Page 24

Story: Art of Convenience

I’ve always made excuses for the men I’ve been with, saying it was my fault. I was distracted with studying or coursework. I was stressed from my job. All things that were true, but still excuses. Excuses because after a while I gave up on trying to figure out what it was thatIneeded.

I’m not surprised I’m having dreams about Miles now, after that kiss in his office the other day. A kiss I should not have thought about as much as I did once I left. A kiss that even though I knew was fake, still had me desperate for more. He kisses like it's his last one to give. And as it turns out one fake kiss with Miles was filled with more heat and more passion than any real kiss I’ve had before. But he’s made it very clear, this is a business arrangement and nothing more.

I’ll scold my vagina later for thinking it was anything else.

After a quick, cold shower, I’m still on edge but head downstairs and drink in the delicious scents of hazelnut and fresh coffee beans.

Miles stands at the counter in the same lack of clothing that he was in when he smashed my bathroom door in. There's no denying his body is an absolute work of art. His abs are thick. Not the kind some men have from eating like a bird and starving until their abs are showing. No, his body is the result of hard work. His boxers peek out the top of another pair of those same black shorts that have my eyes wandering to the cut in his hips. The perfect V shape is like a flashing neon sign begging my eyes to search lower. I give him one last look as I pass him and hone in on his legs. Boxing, he said. If boxing gives you tree trunks for legs and sculpted abs, then yeah, I believe him.

“Good morning.” I try to sound pleasant but it comes out rough. It’s amazing how not going into my old office for two weeks has almost hindered my ability to put on a convincing smile.

Even though I know he must have been up for hours already, his voice is gruff when he replies. “Good morning. How do you take your coffee?”

“Umm, however,” I shrug.

One thick eyebrow raises. “What's your preference?”

“Whatever is easiest, I’m not picky. Black is fine.”

He studies me briefly before he turns back around and begins using some kind of frother.

I lean against the island behind him and even though I feel like a complete creep I can't help but take in his corded back muscles as he maneuvers around the kitchen. He confidently makes an elaborate cup of coffee and my eyes narrow in on the matte black band sitting on his ring finger. I’m not sure when he started wearing that. I’m also not sure why I like the image so much.

“Try this.” He turns around handing me a ceramic mug with an intricate lotus flower made from the milk. I take a small sip and wonder what the stuff I’ve been drinking for the last ten years has been because it pales in comparison to this.

“This is incredible,” I moan around the cup.

“It’s important to know what you like, Camila.”

I stare into my cup feeling slightly embarrassed that I’ve spent so much of my life trying not to be difficult for others or trying to make other people’s lives easier because I thought that was better. And now here I am, twenty-seven years old and I don’t even know how to ask for a cup of coffee.

I offer him a weak smile and nod my thanks.

“So, I wanted to say,” he clears his throat. “About the other day?—”

I pray he can't see the heat that hits my face. I go into panic mode and wave my hand while trying to swallow the sip of coffee I just took.

“Don’t,” I say, setting the cup down on the counter. “Seriously, I’m just glad I was able to catch on quickly. Hopefully, we were convincing enough.” I try to wink, but it doesn’t feel quite right.

His movements still and his focus on me becomes so intense that I squeeze my hands into tight fists to stop myself from fidgeting. With a small shake of his head, he breaks our eye contact and I exhale a deep breath, hoping up on the counter—the picture of casualness.

“So, did you just get back from boxing?” I ask, pointing at his lack of clothing. He nods and begins pouring water over his coffee grounds. “I’ve never tried boxing before, is it like a group class?”

“I have a standing private session with my coach and Jonas.”

“How long have you been friends with Jonas?”

“A while.” I swear it’s like pulling teeth trying to get him to talk sometimes. The few times he does engage in conversation I never want them to end because I don’t know when the next one will come. I keep trying until I find something he wants to engage with.

“Did you always know you wanted to be a lawyer?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your tattoo?”

He sets the kettle of hot water down. “What are you doing?”

“What do you mean?”