Page 28 of The Call of Azure (Unexpected Love #3)
Liam
I’d prepared myself to feel awkward returning to Gabriel’s apartment the day after my panic attack.
Well, I tried to prepare anyway. I left work early, thinking that if I could meditate or isolate in my own safe, quiet little space, I could keep my anxiety in check.
I wasn’t exactly successful and ended up spending the afternoon anxiously showering and pacing and showering again as I tried to calm down and convince myself that somehow everything would be okay, even though things were going to be awkward and uncomfortable and embarrassing between us.
I barely managed to force myself to leave my safe little sad beige apartment and drive to Gabriel’s.
If I had to sit in my car for ten minutes trying not to hyperventilate before making my way up his stairs, well, no one needs to know that.
Needless to say, I was a complete wreck by the time Cupcake was barking at me through the door.
I shouldn’t have been. Gabriel’s presence put me instantly at ease, just like always.
He was professional and perky and smiling up a storm when he pulled the door open and basically shoved Cupcake into my arms. He had dinner ready and waiting, and we ate messy chicken tacos while laughing at our largely unsuccessful attempts not to spill all over ourselves.
They were a bit of an unexpected choice…
but almost everything about Gabriel is unexpected, and I love that about him.
We cleaned up and did the dishes together before running through his choreography.
There were a few places I suggested changes, and he was quick to take my recommendations in a way that made me feel like he was listening to what I had to say.
Like my opinions weren’t only valid but welcomed.
And then, in the blink of an eye, the evening was over.
I didn’t have a breakdown, and Gabriel didn’t drop anything loud or set anything on fire - something that he let slip while we were chatting has apparently happened on more than one occasion. I was too scared to ask how.
The entire night was comfortable and companionable, and the way he welcomed me and laughed as if the drama of the previous day had never occurred left little time for me to worry that it might have changed the way he felt about me.
When I finally made it home, I was worn out, relieved, and just a bit frustrated that my apartment somehow felt even smaller and blander than normal after spending so much time in his vibrant space.
It’s rained nonstop for most of the week, and even though the rigging for Gabriel’s silks was supposed to be finished by now, the rain has delayed the construction.
They’ve promised that it will be ready to go, rain or shine, on Monday, so tonight is both the second and last time we’ll meet at Gabriel’s house.
Well, third if you count the night I had my panic attack, but I’m not inclined to count that.
In truth, his half of the performance is basically as ready as it can be until we can start working together, but I think he’s just stressed that things won’t end up working out.
Yesterday, he came by the center when I was performing because he wanted to watch me run through a few sequences again.
He’d stood close to the glass, squatted down, and wandered around the tank to get the view from as many angles as possible while he scrunched up his nose and chewed on a fingernail the whole time.
He asked me to do the same things over and over while he made minor changes to my movements, then changed his mind and asked me to show him the previous set again.
He was there for less than an hour, and in the end, he barely changed anything.
It’s obvious that since we’re so close to seeing if our shows work in tandem, he’s nervous.
This is his baby, and while it feels like each half is coming together nicely, there’s always a chance that it simply won’t look the way he’s envisioned when we put them together.
I don’t really think there’s much risk of that, but you never know, so if watching me float around for an hour helps to calm him, I’m more than happy to oblige.
He texted me early this afternoon, wondering if I could stop by after work since he’d taken the day away from the coffee shop to make a few adjustments to his routine.
Should I be a bit worried about the way my heart raced when I realized I’d get to go to his house again?
Probably. I’ve been trying to continuously remind myself that all he wants from me is a performance partner, but my heart doesn’t seem to care, and even though it’s likely not the smartest choice I’ve ever made, I’ll take any excuse I can find to spend time with him.
Watching him on his silks is like watching manta rays or sharks surfing just under the tide or seaweed swaying among the reefs.
It’s magical and beautiful and effortless.
He floats through the air like dandelion silk caught in a summer breeze as he swings around with long strands wrapping and releasing his body.
He chats the whole time, offering commentary on the changes he’s made and cracking little jokes now and again.
How he manages to do both at once, I’ll never understand.
The adjustments to his routine are even smaller than the ones he made to my program, and I don’t think they’re necessary.
Still, he seems happy about them, so I smile and nod encouragingly as I enjoy the show.
I’m more than happy to sit and watch him soar.
He only swings around for about forty-five minutes before announcing he’s in love with the new changes and wandering off to start coffee and change into lounge pants…
something I’m deeply thankful for, as it’s getting harder and harder for me to ignore the visible dick print in the tight spandex he wears when he’s on the silks.
I’m assuming he’ll wear something tight but a bit more family-friendly when we actually perform, but he’s not exactly a modest kind of guy, and since we’ve been working out of his living room, I can’t fault him for not giving much thought to the way his dick looks in yoga pants.
“Sooo…I have a confession to make.”
“That sounds ominous.” I cringe in only partially feigned fear as he wanders over to where I’m waiting at the kitchen table.
He’s shirtless. Of course he’s shirtless.
His strong biceps and defined chest are on full display as he carries a mug in each hand with something that looks like a photo album tucked between one arm and his ribcage.
Honestly, the yoga pants complete with dick print and painted-on tank top were probably somehow more concealing than the low-slung teal sweatpants and broad expanse of dark caramel skin that’s walking toward me like sex on a stick.
He rolls his eyes as he sets down the mugs and flippantly offers me the book while plopping into a chair.
He automatically settles into the same position he always does, with one foot on the chair and his arm wrapped around his shin so that he can rest his chin on his knee.
He has to be the most flexible person I’ve ever met because I have no idea how that can possibly be comfortable.
When I don’t take the book quickly enough for his liking, he rolls his eyes again and wiggles it at me until I have no choice but to accept it.
“It’s not ominous. I just want to show you something.” His voice is teasing and playful as he picks up his mug. “I’ve been giving some thought to what you said the other day about the way water makes you fe…”
“Oh my fuck!” I should not have accepted the book. Or opened it. I should not have accepted and opened the book! I slam it shut as quickly as possible and slide it across the table toward him like it’s on fire or covered in spiders. “Why are you showing me a sex book?!”
“Oh my fruit, you prude. It’s not a sex book.
” His head falls back as a laugh bursts out, and the way the arch of his neck curves in the warm light that shimmers down from all the faery lights strung along his ceiling looks just a bit too much like the arch of the neck in the image I briefly saw when I opened the book.
If he wants to torture me, he’s figured out how to do it.
Apparently, the way to get me to confess to anything at all is for Gabriel to show me porn while sitting next to me, laughing and looking like a sex god I’m not allowed to touch.
He shoves the book back toward me. “Look through it without clutching your pearls and listen to me for a minute without interrupting. It’s rude.”
I really, really don’t want to look at a sex book while I’m sitting close enough to Gabriel for our knees to touch.
Okay, all I want to do is look at a sex book with Gabriel but not when I know he only thinks of me as his co-performer.
Why? Why does he hate me? What in the world could he possibly be hoping to accomplish with this, and what could he possibly want to talk about while tormenting me?
Oh my god, what if he does remember that I’m the guy he hooked up with last year, and I was so bad that he wants to show me some type of sex-lesson book?
I don’t think I can handle that. My lap is under the table, and he can’t see my dick, but I’m very, very pale, and I know for a fact that I’m already bright pink after just one glimpse at the stupid thing.
Even though I know the best choice would be to stand up, run out of the apartment, move to another city, and never see Gabriel again, I find my hands reaching to take it back and hesitantly flipping it open.
If he wants to torture me, I guess I’m helpless to say no.