Rare Blend (Red Mountain #1)

15. Ethan

CHAPTER 15

Ethan

PROVE IT

F uck.

I lean my forehead against the door, closing my eyes as an overwhelming feeling of regret floods my senses.

Why am I like this? That was really fucking mean of me. I told myself the next time I saw her I was going to be cordial, act like a normal fucking person, especially after yesterday.

But then she shows up on my doorstep dressed in one of her sexy skirts, smiling so brightly, like the damn sun. Her eyes were wide and excited, if not a little nervous, too. And it pissed me off. It also didn’t help that I was already asleep and I’m not exactly the nicest guy when I’m abruptly woken up.

I had to rush in earlier than usual this morning due to an emergency with the harvester, and by the time I got home, I was dead on my feet, ready to crash.

There’s still no excuse good enough to justify why I continue to be my worst self in her presence. What the fuck is wrong with me? A beautiful, kind woman baked me cookies and tried to befriend me, even after all I’ve done, and I still rejected her.

Goose looks up at me, his eyes saying so much. I’m an asshole. He knows it. I know it. And I’m ashamed of myself.

I start to walk further into the living room, but Goose blocks me and whines, and then tips his head to the front door.

“What?” I ask as if he’s going to be able to provide an answer.

When all he does is cock his head, I shake mine and try to push past him, but he whines again.

“What?” I repeat.

He starts pawing at the door, his nose sniffing all around it.

“Is this about the cookies?”

At the word “cookie” he grunts and whines, circling around me.

Jesus Christ.

I take a quick peek through the window at Marisa’s cottage to make sure she’s not outside. Quietly, I open the front door enough to crouch down and grab the tin. It feels wrong to take them after I so rudely refused them, but it also feels wrong to not take them.

I set the tin on the kitchen counter, Goose’s nose bumping into the back of my thigh as I stop. He stares at me, his brown, pleading puppy dog eyes boring into me.

“Fine.” I give in and pluck the first cookie off the stack to hand to him.

They’re fairly small and look like a sugar cookie or cinnamon. Either way, they’re safe enough for Goose to have one.

He gobbles it down in one bite and happily trots away to lie down on his bed.

The tin is still open, staring at me. I wasn’t lying, I’m really not a sweets guy. Still, they do look really good, and the cinnamon-sugar aroma swirls in the air, tantalizing me. It would be a waste to not at least have one.

Fuck it.

I plop one in my mouth, and it melts on my tongue. Soft and moist, still warm from the oven. Fuck me. Of course they’re delicious. I find myself reaching for another before I’ve fully swallowed the first. The warmth of the cookies spreads through me. They’re the perfect balance of crisp edges and tender center.

Maybe I am a sweets guy after all, but only if they’re coming from Marisa.

Only allowing myself the two cookies, I close the tin and put it away in a cabinet. It doesn’t matter how good they are, I’m not deserving of them and it feels wrong to allow myself to indulge too much.

Wide awake now, I feel restless. I try to find something to do until I can go back to bed. The cottage is clean, but I sweep and vacuum it again and wash the two dishes in the sink, all the while my gaze continues to drift out the windows, looking for a sign of the beautiful brunette next door.

Over the next hour, the guilt stews—my stomach starts to curl in on itself at how much of a dick I’ve been to Marisa. This isn’t me. Sure, I’m rough around the edges, but not like this. I’ve been an absolute asshole to her, and she’s done nothing to deserve my poor treatment.

Dammit. She’s getting under my skin, and I’m going to let her. I can’t keep acting like an immature idiot. It ends now. I’m probably too late, the damage has been done. I can’t take back my words, but I can at least apologize.

The sun has set, but it’s only eight.

Though the outside of Marisa’s cottage is dark, I hear the low murmur of voices coming from the TV and it’s enough of a sign to tell me she’s still awake.

I knock twice and hear rustling before she opens the door.

Her eyes are unblinking, shocked even. But that’s not what catches my attention. It’s the red rims around them. It’s the puffy nose. It’s the moisture on her cheeks.

She’s been crying.

And I feel like an absolute piece of shit. I am a piece of shit.

“What do you want?” she says, sniffling and wiping her cheeks with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. Her voice is garbled and trembling.

Those tear-soaked brown eyes will haunt me for the rest of my life. And knowing I’m the one who made them that way creates an ache that throbs in my chest.

“I’m… I’m?—”

“Here to keep being mean to me? To keep throwing your man tantrum?” she says, cutting me off.

Man tantrum? “No… I?—”

“Spit it out already. I don’t have all night. And you’re about two seconds from getting this door slammed in your face.”

I deserve that. I deserve worse, honestly.

She shakes her head, eyes rolling as she starts to close the door.

I put my foot over the threshold to stop it from fully shutting. “Wait.”

Her shoulders drop, her head cocks, and she looks up at me through furrowed brows. “Why should I?”

“I’m sorry.”

Her expression remains. “Is that all?”

I’m not sure what else to say. Clearly, my simple apology hardly made a dent in the damage I caused. “I’m really, really sorry.”

Her lips pull into a thin, fake smile. “Good to know.” She starts to close the door again, but again, I stop it.

Blowing out a frustrated sigh, she says, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

My heart races as panic grips me tightly. I’m struggling to catch my breath, and my chest tightens with each inhalation. My thoughts scatter. I search for anything I can say or do to make this right. And I know what I have to do.

“I’ll do it,” I nearly shout.

She freezes, her forehead scrunching. “Do what?”

“I’ll do the interview.”

Her arms cross, and she leans against the door frame, eyeing me suspiciously. I get it. She has no reason to trust me or my word.

“I’ll do the interview,” I repeat. “Anything you want. A full exposé. Pictures. The works.”

“Okay.”

“Are we good?”

A sharp, humorless laugh escapes her lips. It’s a harsh, biting sound, tinged with irritation. “No, we’re not good. It’s going to take a lot more than a half-assed apology and an interview to get me to forgive you.”

I nod, my shoulders slumping. “I understand.” I start to leave, but then pause. “For the interview, call tomorrow and my admin will make the arrangements. And I really am sorry. The guy you met and that you’ve been dealing with, that’s not me. I’m under a lot of pressure, and it’s flipping me upside down. My anxiety has been getting the best of me. I overreacted when you found the bottle, I just hate people knowing that I need to take meds—it makes me feel weak, which I know is counterintuitive. I’m not the asshole you think I am, and I’m going to prove it.”

Her eyes hold mine, giving away nothing. What I wouldn’t give to know the thoughts behind those impenetrable pools of dark honey.

I know she needs more than words from me to atone for all the ways I’ve treated her. It’s mortifying, the depths to which I’ve sunk in the short time we’ve known each other. I’m ashamed of myself.

As I walk away, she stays unmoving, but halfway down the porch steps, her voice brings me to a stop.

“Ethan,” she calls, and I look back at her over my shoulder. “Beg.”

Beg? “Excuse me?”

The edges of her lips lift and delight dances in her eyes. “You heard me. Beg.”

The weight that’s been sitting on my chest since I arrived to see fresh tears in her eyes eases slightly. I’ll take her mischievous smile over crying any day. It’s downright sexy. The last thing I should be doing right now is checking her out. I force my eyes to remain on her face and not travel down to her tan, bare legs in barely there shorts. From my position on the bottom step, they’re closer to my eye level and damn-near unavoidable. Climbing up the steps, I rejoin her on the porch.

“If you want me to start to forgive you, I’m going to need some begging, a little groveling.” Her tone has pivoted. There’s a playfulness that wasn’t there before.

If begging is what she wants, then she’s going to get it. “I can do that.”

The pink tip of her tongue darts out, wetting her lips and leaving behind a shiny sheen. My thoughts drop down to the gutter, wondering what else that tongue can lick. I shake my head, forcing away the image. I go from making her cry to checking her out; something is seriously wrong with me.

Her eyes are full of challenge. “Prove it.”

“How?” Nerves swirl in my stomach. I’m positive she’ll have me do something that will no doubt embarrass the shit out of me.

Her smile is devilishly mesmerizing. I fear I’ll be doing anything she asks of me.

“On your knees.”

I cock a brow at her. “You want me to beg for your forgiveness on my knees?”

Based on the way my body is reacting to her bare legs and the way my heart is thumping in my chest, there are other things I’d gladly do on my knees for her. I toss the thoughts aside. Clearly, my unintentional celibacy streak is clouding my brain.

Her shoulders bounce as she bites down on the corner of her plump bottom lip. “I’m short, and you’ve been an ass. We need to restore the balance of power, which means you need to come down to my level and tell me that you’re sorry. And mean it.”

I can’t believe I’m really going to do this. “If you want me to beg on my knees,” I tell her, already dropping one to the wooden planks. “I’ll get on my knees.” I’m now fully knelt before her, completely at her mercy. I look up at her, the air between us inflating with tension. “Only for you.”

She swallows audibly, staring at me wide-eyed, like she didn’t think I’d give into her. She clears her throat. “Whoa, you’re really doing it, huh?”

“Marisa,” I start, my hands pressing tightly together. “I’m deeply, regretfully, incredibly sorry for my poor behavior.”

Her full lips stretch into a radiant smile, revealing rosy cheeks. It’s a beautiful sight, and it’s directed at me. For a moment, the world slips into slow motion, my brain mentally capturing the image to keep as my heart thunders in my chest. I make a silent promise to continue giving her reasons to reveal that gorgeous smile.

Her eyes playfully roll. “Fine. You’re a quarter forgiven.” She giggles, a sound so bright it feels like the sun has come out and replaced the moon. “Get up. Before you hurt yourself.”

I stand, my knees cracking. Our gazes lock, and I’m pleased to see all evidence of her crying is long gone.

“I really am sorry,” I say more seriously, so she knows I meant what I said. “Especially for making you cry.”

Her brows knit, and she shakes her head. “You didn’t make me cry.”

“But you were crying when I got here?”

She tosses her head back and snorts. “I was crying because of the movie I’m watching.”

That can’t be right. “You were crying that heavily over a movie? What kind of movies do you watch?”

Her head gestures to the TV screen inside that’s paused on a young Tom Hanks. “ Sleepless in Seattle . You know, it’s the part when he’s on the phone with the radio show talking about how the moment he first touched his wife, that’s when he knew.”

I’ve seen the movie, but only once or twice and it’s been years. “Knew what?”

Her eyes brim again with tears, and I want to laugh, but it wouldn’t be appropriate given the circumstances. “That she was home. It was like magic.”

A single tear slides down her cheeks, and the corner of my mouth starts to twitch.

“Don’t laugh,” she says, a mix of tears and laughter. “It’s not funny.”

I put my hands up in defense. “I’m not laughing.”

“What? Like you’ve never cried over a movie?”

“My eyes may have gotten a little misty watching Band of Brothers .” I’m not so emotionally stunted that I don’t cry. I just don’t cry very often, and it’s usually not over something fictional.

“You’re such a guy,” she says, shaking her head.

I shrug. “Can’t argue that.”

Quiet settles between us. It’s a comfortable silence, not awkward like the ones we’ve shared before. We exchange gentle glances, her eyes soft and jaw relaxed. I feel lucky to have this moment with her, to even have the opportunity to be in her presence after the way I’ve behaved. It’s going to take a lot more than begging on my knees to earn her forgiveness, but I’m up for the challenge.

“It’s getting late,” she says with a sigh. “I think I’m going to start getting ready for bed.”

A tinge of disappointment creeps in. I didn’t intend to stay here long. Truthfully, I’m surprised I made it this far without fucking things up even more. But now that I’ve spoken to her and made a small amount of progress toward repairing the destruction I caused, I find myself not wanting the night to end.

I nod in agreement. “Yeah, same.” I turn to leave. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” she echoes.

As I take the final step off her porch, my shoe catches on the corner of the railing and I have to do a hop-skip dance to catch myself from falling. It’s the opposite of subtle.

Please be inside. Please be inside.

“Watch your step.” I can practically hear her shit-eating grin.

She’s not inside.

I turn back to face her, positive my cheeks are flaming red. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Her eyes shimmer, reflecting the half-full moon. She covers her mouth with her hand, suppressing a laugh. “I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing with you.”

Her laughter spills out despite her best efforts.

“If you keep laughing at me, I might just cry.”

She scoffs. “Liar.”

Warmth climbs into my chest. I like this side of her, and I like being on the receiving end of it even more.

“Goodnight, Marisa.”

“Goodnight, Ethan.”