And he stands there—hands shoved in his pockets, a gray cotton button-down shirt straining at his shoulders—looking so different I hardly recognize him. Younger, more vulnerable. Exposed.

“Why?” I warble, my heartbeat thudding in my throat.

He shrugs, his gaze sliding away. “Felt the need for a change.”

In a daze, I walk to him. He keeps his head down, the squared-off hinge of his jaw bunching as if he’s grinding his teeth.

“Ethan.” My hand touches his smooth cheek. God. His beard. His thick, lustrous beard is gone. A deep pang of mourning rips through me. “Why?”

He shakes his head. Once, as if to say, don’t ask me. Don’t make me say it.

But I know. With a cry, I fling myself on him. And he gathers me up, holds me against him as I press my face into the warm hollow of his throat. He smells the same. Exactly the same. Like birthdays, Christmas morning, and pancakes at midnight.

I’ve needed to feel his solid strength and hear his steady breath, more than I realized. Tears well hot and heavy in my eyes as my fingers find the back of his shorn head.

I must be choking him, my arms are wrapped around his neck so tightly. But I can’t stop. I want to be closer, under his skin, or maybe tuck him under mine where I can keep him as safe as I can. Sobs burst out of me, rapid fire.

Ethan’s arm wraps more snuggly around my waist, his big, warm hand on the back of my head. “You’re crying over the loss of my beard.” He doesn’t sound upset but as if he’s confirming a long-suspected belief.

And it breaks my heart. Somehow I manage to let him go enough to look up at his face. His eyes are solemn, sad, as if he hates seeing me cry but doesn’t know what to do about it.

His thumb brushes my wet cheeks, but he doesn’t say anything, just lets me look at his now-smooth face.

I cup one of his cheeks, press my palm against skin that’s warm and tight. “I’m crying because you thought this outer shell meant more to me than what’s inside of you.”

His big body jerks in surprise, but I cling, not letting him go. As if he’s too tired to keep his head up, he bends down and buries his face in the crook of my neck.

Gently, I stroke his head, his close-cropped hair bristly yet soft. “You think I kissed you that first time—that I wanted you—because of a beard? You couldn’t be more wrong. It was because you were a sexy-as-fuck, sly-as-all-hell charmer who grabbed my attention and held it.”

A muffled grunt blows into my hair.

“I mean, look at you,” I say, even though we’re still clutching each other and I can’t see anything. But my memory is just fine. I think of his solemn eyes and that mouth of his, that soft, wide, pouty mouth. “I’m in serious danger of having a young Marlon Brando Street-Car-Named-Desire moment here. I kind of want you to tear at your shirt and shout ‘Stella!’ Or I guess it should be ‘Fiona!””

Ethan snorts, but it sounds like he’s trying not to laugh. Still, tension vibrates along his strong body, and I know he remains upset.

When he finally answers, his voice is raw. “Rather hear you shout my name, Cherry.”

“So make me.”

He doesn’t move, only grows stiffer.

“Ethan, I loved your beard, but I love you more.”

He blinks down at me, then he swallows hard as if trying to clear his throat. “I love you too, Cherry.” He presses his forehead to mine. “Feels like I’ve loved you forever. I thought you knew that.”

There’s an accusation in his voice—soft but there all the same.

“I do, Ethan. You’ve been so good to me.”

His grip flexes on my hips. “Then why did you do it? Why did you take the money?”

Surprise freezes me to the spot. He stares down at me, no longer soft but completely hard, stark devastation and cold anger in his eyes.

Chapter Forty-Five

Fiona

Ethan has never looked at me in anger. It’s a horrible thing to see it now. “I can explain,” I say.

He scoffs. “Just the words a guy wants to hear after he’s been metaphorically kicked in the teeth by his woman.”

My breath pushes out in an anxious rush. “I’m not going to London.”

Not the best opener. Based on the sidelong look he gives me, Ethan clearly thinks so too.

“Okay. And that has to do with taking Bloom’s fuck-money how?”

Wincing, I try to touch his chest, but he backs away, shoving his hands deep in his pockets as he goes. The fact that he no longer wants to touch me, that he’s putting physical distance between us, has my insides tumbling.

“I realized that going to London was just me running away—”

“No shit,” he cuts in, his voice flat, his gaze blazing with tamped anger. But it’s slowly starting to simmer. He looks so different without his beard, his head shaved close to his skull. His features are stern and unforgiving.

I clutch my skirt with cold fingers. “Right, so…thing is, I didn’t want to run any more. I demanded the money from Bloom because I knew that would end it.”

Another ugly snort leaves him, and he shakes his head. “Well, it certainly does end things—”

“No, Ethan,” I say, stepping forward. “Not like that. I’m giving the money to your charity. All one million. Ivy and I had a press conference. I said I was donating it on your behalf, because Bloom getting sleazy PR by exploiting your personal life should come to some good.”