Ethan lowered the rolling pin completely. That's a really bad day. You think? The sarcasm was back, but softer now. She looked down at herself at the towel, at the mess she'd made of his bathroom.
I'm Selena. Selena Vaughn. And I'm sorry. I really am. I'll pay for I'll replace anything.
The water bill, the towel, whatever. Ethan Carter. He set the rolling pin on the counter, suddenly feeling ridiculous for ever holding it. And you don't need to pay me back for water. It's fine.
It's not fine. I broke into your house. You walked into an unlocked house. That's on me. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to process this.
Look, you can't exactly leave like that. Do you have anything else to wear? Selena looked at the mud soaked disaster on his floor. Not unless you count humiliation. Another laugh tried to escape.
This time Ethan let it. Wait here. He left her standing in the bathroom and went to his bedroom, digging through his dresser until he found an old Yale sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring. They'd be huge on her, but better than a towel. When he returned, she was sitting on the edge of his bathtub, still wrapped up, staring at the floor like it held answers to questions she hadn't figured out how to ask yet.
"Here." He held out the clothes. "They'll be big, but they're perfect." She took them, and for the first time since he'd walked in, she smiled. Not a big smile, just enough to remind him that underneath the shock and the catastrophe, she was actually human. "Thank you. I'll be downstairs.
He closed the bathroom door and stood in the hallway for a moment trying to wrap his head around what had just happened. A stranger in his shower who looked like she'd walked out of some corporate magazine and straight into a disaster movie. This wasn't his life. His life was lesson plans and parent-teacher conferences and making sure Khloe ate something green at least twice a week. His life was quiet, controlled, safe.
And now there was a woman named Selena Vaughn getting dressed in his bathroom. downstairs. He put the pizza in the oven and tried to figure out what you were supposed to do when someone accidentally broke into your house. Call the police? No, she clearly wasn't dangerous, just lost. Call someone to pick her up.
Maybe if her phone wasn't dead. He was still debating when he heard her footsteps on the stairs. She looked different in his clothes, smaller. The sweatshirt swallowed her, sleeves hanging past her hands. The sweatpants were rolled up three times at the ankles.
Her hair was still damp, hanging loose around her face. I look ridiculous, she said. You look warm. That's generous. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs, uncertain.
I should call someone. Do you have a phone I could borrow? Yeah. Ethan handed her his cell. Who are you calling?
A cab or a friend? I don't know. She stared at the phone like it was a foreign object. I don't actually know anyone's number. They're all in my phone.
Which is dead. Which is dead. She handed the phone back. I could call a cab to the Airbnb once I figure out the actual address. Ethan pulled out his own phone and searched Maple Court.
There's only one rental property on that street. Number 18. That's it. Relief washed across her face. Thank you.
I'll call a cab and get out of your hair. But when she dialed, the automated voice informed her that the next available pickup in this area was forty-five minutes. "Of course it is," she muttered, hanging up. "Of course," Ethan looked at her standing there in his oversized clothes, hair still dripping onto his hardwood floor, looking about as defeated as anyone he'd ever seen. "The pizza will be ready in 20 minutes," he heard himself say.
You're welcome to stay until the cab shows up. She looked at him like he just offered her a million dollars. You don't have to do that. I know. I broke into your house.
You keep saying that because it's insane. But she was smiling again. That small uncertain smile that didn't quite fit the rest of her. Are you always this nice to people who terrorize you with surprise showers? You're my first, is she?
Lucky me. She followed him into the kitchen, moving carefully like she still wasn't sure this was real. What kind of pizza? Frozen pepperoni. Nothing fancy.
Frozen pepperoni sounds perfect. They sat at his kitchen table, the one with the wobbly leg he kept meaning to fix, and waited for the oven timer. Selena wrapped her hands around a mug of tea he'd made without asking if she wanted it. She drank it anyway. So Ethan said, "Worst day of your professional life.
What What do you do?" I run a company, Vaughn Industries. We do tech acquisitions and venture capital. She said it matterof factly, like everyone ran billion-dollar companies. I was supposed to close a deal today, a big one, huge actually. and I messed it up. How bad?
Bad enough that I spent 3 hours getting screamed at by investors who think I'm going to tank the whole company. She stared into her tea. Bad enough that I walked out of that meeting, got in a cab that died, and apparently forgot how to read street signs. Ethan didn't know anything about venture capital or tech acquisitions. He taught high school English and made sure teenagers understood the difference between a metaphor and a simile.
But he knew what failure felt like. He knew what it was like to walk out of a room feeling like you'd ruined everything. For what it's worth, he said quietly. You don't look like someone who tanks companies. She laughed.
Actually laughed. You have no idea what I look like. We just met and I was naked in your shower. Fair point. The oven timer went off.
Ethan pulled out the pizza, cut it into slices, and slid half onto a plate for her. She ate like she'd forgotten food existed. Three slices, barely stopping to breathe. Sorry, she said around the fourth slice. I haven't eaten since breakfast.