On the nightstand beside the bed is a cup of coffee and a long, flat white box. I reach for the coffee first, take a long, deep inhale. It works its way inside me, finding those last little frozen places that I didn’t think anything could melt and warming them through. Of course, I know it’s not the coffee doing that. Not really. It’s Ethan and the perfect care he takes of me.
I spend the next few minutes sipping my perfectly made coffee and contemplating the white box on the nightstand. There’s a part of me that wants to grab it, rip the red ribbon off, and dive inside. But there’s another part of me that’s relishing the surprise. That wants to wait just a little longer to draw out the anticipation. I’m the kind of girl who believes in delayed gratification.
Except, it seems, with Ethan.
Suddenly I can’t wait until I finish my coffee to know what’s inside the box. I put my cup aside and grab the present, doing my best not to rip the box to shreds as I open it.
Just like with Ethan’s other gift, inside this one is a myriad of things that don’t really fit together but are somehow perfect anyway. I push the tissue paper aside and pull out the first treasure, a pair of delicate gold filigree earrings. Flamingos, I realize with a stab of delight, from our zoo trip yesterday. I admire them for long seconds before sliding them out of their container and into my ears. I can’t wait to see what they look like.
The second object I pull out of the box is a small vial of perfume. It’s one of those specially mixed ones that people can design to their own specifications. The label has only my name on it and the date from three days ago.
Ethan designed it for me.
I pull the little stopper out of the top of the vial, bend my head for a sniff. And nearly cry all over again. Strawberries, jasmine, the ocean, champagne. Somehow he’s managed to have my favorite scents mixed into a perfume that’s perfect for me in every way.
I can’t resist dabbing a little on my pulse points before I close it up and put it back in the box. It smells good, really good, and I couldn’t be more delighted.
Except as soon as I reach into the box again, I realize that’s not true. Ethan’s next gift is a peacock feather, beautiful and exotic and just a touch naughty. For a moment, I stroke it against my throat and imagine that it’s Ethan touching me with it, Ethan running it all over my body.
Arousal spikes through me and I nearly leave the rest of the present unopened to go in search of him. I want him to hold me, to touch me, to kiss me. Want to do the same for him, if he’ll let me.
In the end, though, curiosity gets the best of me and I pull out the final object in the gift. It’s another box, though this one is smaller and flatter than the original. And a distinctive light blue that I recognize even before I see the name on the top of it: Tiffany & Co.
I bobble the box, watch as it falls to the floor. Instead of diving for it, I just stare. I’m not sure if I want to pick it up, if I want to open it. Oh, I know most women dating Ethan Frost would love to get something from Tiffany’s. Hell, they’d probably expect gifts like this regularly.
But I’m not so sure. I’ve enjoyed my small, thoughtful gifts from Ethan. The strawberries, the tea, the feather. This, though, this feels like something more. It feels like a blender, only much more expensive, and I’m just not sure I want to go there with him. Not because of him, per se, but because money has such negative connotations for me when it comes to things like this. I don’t want it to get in the way, don’t want to feel like he expects something for his expensive gifts. And I don’t want him to feel like I expect him to spend a lot of money on me.
It’s a double-edged sword, one I don’t want to grab on to until I actually have some idea of how to wield it.
Climbing out of bed, I gingerly pick up the box and place it on the nightstand. Then I go into the bathroom to clean up. I’m dressed in one of Ethan’s T-shirts and not much else, but he’s Ethan so he’s already provided me with a new outfit, a
flirty little skirt and tank top in a fun yellow and white pattern that will look great with my hair and complexion. There’s also a new bra and a pair of panties, both in sunshine yellow and both costing more than my entire lingerie drawer at home.
I can’t help wondering, like with the wetsuit, where the clothes are coming from. Does he have a closet somewhere in this monstrosity of a house that holds clothes of different sizes so that his one-night stands won’t have to do the walk of shame in the morning? The thought depresses me, even though we didn’t do anything last night that would even remotely qualify as shameful.
After I’m showered and dressed, I pick the Tiffany box off the nightstand and go in search of Ethan. In a house this size, it might take a while.
I get lucky, though, and find him in the third place I check. He’s on the patio, standing at the railing and looking out over the roiling Pacific.
He’s lost in thought and I hesitate to disturb him. But part of me knows that’s just embarrassment talking. Just worry. Talking to him last night, in the dark, is one thing. Facing him in the light of day is something else entirely, especially with the weight of everything I told him stretching between us.
“A summer storm’s coming in,” he says after a minute. He turns to me, holds an arm out. It seems he wants to touch me as badly as I want to touch him, so I go to him. Cuddle into his arms. Then turn to look at the dark and seething waves.
Though it would probably be the most natural thing in the world for him to stand behind me and wrap his arms around my waist and rest his chin on the top of my head, Ethan stands to the side of me instead. He wraps an arm around my shoulder and hugs me into his side.
Part of me is upset that he’s being so careful with me, that he’s making sure not to do anything that might freak me out. It’s why I didn’t want to tell him about the rape to begin with—the last thing I want is for things to be awkward between us.
Yet this doesn’t feel awkward, and if I’m honest, I’ll admit that I like how careful he is with me. How he makes me feel like I matter, not just because he wants something from me but because he values me. It’s a novel experience, one I don’t think I’ll ever take for granted.
“Does everything fit okay?” he asks in between pressing soft kisses to my shoulder and the curve of my neck.
“Yeah, of course. Everything’s great. ”
“I’m glad. I guessed on the sizes when I called Lola’s this morning. ”
Relief courses through me. These aren’t generic morning-after clothes—Ethan got them especially for me. Except…“It’s only eight o’clock now. On a Sunday morning. What on earth was Lola’s doing open so early?”
He just smiles at me, and I’m reminded, again, what it must be like to be Ethan Frost. To have so much money that people jump to do your bidding, no matter what time it is.