“Well, props on your drunken vocabulary. You’re very verbose when drunk. I’ve never heard you talk so much.”
“Great,” I say dryly. “Is that it?”
“Nope,” he replies, looking amused. “When we got home, I made spaghetti and you said the sauce tasted ‘spicy like a bumblebee,’ which implies that you know what bumblebees taste like. I’m looking forward to hearing that story later. Then you threw up.”
I groan and bury my face in both hands. “In your kitchen?”
“No, you made it to the bathroom just in time.”
A memory forces its way into my brain, reviving my nausea. “You didn’t witness that, did you?”
“I did, actually. Someone had to hold your hair back.”
Yep, that’s the memory. Ethan’s hand gathering my hair at the base of my skull while I threw up the spaghetti he made for me. I groan again, more miserably this time.
“It’s fine,” Ethan says. “I don’t mind puke. I’ve cleaned up a lot of it.”
“Were you in a frat or something?” I ask into my hands, my palms muffling the words.
He laughs and flips a pancake over. “Something like that.”
Another question begs to be answered, one so humiliating that I’m already preparing myself to flee in shame. Pancakes be damned.
“You didn’t, um, help me change, did you?”
Ethan avoids looking straight at me. His Adam’s apple bobs under the light dusting of stubble on his throat before he speaks. “No, I figured you could handle that on your own. Looks like you managed okay.” He glances at the t-shirt that I’m wearing.
Phew…
But my relief is short-lived when Ethan continues, “But I should probably disclose that I saw your bra.”
Kill me now. May the gods collectively strike me dead on this very spot if I ripped my shirt off for some reason in front of my boss.
“I found it in the hallway this morning. So, while I have seen your bra, I haven’t actually seen you wearing it.”
Something that looks almost like embarrassment flashes over Ethan’s face then quickly fades. He clears his throat and places two pancakes on a plate, passing it to me.
Flee in shame! Flee in shame!my brain screams at me.
Normally, I would listen, but the promise of pancakes keeps me rooted in place. When Ethan slides a bottle of maple syrup across the counter—the good stuff, not the cheap, sugary garbage they use at most restaurants—I know I’m not going anywhere.
Still, I owe him an apology. Instead of smothering the pancakes in syrup and stuffing them into my face, I straighten up and force myself to meet Ethan’s gaze.
“Ethan, I’m so sorry about last night. I’m beyond embarrassed.”
His eyes flick up to mine, holding my gaze as he shakes his head. “Don’t be, Margot. You’re allowed to have a bad night, especially given the circumstances. Breakups are rough. Besides, I’ve had way worse nights than that.”
I cast a doubtful glare his way as I spear a bite of pancake on my fork. “What could possibly be worse than having to take care of your sad, drunk assistant on a Friday night?”
Ethan laughs as he drizzles a concerningly small amount of syrup over his pancakes. “Do you want a list?”
“Yes, actually.”
“Well, there was the woman who brought her emotional support gerbil on a date. Then there’s the one who suggestively fondled vegetables at the farmer’s market she drug me to, which led to us both being kicked out. And let’s not forget the woman who confessed to being both married and pregnant halfway through the date and had to be picked up by her husband in their minivan.”
“Huh,” I say around a bit of pancake. “I thought you were good at dating,”
He shrugs. “I learn from my mistakes. Those dates were years ago. I pretty much have it down to a science now.”