Spreadsheets and Bedsheets (Havenwood #1)

17

JULES

T he Green Bean Café buzzed with the warmth of a bustling Sunday morning. I had claimed a secluded corner table where my sketchbook lay open, its pages alive with wild, half-formed ideas, and colorful sticky notes encircling it like a mismatched, yet chaotic halo. My iced latte sat within arm’s reach, droplets forming along the rim of its glass and trickling onto the coaster below, as I absentmindedly drummed a pen against the table’s edge. My foot tapped restlessly beneath the table, echoing the quickening pace of my thoughts, while frantic lines and doodles sprawled along the margins of the paper.

Across from me, Elliot occupied his space with a sleek laptop lying open, his fingers dancing steadily over the keys as if composing a silent symphony. The gentle clicking of his keystrokes blended harmoniously with the ambient murmur of the café, yet I found my attention irresistibly drawn to him. His focus manifested almost tangibly, his brow slightly furrowed in concentration as though the rest of the world had faded away, leaving only him in his own quiet sphere. Dressed in a simple yet impeccably pressed light button-down with neatly rolled sleeves, Elliot exuded a composed confidence that set my heart racing every time I stole a glance.

“We’ll need to finalize the tech specs for the projection mapping by Monday,” he declared with calm authority, breaking the comfortable quiet without taking his eyes off his screen. His voice was smooth and measured, each word meticulously chosen as if the sentence had been refined in his mind long before it left his lips.

I flipped eagerly to another page in my worn notebook, instantly met by a chaos of scribbled notes and frantic arrows pointing in every direction. “Agreed. I’ll touch base with the Concert Hall’s tech crew. They’ve pulled off miracles on tight schedules before, and they owe me a favor anyway,” I replied, my tone carrying a mix of determination and humor.

A quiet lull fell over us once more, though this silence was filled with a sense of progress, like two interlocking puzzle pieces finally beginning to fit snugly together. Despite my best attempts to plunge into my own notes, my gaze betrayed me, drifting time and again to the steady rhythm of his typing hands, the slight set of his jaw in deep concentration, and the soft, rebellious curl of hair that refused to lie perfectly in place. With every stolen look, the tension in my chest deepened, pooling in my stomach until the sensation grew too overwhelming, forcing me to avert my eyes and swallow hard.

In a moment of absentminded clumsiness, I flipped a page with too much force; the sharp, echoing sound reverberated across the table. Instant regret washed over me as I saw Elliot glance up, one eyebrow arched in mild amusement at the unexpected noise.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, warmth flushing across my cheeks while I fumbled with a sticky note to cover my embarrassment.

A subtle, almost imperceptible smile danced on Elliot’s lips, a gesture so delicate yet electrifying, it sent a jolt of energy coursing through me. “How dare you?” he teased lightly before punctuating his playful reproach with a wink.

The space between us seemed to become charged, thick with an unspoken energy that had lingered since our last heated argument. I wasn’t certain if it was their close proximity or the grounding effect of his unwavering presence that made my thoughts spiral into a storm of emotions. My eyes involuntarily traced the sharp contour of his jawline, and a sudden, insistent ache stirred within, prickling along my skin. Shifting uneasily in my seat, I adjusted my sketchbook, trying desperately to dispel the warmth that was steadily igniting within me.

“What if we added personal reflections from the audience at the end?” I ventured, my voice overly bright as I motioned toward a printout resting on the table. “Imagine a station where they could jot down notes or record messages, it’d imbue the event with a living, breathing pulse.”

Elliot leaned back slightly, his penetrating gaze now softening as it met mine. “That could work,” he mused, his lips curving into that rare, contemplative smile that set my heart aflutter once more. “It would tie everything together, past, present, and future.”

“Yes!” I grinned, scribbling a note in the margin of my sketchbook. The excitement of the moment made me lean forward without thinking, reaching for another printout just as Elliot’s hand moved toward it.

Our fingers brushed, just for a moment. The contact was fleeting but electric, a spark that shot up my arm and sent another one directly to my groin. Heat coiled low in my stomach, sharp and immediate, and I had to fight the instinct to shift in my seat. I froze, my breath catching as my eyes darted to his. God, I was grateful we were sitting—any attempt to stand right now would have been an unintentional spectacle for both Elliott and the entire café. My pulse thudded in my ears, and I swallowed hard, willing myself to focus on something, anything, other than the sudden and very inconvenient rush of desire threatening to betray me.

His gaze met mine, steady but softer now, like he was trying to decipher something unspoken between us. The café seemed to dissolve, the sounds fading into a distant hum as the weight of the moment pressed into the space between us. My skin tingled where his fingers had grazed mine, and the heat that had been simmering under the surface flared into something I couldn’t ignore.

“I’ve missed this,” he said, his voice low, each word deliberate and laden with meaning.

The simplicity of the statement made my chest tighten. I swallowed; my throat suddenly dry. “Me too,” I admitted softly, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve missed… working with you.”

For the next hour, we worked together in a seamless, almost hypnotic rhythm, our creative energies interlacing with ease despite the lingering tension. A rare chuckle from Elliot at one of my sarcastic remarks felt like a small, precious victory, and our ideas cascaded into one another like notes in a well-rehearsed melody. In that moment, it felt as though we had rediscovered a lost rhythm, and for the first time in weeks, a glimmer of hope shimmered within me, hope not only for the project but also for us.

As the steady hum of the café began to dwindle, I stretched my arms overhead with a dramatic groan of both fatigue and satisfaction. “We’ve got a solid foundation,” I proclaimed with a grin as I leaned back contentedly in my chair.

“We do,” Elliot concurred, his tone gentle as he closed his laptop and offered me a warm, subtle smile. “Thanks for sticking with this.”

Meeting his gaze, I softened my grin into a more heartfelt expression. “Thanks for… not giving up on me.”

We gathered our scattered belongings, and as we stepped out into the embrace of the warm summer evening, I nudged him playfully with my shoulder. “You know, for someone who claims to hate chaos, you’re remarkably adept at keeping up with mine.”

His chuckle bubbled up, and his shoulders seemed to finally relax, exuding an ease that the night had scarcely seen. The sound of our shared laughter mingled with the soft murmur of the evening and standing together on the sidewalk illuminated by the gentle glow of streetlights casting long, dancing shadows, I sensed that we were on the verge of a significant turning point, not merely for the event we were planning, but for us as well.

“Tomorrow, after school,” I said with a wide grin, hoisting my bag onto my shoulder. “We’ll tackle the next steps. Same place?”

“Same place,” he confirmed, his voice steady yet warmly laced with promise. Then, almost as an aside, he added, “I’ve missed you.”

His words halted me mid-step, a powerful surge of unanticipated emotions crashing into me like a tidal wave. I slowly turned back to face him, my expression softening as I endeavored to process the depth of his confession.

“I’ve missed you too,” I replied quietly, the sincerity in my whisper laden with more truth than I had dared to hope. The unadorned honesty of the moment hung suspended between us, heavy, profound, yet somehow entirely comforting.

For a long, silent beat, neither of us moved, both of us caught in an implicit understanding that transcended the project we were constructing. It was about rediscovering the connection we once shared, a reconnection that reached far beyond the professional, whispering of a reconciliation long overdue.

Finally, I managed a tentative smile as I lifted my bag higher. “See you tomorrow, Teach,” I said, the lightness in my tone belying the lingering weight of uncharted feelings.

He nodded, his steady gaze locking with mine just a moment longer before he offered a shy, genuine smile. “Tomorrow.”

As I walked away into the warm embrace of the evening, I stole one last glance over my shoulder. Our eyes met once more, and his lingering smile, quiet and authentic, stirred a hopeful emotion within me. For the first time in weeks, it wasn’t just about moving forward, it felt like we were stepping toward something undeniably better.