Noelle August - Boomerang

He steps to the side and pulls open the door of his glossy Breville toaster oven. There, draped across the toasting rack, lie my panties.

Ethan

Q: On dates, do you prefer to go Dutch, or pick up the bill?

For a few seconds, I can’t shake the picture of Mia’s pink thong sitting in my toaster oven. It’s like time stops, and then I’m picturing her wearing them, and then not wearing them, until Coach Williams’s voice filters through the pounding in my head.

If you’re on time, then you’re late.

That gets me moving, as it has for the past four years. I can only imagine what Coach Williams would think of me now: late to the internship that’s supposed to change everything for me, and so hungover I’m still buzzed.

I leave the kitchen and head into the living room. The girl I woke up with—Mia—leans on a hip as she sifts through her purse, so I take a second to appreciate the view.

Damn, she’s hot. I give myself a mental slap on the back.

“Can I get your address?” she asks, pulling out a cell phone. “I need to call a cab.”

An image of last night flashes through my mind. She and I jumped into a cab as soon as it pulled up outside the bar. We were in too much of a hurry to be alone together to wait for a ride with Jason and Isis. But why the hell did we come here instead of her place? My apartment’s a biohazard.

“Forty-four Creston Drive,” I say. Pushing aside socks and shin guards, I sit on the battered couch and pull on my oxfords. “In Westwood.”

Mia makes the call, speaking in a rush to the dispatcher, but I get the feeling it’s not just because she’s late. The tone of her voice is smoky and colorful, like she talks often and laughs a lot. She’s petite. No more than 5'3", but the heels she slips on give her a four-inch boost. My shirt pools forward as she bends down, giving me an excellent angle of her perfect rack.

“Five minutes?” Mia says. “Thanks.” She hangs up and turns her attention back to me. Her eyes are green, but not the weak hazel color people try to pass off. Mia’s are clear and bright.

“All set?” I stand.

“Yep, all set.” Mia drops her phone back into her purse and pushes a coil of black hair behind her ear. Her eyes make a quick trip up and down my body, and then she glances at the front door. “So . . . thanks for the juice?”

I sidestep, blocking her path. One-night-stand protocol is to get in and get out, so to speak, but I can’t let her go yet. She’s not the only one who needs to get to Century City, and it’s too late for me to bike there. “Can you hold on a sec? I have to talk to my roommate.”

She looks around the apartment, her jaw dropping. Five seconds ago, our clothes were everywhere. “You have a roommate?”

“Yeah. Jason. And Isis. She’s Jason’s girlfriend, but she pretty much lives here. I think you met them last night at Duke’s.”

Mia gives me a shaky smile. “Okay, I feel awful admitting this, but I’m trying to remember whether your name is Evan or Ethan. So it’s safe to say I’m sketchy on some details from last night.”

Shit.

I wasn’t after anything serious, obviously. After two years with Alison, non-serious is a requirement. But this girl doesn’t even remember my name? That sucks, but I shrug and play it off.

“No problem. It’s Ethan. Ethan Vance.”

“I’m Mia Galliano.”

“Nice to meet you, Mia Galliano.” We stand there for an awkward second. Introductions seem beside the point, considering I’m pretty sure I slept with my hand on her ass. “Give me one minute,” I say, breaking the silence. “Help yourself to more juice.”

Nice one, Ethan. Because that’s what the girl wants. More PowerAde at 8:33 in the morning. I head to Jason’s room, knock on the door once and swing it open.

Jason and Isis are sitting up in bed, watching the door like they’ve been expecting me. Isis breaks into a smile and starts slow-clapping. Jason’s less subtle. He lifts a vuvuzela to his lips and blows. The loud beehive hum of the horn cuts into my brain, sending my headache to Code Red.

“Yeah, Ethan!” Jason laughs. “How’d it go, man? Was it like riding a bike?”

“A little more fun than that,” I say. But, damn. I wish I really knew.

“Did she leave?” Isis asks.

“Not yet, but she needs to.”

“Ethan!”

“Easy, Isis. We both need to leave. She has a job, and my internship starts today.”

Isis snorts. “That sucks. You look like crap.”

“Then I look better than I feel. J, I need some cash.” The words burn in my throat. I hate asking for money. “I have to chip in for a cab.”

Jason shakes his head. “Sorry, bro. I’m out. You emptied my wallet last night.”

“I did?”

Isis laughs. “Don’t you remember? You and Mia were doing body shots.”

Christ, body shots? Did I revert to being a freshman? “Never mind.”

As I head back to the living room, I consider fishing through my sports bags for stray change, but I don’t have time and I still wouldn’t find enough to pay my way. There’s only one option left. It’s going to gut me, but screw it. It’s the only way.

I find Mia standing by the front door, a sexy half-smile on her face, and my brain shorts out as I picture licking salt off her olive skin.

“Did I just hear a vuvuzela?” she asks.

“Yeah. My roommate thinks he’s funny. So, about that cab . . . Mind if I catch a ride with you?”

Mia frowns, and I can tell she’s surprised. I’m surprised too. This isn’t how I expected this morning to play out. “Sure,” she says. “No problem.”

“Cool. And uh . . . One other thing?” Fuck. I’m about to blow my chance of ever seeing this girl again—and I want to. If nothing else, to figure out what the hell we did last night. But I’m up against a wall. “You mind paying for it?”

Mia

Q: Are you a lone wolf, or do you run with a pack?

The poor guy—Ethan—looks like he’s just requested a nail file to the eyeball. So he doesn’t like asking for favors. Interesting.

“Yeah, no big deal,” I tell him. It takes all of my self-control not to reach out and touch him, straighten his red color-blocked tie or smooth the slight cowlick that rises over his straight, serious brow. Air molecules thicken between us, scintillating with that delicious energy of attraction.

Or, okay, lust.

It’s been so long since I’ve felt that, and I would love to just stay here, anchored in this moment. But I have no time.

A car horn honks, punctuating my thought.

“Guess our ride’s here,” I say.

He leans in front of me to open the door, and I become intensely aware of both his height—he has about six inches on me, and I’m in four-inch heels—and of his scent: smoky and tantalizing, like a beach bonfire.

Another flash comes to me: the inside of a cab, streetlights shading and then revealing his beautiful, serious face. He hauls me across the seat, pulling my leg over his, and bracing me with powerful hands against my back. Then the memory pinholes shut, leaving only the uptick of my pulse and the reminder that I really, really have places to go.

I precede him onto a narrow balcony, blinking in the crystalline light that turns everything to shimmering green and gold. On the street below, a cab idles, and I head toward a rickety-looking aluminum staircase to make my way down.

I’m aware of him behind me. The feeling of him—tangible and light at the same time, his quick certain footsteps shaking the entire staircase as we descend.

Head in the game, Galliano. This is about becoming who I want to become. Finishing my film. Finding a way into the business on my own. This is most certainly not about a dude whose big move consists of hiding my underwear in an appliance.

I slide into the cab first and give the address of the Boomerang offices.

Ethan climbs in on the other side. “Olympic and Avenue of the Stars,” he tells the driver. “Probably close to where she’s headed.”

The red-haired driver turns and gives us a look. “Yeah, real close.”

I barely know that part of town, but at least that makes things easy.

Ethan’s shirt swims on me, and the jersey fabric climbs my thighs. This is not good. Maybe there’s still time to gather my forces so I don’t stroll in looking like “Little Ms. Hot Pants,” as Nana would say.

I call Skyler, who seems to answer before the phone even rings.

“Oh, my God. Tell me everything. Right. Now.”

I guess I must have given my roomies a heads-up that I wouldn’t be home last night. Sighing, I say, “Good morning to you, too.”

“Screw that. What happened? Where are you? Was it delicious? Did he—”

“Hey, Sky,” I interject, certain Ethan can hear her every word. “I need a favor.”

She picks up on my tone immediately. “Is he there?” she asks. “Like right there, now? Aren’t you supposed to be at your new job?”

“I’m on my way,” I take a deep breath to tamp down my exasperation. “I—um— overslept—”

“I’m disappointed you slept at all.”

“Sky, come on!”

“Okay, okay. So, he’s there now?”

“Yeah, we—uh—” I feel Ethan’s gaze on me and turn to meet it. He smiles in a way that seems both impossibly sweet and impossibly sexy at the same time. I smile back, wishing I had a portable cone of silence I could activate for privacy.

But the privacy ship sailed sometime in the middle of the night. “We’re sharing a cab now. Anyway, listen, I—”

“Facetime me,” Sky says.

“What? No way. Can you please just focus? I need you to do something for me.”

“Facetime me, and I will.”

“You’ll do it anyway because you’re my best friend, remember?”

“Do it.”

“I will kill you.”

“Facetiiiiiiime.”

“Fine!” I swipe the icon on my screen, and Skyler’s face appears before me: all blond hair and smudged Cleopatra eyeliner. As usual, she’s got her hand wrapped around the neck of her cello and fingers the strings as we talk.

“Show me!” she demands.

My entire body goes cold, then hot, then cold again. “Why do you hate me?”

“I love you with the fire of a thousand suns,” Sky says. “Now show me.”

Oh, what the hell. I’m wearing last night’s clothes while sharing a cab with my one-night stand. Was I really going to use that last bit of self-respect?

I turn the phone toward Ethan, who grins easily at the screen. The tips of his ears glow pink, though, and I’m oddly reassured to know he’s as embarrassed as I am.

“Whoa,” says Skyler. “Hello to you.”

I roll my eyes. “Ethan, this is my former roommate, Skyler Canby,” I say. “Skyler, Ethan.”

“Hey, Skyler.” He tips a two-fingered salute, and another memory unfurls. Ethan giving that same salute to the bartender at Duke’s, pushing the hem of his navy jacket out of the way as he sat in a high-backed stool next to me.

“Celebrating?” he’d asked, and his eyes held a lively interest that made me straighten and turn to fully face him.

“A little work and a little play,” I said.

“Same here,” Ethan said, and we clinked glasses. “To work and to play, in almost equal measure.”

Now, though, I have to put the play behind me and get to work.

“Okay, listen,” I tell Skyler, as we turn onto Santa Monica Boulevard. “Can either you or Beth get to Century City in the next . . .” I check the phone for time. “Shoot. Like eighteen minutes? Is that even possible?”

“Your lucky day. Beth’s got an audition at Fox. She’s probably been there since six, stalking the director.”

“Call her for me, see if she’s got anything with her that I can change into. Even just a jacket.”

“Okay, but no jacket. You can’t cover those boobs.”

“Skyler!”

“I second that,” Ethan murmurs.

I turn to him, surprised. That smile again—sexy, a little shy. And those blue, blue eyes, so deep they’re almost black.

“They’re, uh . . . a great asset,” he says. I get caught in his expression, direct and teasing, and I don’t know if it’s a memory or a fantasy, but I can feel his hands on me, his fingers smoothing away the strap of my dress . . .

“The man speaks the truth,” Sky says. “Jackets make you look boxy.”

I get a mental grip on myself. “Whatever. Just please and thanks.” Seriously, anything’s bound to be an improvement over my current ensemble.