that foreign tongue.

“What makes you think I’m not happy?” he whispers.

Unable to help myself, I trail a finger over his cheek.

Electricity courses through that tiny point of contact, and he shudders.

Closing his eyes, he leans into my touch.

My heart riots—wanting to escape, to flee from the sudden onslaught of unidentifiable sensations burning through me.

“Your smile. I’ve never seen a genuine one. Your dimples don’t show.”

Ethan keeps his eyes closed and swallows, and I swear I see a hint of moisture at the corner of his eyes and my own eyes burn.

Something squeezes my lungs in a vise, so much, I can’t breathe.

He’s in pain. He’s hurting desperately.

I want to hold him. I can’t explain it.

But I want to draw him into my arms and tell him everything will be okay because I’m here.

He doesn’t have to be sad anymore.

Who am I to him?

This question has been in the back of my mind, a whisper that’s now a bellow.

We can’t be mere acquaintances.

But I’m afraid to ask.

Somewhere along the way, whenever I think of him, I’ve associated it with pain.

Like there’s something my mind is dreading, and that’s why I can’t remember.

But the headaches have lessened over time.

It feels like permission.

To do what?

Something clangs in the background, followed by someone murmuring apologies.

I snatch my hand away and return my attention back to the photos.

Clearing my throat, I point to the one of the Sotheby’s auction.

“Why are you standing to the side in every photo? Don’t people usually stand in the middle? And what are you holding?”

His eyes flicker open, but he doesn’t answer me.