Thrilling Ethan Read online

  Cover Image by JM Walker

  All rights reserved.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.

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  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  For Martha and Dannielle.

  The best friends a girl could ask for.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Contact

  About the Author

  Books by Anna Paige

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Ethan

  I could tell the second I laid eyes on her that she was going to give me shit. The way she looked me over with thinly veiled disgust and squared her delicate shoulders. How she marched my way with purpose and efficiency across the floor of the art gallery. It was enough to make my dick stir despite having just come in from the frigid New York weather—not an easy feat when the temps had plummeted and my manhood had climbed nearly to my throat to avoid the cold. She narrowed her eyes at me, and my cock twitched again.

  Nice to see you’re out of hiding there, sport, but you’re barking up the wrong tree with this one.

  She looked entirely too hostile for the filthy things my poor, misguided penis had me thinking.

  “Excuse me, but the gallery is closed for a private event.” She was gorgeous in her simple black gown and blazing red heels. She wore a thin gold chain at her neck with a small diamond pendant and matching earrings. Her shiny blonde hair was pulled up in a severe twist, her makeup understated and alluring. Her stunning green eyes were the only sparkle she needed, and they were serving her well.

  I liked her understated style.

  She had a hint of a southern drawl, and I liked that, too.

  “I’m aware,” I told her, nodding over her shoulder. “I was told I could stop by before the event to have a look around.”

  She scoffed, folding her arms across her chest and once again looked over my worn jeans, dark shades, and hoodie—the last of which was pulled up to cover my head and part of my face. “I wasn’t aware that the Unabomber was on the guest list.” Her nose wrinkled in the most adorable way, and I nearly laughed.

  Seriously, I was popping the biggest ‘hot for teacher’ boner just watching her disapproving frown. She reminded me of the TA I’d had a crush on back in high school—only ten times sexier. “I’m assuming you’re referring to the poker player who used hoodies to obscure his face rather than the actual terrorist.” She had such an expressive face; no way would she ever be able to play poker.

  “I’m undecided,” she offered in a clipped tone as she glanced around, presumably looking for backup. “And you need to leave. Guests will be arriving soon; ones who are fully aware and respectful of the dress code for events such as this.” Her eyes narrowed, and she surprised me by stepping closer, entering my space. “I’ll not have you disturbing anyone or disrespecting the work being showcased here tonight. Now, I’ll ask you one last time to please leave.”

  “Emily? Is there a problem here?” An older gentleman approached from the back room, his brow furrowed as he took in my attire and returned his attention to her.

  So, her name is Emily. Hmm, I like it. Suits her.

  She quirked her mouth and watched me as he approached, answering without looking away. “This…” Her lip curled in distaste, and I had the insane urge to bite it. “Party crasher won’t leave. He says he was told to ‘stop by’ before the show tonight to look around.” God love her, she even used air quotes, and her southern accent was ramping up as she got progressively more irritated.

  When the older man didn’t respond, she looked from me to him. “Arthur, did you hear me?”

  I’d kept my eyes predominantly on her, but realizing his silence, I flicked my gaze to him and found him staring wide-eyed in my direction. “Are you…?”

  I nodded quickly and returned my attention to the trim, golden-haired spitfire who was still in my personal space. So close, in fact, that I could smell her perfume, which was amazing: crisp and light, with a fruity note that made me want to lick her.

  She glanced up at me and stepped back as if she was just realizing how close we were standing. Satisfied that she was at a safe distance, she looked back to the older man expectantly. “Well? Anyone want to clue me in? Preferably while we’re all still reasonably young. I have to get things ready in case the artist shows.”

  “I thought the artist was a recluse, secretive to the point that no one had actually met the man,” I interjected, suppressing a smile.

  She gave me an annoyed look. “It’s rumored that he sometimes attends his showings as a guest, just to see how his work is being received. On the off chance that the rumor is true, I want everything perfect in advance of his arrival.” The way she spoke made it clear she was a fan of the artist, so much so that her fluid green eyes actually danced despite her annoyance at my intrusion. She managed to fangirl without gushing, which was something I wasn’t used to seeing. In my line of work, gushing, crying, and even being hit with a hail of still-warm panties was the norm from fans.

  Maybe if I took off my glasses she’d gush a little.

  Would she even recognize me? I wasn’t as front-and-center as the rest of the band, being that I was alwa
ys behind my drum kit, but I still had a pretty massive following. Thus, the need for anonymity when I was out and about.

  “Emily, maybe you should run along and finish up. I’ll take care of Mr.—um, this gentleman.” The man looked at me with a shrug, not sure what to say to her but having clearly decided she needed not be privy to my identity.

  I disagreed.

  I bent forward and gave her a disarming smile. “The artist thinks you’ve done an amazing job already. Don’t touch a thing. It’s all perfect.”

  “And how could you possibly know that?” she snipped.

  I straightened up and tilted my head down, letting the corner of my mouth quirk up in an ironic smile as I peered at her over the top of my glasses.

  She just stared at me for a minute, her initial frown morphing before my eyes. She went from annoyed to confused to excited to mortified in the span of a few seconds before making a long gasping sound low in her throat. “Oh, shit.” Her face went white, and one hand came up to clutch her chest over her heart like it was hammering behind her ribs.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. It was a spur of the moment decision. The owner and curator had both signed NDAs, but she hadn’t. I wanted to be worried about it, but standing there, watching her slowly turn green, I just couldn’t muster enough self-awareness to care. All I could focus on was her and how she staggered back, apologizing profusely before running off in the direction of the ladies’ room.

  The curator—I believe she called him Arthur—looked at me sheepishly. “Obviously, that wasn’t the welcome I’d envisioned for someone of your reputation and talent. I can only assume it fell short of your expectations, as well.”

  If he’d seen some of the greetings I’d gotten over the years from the droves of Thrill of the Chase followers, he wouldn’t have bothered asking such a stupid question. “I’ve had better,” I deadpanned and went to take a closer look at the setup Emily had obviously worked so hard on.

  The gallery was newish, mid-sized, and brilliantly decorated. Each of my paintings was illuminated perfectly to accentuate the colors without washing them out or making them appear harsh. The lighting was well-disguised and unobtrusive, decor kept mostly black and white with subtle flashes of red that offered just the touch of vibrancy the room needed. Everything was elegant and minimalist, as it should be.

  It was only the third time I’d come to one of the showings for my artwork—touring and recording sessions always seemed to conflict with the events—but I’d seen pictures of all the others, and this was more beautifully done than any so far. The reds she’d used all corresponded with a specific shade from my paintings. I was fond of the color and found ways to subtly incorporate it into each project. Only a slash or two, sparingly used and mostly insignificant, at least to those who didn’t know better.

  Clearly, Emily had honed in on that habit and used it in her presentation. I wanted to thank her for her attention to detail, but she still hadn’t returned. For a moment I debated going after her, checking to see if she was okay. I kind of blindsided the poor woman, so at the very least I should have waited for her to recover and come back. Instead, I checked the time, gave a brief nod to Arthur, and headed out the door without comment, needing to get away before people started showing up but hating that I didn’t get one last glimpse of her.

  Emily.

  Why am I just now realizing how pretty that name is?

  The sidewalk was crowded and somehow stifling, so I ducked down the narrow alleyway between buildings to cut through to the parking garage on the adjacent street. Dusk had settled in while I was inside, so I removed my sunglasses and hung them from my collar, keeping my head down to avoid being recognized in the meager glow of the streetlights that managed to filter into the alleyway.

  My breath whooshed out in thick plumes as I walked, my hands drifting into the pockets of my insulated hoodie, drawing the fabric closer to my body. When I reached the end of the alley, I automatically pivoted to the left toward where I was parked, but a sharp sound at my back caught my attention and I turned, squinting into the darkened space behind the gallery.

  She was there, her body angled slightly away from me as she hunched over and drew one foot back, repeatedly kicking the brick building with just enough force to make me wince, though surely not enough to hurt herself.

  Unless her toes were as cold as mine, then they would shatter like fucking glass. It was unseasonably cold. Light snow was supposed to start falling any time now, which wasn’t the norm for mid to late October.

  I made my way closer, prepared to announce myself, when I heard her low voice repeating the same word over and over, punctuating it with a kick each time.

  “Stupid.” Kick. “Stupid.” Kick. “Stupid.”

  Her foot drew back once more, and I cleared my throat, still a good twenty feet away. I didn’t want to frighten her, but I also needed her to stop before she really did hurt herself.

  Her head swiveled toward me, and she sucked in a breath, halting with one foot off the ground as if she was still planning on delivering that final kick.

  “I wasn’t paying much attention inside, but I’m sure your shoes are far too nice to be repeatedly scuffed on those bricks. What will the guests think?” I kept my tone light, hoping she was one of those women who was easily swayed by my charm, though I wasn’t holding out much hope after our initial meeting.

  She wobbled for a moment, and I thought she might actually topple over. Thankfully, she steadied herself and let the other foot drift back to the pavement without landing another kick. “What are you doing back here?” Her voice sounded small and weary, defeated. “Shouldn’t you be inside, demanding they fire me?”

  “For what?” I moved closer and leaned one shoulder against the building, the cold seeping through my clothes almost immediately.

  She snorted in the most alluring way. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe for insulting you, calling you the Unabomber, trying to throw you out of your own showing, or just generally being a bitch.”

  I watched her for a moment, her averted eyes leaving her open to my perusal. “You sound remorseful. Should I take that to mean the attitude you gave me in there wasn’t normal for you?”

  She frowned and almost met my eye. “Is that sarcasm or a genuine question?”

  “It’s genuine, with a hint of sarcasm. I tend to sprinkle that shit on everything,” I quipped, earning me a ghost of a smile before her expression shifted back to the pained one I’d initially walked up on.

  “I’m usually a little more tactful than that. I just wanted this night to go perfectly. It’s the first showing that was all mine, you know? I wasn’t the assistant; I was the lead, and that meant something to me.” She dared to look at me for a fleeting moment, and I could have sworn I saw a blush in her cheeks. From the cold? Or something else? “But more than any of that, I wanted tonight to be perfect because Conspicuous is—I mean you are—my favorite artist in the world, and I wanted to honor that, to honor your work the best way I possibly could. I want people to feel those paintings the same way I do.” She meant it. She believed in my work, connected with it in a way I wasn’t sure anyone could, aside from me. When her eyes finally lifted from the ground at my feet, our gazes locked, and I could have sworn those piercing green eyes were staring straight through my perfectly constructed walls, through every barrier, and seeing every facet of myself that I tried so hard to hide.

  “I’m sorry I insulted you. I didn’t know who you were.”

  I couldn’t look away, could barely manage to expel the breath from my lungs. “Do you know who I am now? Not Conspicuous, my real name.”

  She swallowed and nodded, her eyes never wavering from my face.

  “And you won’t out me to the public?”

  She was shaking her head before I even finished talking. “I’d never do that. Not ever. You’re my favorite painter and my favorite drummer. It’s mind-blowingly awesome, but I understand why I can’t talk about it to anyone.” Her eyes were wide,
and the corners of her mouth pulled upward into a smile. “In the interest of full disclosure, I’ll probably tell my dog, but you can trust him. He’s pretty tight-lipped with all of my secrets, so I can’t imagine yours would be any different.”

  “What secrets have you told him of yours?” I loved the way she smiled, wanted to see more of it, so I played along.

  “Nuh-uh. Not telling. And neither is Dammit.”

  I couldn’t help laughing, my entire train of thought lost. “You named your dog Dammit?”

  She shrugged, still smiling. “Not exactly. My former roommate did. She was more of a cat person, so every time the poor pup did anything even remotely wrong, she fussed. Every sentence went something like ‘get off the couch, dammit’ or ‘quit that barking, dammit.’ One night I burned my thumb on the stove and yelled ‘Dammit!’ He came running. It was kind of adorable. He’s five now, that apartment—and grouchy roommate—are long gone, and I can’t for the life of me remember what his original name was because he just decided one day that he was Dammit, and he’s been Dammit ever since.”

  As if her smile wasn’t endearing enough, she laughed, and I was gone. Completely and totally enamored.