“You sound like my high school Spanish teacher. I tried to convince her that coding should count toward foreign language credit.”
“And did you?”
“Not even close. But it’s definitely a language. When the computers take over the world, coders will be the only ones who can communicate with our evil overlords.”
“You may have a point. And I admit, I do find the concept intriguing.”
“I can teach you, if you want.”
“Thanks, but absolutely not. You’re already doing too much by letting me intrude on your morning runs. I couldn’t ask you to be my tutor as well as my trainer.”
“You’re not asking.” The corner of his mouth curls into a mischievous grin as he adds, “I’m offering. Actually, I’minsisting.” He matches Javier’s inflection from last night perfectly, and I blush before I can stop myself.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. I can use an excuse to leave these dirty dishes for later.” Tossing me a grin, he sets his plate in the sink on top of Brynn’s. “I can teach you how to build a website.”
“A website for what?”
He pauses a moment to consider my question. “The simplest would probably be a blog.”
“A blog?” I wrinkle my nose. “My life is boring. What do I have to blog about?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he says with an air of sarcasm. “How about your crazy competition and list of Christmas Commitments?”
“Crazy, huh?” I arch an eyebrow, amused.
“Sorry. That’s crass. I meant to say bonkers. Nutty. Wacky. Cuckoo. Loony—”
“Okay, okay,” I laugh. “You made your point, Mr. Thesaurus. I guess it would be nice to have a journal to look back on. But I don’t exactly want other people to see it.”
“Not a problem. We can make it private. Only you will have access. Well, and me.”
“And you won’t read it?”
“Did I read your Nancy Drew diary when we were kids?”
“I don’t know, did you?” I ask, mortified at the thought. But how else would he know it had Nancy Drew on the cover?
“Matt found it hidden in the tree house, and I made him put it back. And if he didn’t, I threatened to tell the entire school he had a crush on Mrs. Gregors.”
“The school nurse?” I shriek. “She was like a hundred years old!”
“Only eighty-seven, but still. It wouldn’t have looked good. So I was confident your innermost secrets were safe.”
“Then I guess you can be trusted.” I smile, marveling at how he looked out for me, even when I didn’t know it.
As I follow Ethan to his bedroom, a mixture of curiosity and timidity settles in my stomach. There’s something oddly vulnerable about stepping inside the space where someone sleeps. A person’s room is an extension of themselves, an intimate glimpse into who they are.
Although it’s roughly the same size as the guest room, Ethan’s bedroom boasts a better view of Central Park. And rather than light, creamy neutrals, the decor is dominated by grays and dark blues. Framed vintageStar Warsposters, artsy black-and-white photographs of the Brooklyn Bridge, and overflowing bookshelves cover the walls. It’s all… so Ethan. Eclectic and a little bit unexpected but also perfect, like you couldn’t imagine it any other way. The room even smells like him, manly and delicious and wholly distracting.
“Q, you can sit down.” Ethan taps the back of the chair beside him, and I realize I’ve been hovering in the doorway.
I tear my gaze from his unmade bed—the rumpled, silvery sheets that look buttery soft—and join him at his desk. The cluttered workspace is long and modern with a transparent tabletop, and three enormous computer monitors partially block the large picture window framing the cityscape.
He taps the keyboard, and the center monitor springs to life, revealing one of the coolest websites I’ve ever seen. The wordsMAD Marketsprawl across the top of the screen in a unique, eye-catching font that perfectly complements the bold, fresh design. It appears to be an online store of some kind, and I immediately want to buy the luxurious-looking organic cotton robe featured prominently on the page.
But before I can see the price, Ethan closes out the screen.