Billionaires Dollar Series

Fifteen minutes later we’re sitting on his giant patio, side by side on a sofa, looking at pictures of treehouses. Google has served us a smorgasbord from the quaint to the outlandish.

Ethan laughs as I scroll over images that are clearly not for us. “Bathtubs… Wall-mounted TVs… people really go all out,” he says. “Wait. What about that?”

The image is of a small treehouse with child-size wooden chairs. A throw rug on the floor. A hammock attached in the background. Lights running over the ceiling in a zigzag pattern.

“That’s perfect,” I say.

“Did yours look like that?”

“Yes,” I say, “if you imagine a crooked floor and far less space. The do-it-yourself version of this.”

He shifts closer, the heat of his thigh pressing against mine. “That sounds idyllic.”

“It was, at times.”

“At times?”

His voice is too soft and too close. It’s hard to think. “Yes. I… my younger brother was often in trouble and my father wasn’t always around. I spent most of my childhood with my head buried in my schoolbooks.”

“That sounds familiar,” he murmurs.

“The schoolbook part?”

“The entire thing,” he says. “You’re the eldest?”

“Yes. You are as well?”

“Most definitely.” Ethan smiles, and it’s the same crooked thing that he’d given me in my kitchen, the one that’s wry and amused and genuine at the same time. Maybe that’s how he meets all of life’s challenges, with a smile and boundless competence.

I wet my lips. “We should order the stuff online.”

“I can do that,” he says. “Two chairs, small table, a bunch of pillows and lights.”

“You got it. Awesome.”

“Thanks for suggesting this. Without you they would have raced up the ladder and found the place empty.”

“Oh, I doubt that. You would have figured something out.” I twist away from the heat of his skin on mine, meeting his gaze. “You’re not actually a bad father.”

He doesn’t respond to that. He looks down instead, gaze on my bare shoulder. “I’m sorry for the other day.”

“The other day?”This is property © NôvelDrama.Org.

“For assuming you had a boyfriend. And then for assuming… well.” Ethan’s not smiling now, a furrow in his brow. “I was out of line.”

“That’s okay,” I murmur. This close, his green eyes have hazel flecks in them.

He shakes his head. “It was presumptuous, what I said.”

“I understand.”

He glances down, the thick honey-brown of his hair coming into view. It’s the first time I’ve seen him struggle to find his wording. “Even so, I would like to clear the air.”

The doorbell rings out loudly behind us. Ethan curses and looks down at the thick watch on his wrist.

“Damn.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yes. Please give me a moment.”

He strides back into the house. I gently shut my laptop, clasping it to my chest. There is real danger here. I’d felt it from the beginning, but then it had been a foolish dream, a crush like the ones I’d had on actors and singers as a teenager. Distant and harmless. Now I feel like I’m standing on the edge of tumbling into something deeper and far more hopeless.

When Ethan returns, I’m already standing, prepared to leave.

“Bella, I’m sorry. I have a dinner tonight, and the chef just arrived to prepare.”

“A few friends are coming over.” He gives me another one of those smiles-crooked, hesitant, genuine. “You said you had nothing planned today. Why don’t you stay?”

I have no idea what to say to that. Can’t even form the words.

“Feel free to leave whenever,” he adds. “But there will be great food.”

And great company, I think, my treacherous mouth almost uttering the words aloud. “Thank you, that sounds great.”

His smile widens. “Perfect. They should be here in… ah, about half an hour. Let me just finish up out here with the contractor and hop into the shower.”

“Oh! Yes, of course. I’ll do the same-I’ll be back.”

“Excellent.” He pauses on the steps off the patio, looking back at me. The sunlight gilds his hair. “I’m glad you’re staying.”

The words make me feel like I’m floating all the way back into my larger-than-life house and the three-person-sized shower. Wilma and Trina would have a fit if I told them about this.

Perhaps that’s why I haven’t. Ethan feels like my secret, like a potential friend that’s too good and too elusive to talk about. It’s as if the second I speak about him, he’ll disappear, the magic spell broken.

Nerves make my throat dry and I clear it twice, standing outside his front door and waiting for him to open it. The dress I’m wearing had felt appropriate-knee-length, black, sleeveless-but I have no idea how he’s dressed.

On impulse, I’d grabbed a bottle out of the Gardners’ wine fridge and taken a picture of the label to later replace it, praying it’s not a thousand-dollar bottle. I clasp it in front of me like armor.

He opens the door with a flourish, eyes sweeping over my form. “Bella,” he says. Thankfully, he’s not in black tie, but wearing a pair of dark trousers and a button-down.

“Ethan.” I hold up the wine bottle. “I didn’t have time to bake, so…”

He smiles, accepting the bottle. “This will do. A good vintage, too. Do you know wine?”

“A little.” A very, very little. “I know I like to drink it.”

He snorts, leading me in through the kitchen. A focused young woman in white is preparing what looks like lamb chops. He wasn’t joking when he said a chef had arrived.