Recklessly Bound

Chapter Thirty

The moment we get back home, Ethan takes it upon himself to install the painting frame up on top of the mantle. It takes him some time, but nothing is sweeter than him asking me to help him with the balance.

With the holidays over but New years to pass, Ethan has to go to work, and I back to stressing over how I haven't received an offer or an audition at least. Part of me suspects Ethan's stunt has made an intimidating impact on casting directors, but for the most part, I blame my lack of talent. The last movie did not make a big splash as I thought it would. Maybe being an actress was a mistake. Maybe being a trophy wife is a more suitable job.

At least you have a rich husband, Angelica says when I meet her the day after Christmas over a coffee. We exchange gifts and talk about the holidays. Although I had to delete a lot from my story. Like a lot.

"How is that supposed to make me feel better? That just means that I'm being chosen for my status and not my skills. As if having Ethan threatening everyone wasn't enough."

For New Year's Eve, Ethan and I decided to stay in and enjoy a home-cooked meal. I applaud Ethan for disregarding all the parties and celebrations in town just to enjoy our first new year together. I mean, come on, there are at least hundreds of parties in Hollywood. Many of them include important people.

At around six, he comes back, looking exhausted. But the minute he sees me standing by our portrait, he stops dead on his track. I thought I had put too much effort into getting dressed up for New Year Eve but seeing Ethan's reaction, I consider my effort well worth it.

"You look beautiful as always," he murmurs.

I grin, running my hands across my sides, cherishing the softness of the fabric sticking to my body. The red dress is tighter than any other than I owe. Not just that, the cleavage is extremely low. So low that I fear my nipple might pop out any time if I breathe deeper.

"Thank you." I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear and smile at him shily.

Ethan stalks toward me with a predatory look. He extends his hand, gripped my elbow, and drags me to him. I crash to his chest. Wrapping his arms around my waist, he leans down to kiss me.

"Come on. I've made us dinner," I chuckle and step out of his embrace.

I've grown fond of our little conversations over meals. It's the only time we don't talk about our past, or future, or this thing between us. Instead, it's filled with our activities, stories that make each other laugh. It's one of the few times that makes me feel like we are a real couple.

Once finished with the meal, Ethan cleans the table while I retrieve our dessert. I cut us a piece of the store-bought tiramisu that I felt too tired to make myself. Ethan walks back into the dining room from the living room, holding something in his hand.

He sits down and silently places the familiar wooden pen box that I gave him for Christmas on the table. I gulp down the bite of tiramisu that suddenly tastes as tasteless as water and put down my spoon.

"Ethan," I breathe out his name with a tone of despair in my voice. Is that fear? Or nervousness? Perhaps it's excitement.

"Why didn't you tell me the night you gave this to me?" he asks with an even yet curious tone.

"I don't know. I was too nervous."

"About what?"

"About what you think of me." I refuse to meet his eyes, so I stare at the closed wooden box.

He opens it and turns it toward me. Inside the lid, on the blue cashmere fabric, is one single sentence written in gold ink.

I love you.