Free Promposal by Rhonda Helms

writing down and practicing the chords for the new song I was composing. When I heard the oven buzzer go off, I plopped my guitar on my bed and dashed downstairs. The scent of fresh lasagna made my stomach growl.
    I whipped off the foil and set the timer for another fifteen minutes. I was ready to destroy this dinner.
    I heard my text ringtone go off and realized I’d left my cell on the coffee table before starting guitar practice. I darted into the living room to grab it, opening it to find a message from Ethan.
    We need to talk.
    My stomach clenched. Dammit, I thought he’d dropped the inquisition, especially since I faked enthusiasm over our tentative ideas like no one’s business.
    Another message popped up. I’m outside your door. Followed by the front doorbell ringing just a few feet from me.
    â€œJosh, can you get that?” Dad asked.
    Shit. No running from it now. I tried to affect a casual air when I opened the door. “Hey,” I said to Ethan. “Come on in. Um, we’re about to eat dinner soon, but you can stay if you want.”
    He tucked his hands in his jeans pockets, slouching a little as he looked at me from the stoop. “Do you want me to stay?”
    There was a hint of vulnerability in his eyes that gave me a guilty pinch in my chest. My avoidance was hurting his feelings. “Of course I do.” I opened the door wider and ushered him inside. “Besides, I made my world-famous lasagna, and you know there’s a ton of it.”
    The tension in his face relaxed, and he gave me a genuine smile as he took off his coat. “Sounds great.”
    â€œDo I hear Ethan?” Dad asked from his office.
    â€œYou could see him too if you stopped yelling and got up every once in a while,” I teased. Dad was really bad to holler at everyone so he could keep his butt glued in the chair and eke out a few more words.
    I heard a loud sigh; then Dad came out of the office, his black hair spiked all over on the top. He gave us both a wide grin. “The boy’sgetting better at nagging me,” he said to Ethan with a laugh and a wink.
    Ethan pushed up the green sleeves of his shirt, revealing golden arm hair and lean muscles. I bit back a sigh and turned toward the kitchen. Grabbed three plates and forks, plus cups. Folded napkins, set the table, anything to distract me from Ethan’s presence just a few feet away.
    â€œCan I help with anything?” he asked right behind me.
    I stiffened and drew in a ragged breath. The scent of his cologne wafted in the air, and it filled me with the urge to bury my nose in his neck. “No. I’m . . . good,” I managed to say.
    Finally, the timer went off again, and I fussed over the lasagna, cutting perfect-sized pieces and serving them up with dinner rolls. Dad and Ethan sat down at the table, and we dug in.
    After taking a particularly large bite, Dad scratched at the thick whiskers on his jaw—he probably hadn’t shaved for a few days now.
    â€œYou look like a wild man, Mr. Mendez,” Ethan said with a chuckle. His own jawline was smooth in contrast. “I haven’t seen you so rugged in a while.”
    â€œYeah. Happens every time I get this close to a deadline,” he grumbled. “I still have a hundred pages to go, and the book is due to my editor in two weeks.”
    Ethan gave a serious nod, then shot me a crooked half smile. He was all too familiar with my dad’s writing craziness, since I griped about it at times like these. When Mom had divorced him and moved to another city for her job, it was hard to get him out of bed, dressed, showered. Even to get him to eat. But over time, his friends and I encouraged him to get back into his favorite hobby, writing, so he’d have a reason to get up every day.
    It worked. Dad finished a book. Got an agent. Got a multibook deal. The hobby Mom had disliked so intensely while they’d been married became his sole method