Runaway Groom [Ethma]

5

EMMA

I hang up on Amanda. She'll understand when I explain later.

Shit. Crap, shit, and the f-word too.

"So," I say, forcing a smile at the unsmiling man leaning against the wall with his arms crossed "Awkward, right?"

Ethan says nothing.

The light coming from the cracked door is enough to let me know it's him, but not enough to let me read his expression.

I start to slip my phone into my back pocket, but he wordlessly holds out a hand.

I give him an incredulous look. "Um, no. I'm not going to just hand over my phone because Hollywood commands it."

"No phones allowed," he says. Ethan pushes away from the wall and plucks the phone out of my hand.

He glances down at it, his thumb moving across the screen, as he unabashedly snoops through it. "Who were you talking to?"

"Give it back." I try to grab for it, but he holds it higher, still snooping. "I'll turn it in, I swear."

He gives me a skeptical look but finally hands the phone over, and I shove it into my back pocket and glare up at him.

I'm a little surprised by how tall he is.

I always heard that actors were shorter in person, but Ethan has to be at least six-two, and he towers easily over my five feet five inches.

He's wearing shorts and a button-down linen shirt, but the casual attire does nothing to diminish his masculinity.

A fact I'm pretty sure he knows, because he steps closer, then grins when I back up and stumble over a bucket.

Ethan reaches out a hand to steady me, big and warm on my waist. For a second I think he's lingering, but then I realize his fingers are simply testing the fabric of my Top.

"So, this is the business," he murmurs.

My eyes narrow. "Why are you saying it like that? Like you don't believe me."

"You just don't seem like the type of woman who can be made to do anything."

"True. I'm the sort of woman who will do what it takes to make her business a success," I say, trying to move around him. "I just...went too far with this one."

He puts up an arm, blocks my way. "Hot and hollow, huh?"

His eyes are oddly intense, as though my answer somehow matters, and I wince, hating that he heard my careless assessment of him.

Still, I'm not out to make this guy like me, and I sort of meant it. Any guy who thinks he's going to find his true love on TV in the span of a month? Hollow.

Or at least really dim.

I study him. "I know why I'm in this closet. Why are you?"

"Cleaning fetish," he deadpans. "Brooms and buckets really do it for me."

I narrow my eyes and ignore the sarcasm. "You were hiding."

His expression flickers, and I know I'm right. The man practically lives on camera, and yet he sought out a cleaning closet for a moment of solitude that I'd disturbed with my thoughtless trash talk.

I feel a little stab of regret—not because I was wrong about him, but because I wish he hadn't heard it.
Still, maybe I can use my faux pas to my advantage, getting me out of here before I can cause any more trouble for myself.