Chapter 8: Just a Little Interest in Me
547 Words
Twenty minutes later, a black Hummer skidded to a halt. Oliver climbed in, his frozen limbs thawing as Ethan’s gaze lingered on the snowflakes clinging to his shoulders.
“Couldn’t wait inside the guard booth?” Ethan chided.
Oliver batted his lashes. “I’m shy.”
Ethan shot him a skeptical look. “On purpose?”
“No.”
Ethan snorted, driving toward the restaurant from last night. After lunch, he dragged Oliver to a luxury mall.
Oliver yawned. “What now?”
“Your hat.” Ethan parked, hauling him into a high-end boutique. Sweaters, coats, shoes—he bought everything that fit, ignoring the price tags.
Oliver watched, grinning. At checkout, the clerk asked, “Delivery address?”
Ethan turned to him. “Your brother didn’t arrange housing?”
Oliver showed Adrian’s address. “Here.”
Ethan plopped a khaki felt hat on his head, adjusting his messy bangs. The clerk stifled a squeal—so gay!
Outside, Oliver tugged Ethan’s sleeve. “We look like a couple now.”
Ethan arched a brow. “Do we?”
Oliver pouted. “Would you hold another man’s shoulder? Buy him clothes?”
Ethan smirked. “What if I have?”
Oliver stopped dead. “Then you’re a jerk. I’d stop liking you.”
Ethan leaned in. “You like me? Since when? For my looks? Money?”
Oliver’s gaze hardened. He spun on his heel, marching toward the elevator. Ethan grabbed his wrist.
“Mad?”
Oliver jerked free. “No.”
Ethan blocked his path. “Never touched anyone else. Never bought anyone clothes.”
Oliver’s eyes softened. “Only me?”
Ethan’s chest tightened. “Only you.”
Oliver grabbed his sleeve. “Do you like me at all?”
Before Ethan could answer, Oliver released him. “You don’t. Just… curious.”
The elevator dinged. Oliver stepped inside, smiling sadly. “Let’s go.”
The drive back was silent. At the hotel, Oliver exited without a word. Ethan’s grip on the wheel whitened.
A knock on the window. Oliver leaned in, eyes hollow. “No pressure. I never expected reciprocation. Thanks for today. Drive safely.”
Ethan rolled up the window, tires screeching as he sped away. Oliver’s smile faded.
That evening, Adrian picked him up. At the sleek penthouse, Oliver stared at the shopping bags.
“Rough day?” Adrian asked, serving noodles.
Oliver pushed his food around. “He’s hard to read. Maybe I want too much.”
Adrian sighed. “No one reads Ethan Hawthorne. Eat your noodles.”
The next morning, Oliver struggled to paint. Frustrated, he lit a cigarette, smoke curling around his tense shoulders. Finally, he dipped his brush—slowly, carefully—capturing Ethan’s smirk, his sharp jawline, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed.
The portrait emerged, flawed but alive. Oliver traced the lines, heart heavy. Is this enough?
Downstairs, Adrian returned from the cemetery, pausing at the studio door. He saw the painting, the scattered cigarette butts, and sighed.
“Oliver,” he called softly. “Lunch is ready.”
Oliver didn’t turn. “Be there in a minute.”
He stared at the portrait, whispering to the empty room, “Ethan Hawthorne… what do you want from me?”
The silence answered.
- Writer
