Chapter 14
Cruz
It was important to me that I establish a routine that worked with Sloane’s and Liam’s.
After another week, I feel pretty good about what we’ve accomplished.
Sloane gets up early. I’m down there with her in the café, sitting or pacing around the shop.
I know it drives her insane, but she puts up with it before I drive Liam either to the clubhouse or to the garage.
I don’t like being gone during that time, but when I’m driving, I make sure that Liam has his phone open to monitor the shop’s feed, and when I drive back, it’s comforting to know that Wizard is paying extra attention to the feeds for the fifteen odd minutes while I can’t.
When the café is open, so that I don’t drive Sloane insane, I spend a few hours working out upstairs in her living room.
I put the camera feeds onto the TV via my phone, so that I have a massive screen in front of me while I stretch and put my body through the paces.
There were plenty of times in the past where I didn’t have a gym full of equipment to work out.
It’s not a big deal. You can do plenty with your own bodyweight, so I don’t feel like anything has gone to pot since I haven’t been at the clubhouse regularly.
Once I’m done with my hours of working out, I generally do bother the hell out of Sloane, acting like a big statue in the corner of the café, or ghosting around the back like an annoying shadow that she can’t shake.
I help where I can, or at least what she lets me do. Mostly, that’s cleaning and dishes.
Since the café was closed yesterday, it meant that I could do some of the deep cleaning for Sloane that she worries about not having enough time to get done.
She and Liam made fudge and several different kinds of cookies together.
It was good watching them, their heads bent, stirring and mixing, measuring and whisking.
They finished each other’s sentences. They knew where the other was going to be and what the other needed without much verbal communication.
When Liam said that he’d worked at the café for years, I should have realized that he meant he did the baking too.
I’ve spent all of today fighting with myself.
That’s not true. I’ve spent every single day fighting with myself.
I know Sloane feels the same, but we haven’t done anything about it. We’re locked in a state of limbo, scared to move forward, unable to step back, tortured in the present.
The day literally started off that way, when I still had to hobble to make it down into the truck to take Liam to the garage.
I tried not to let my discomfort show, and I wasn’t going to sit around all day and put my feet up.
I spent extra time with my stretching, going through all my old physiotherapy exercises.
My damn knee is still throbbing like someone’s constantly at it with a chainsaw.
It refuses to give up and let me have some peace.
Kind of like my damn brain and heart. I’ve steadfastly tried to ignore all of it and just get on with keeping guard and getting in Sloane’s way without truly getting in her way.
I want to claw back some of my regular, signature calm composure, but I feel completely turned inside out.
Not that I haven’t since the day I met Sloane.
I simply haven’t been able to fix it. With her, I want to do all the things I don’t normally do with anyone.
Talking, for example. Liam’s able to draw words out of me, but with Sloane, they come so easy all on their own.
Like now.
She just switched the sign off and locked the door.
It’s six, and I know that she’ll shut things down in here and turn off the lights before she goes upstairs to make dinner.
Liam will be back in a bit, and when we’re done eating, Sloane will come down here and take care of the cleaning she didn’t get to before dinner.
I’ll help.
That’s a part of our routine.
It’s not a part of that routine to step into her space as she rounds the counter wearing a very loud sweater with cats all over it.
When she put it on this morning, it reminded me of the comment she made ages ago about rethinking getting a cat.
I sent her a few links today, but I know she hasn’t had time to check her phone.
I’m standing behind the counter with my arms crossed, ignoring the fiery asshole that my knee has become.
Sloane studies me for a moment. I can tell she doesn’t know if she should laugh or scowl.
That seems to be her regular reaction when it comes to me.
I consider myself very lucky that her smiles have far outweighed anything else.
“Will you teach me how to make a good coffee?”
Her eyes flick to the ceiling. “Now?”
“I know you’re anxious to get upstairs and get dinner started, but I also know that you’re making spaghetti and if you start it now, it’ll be ready too early, and Liam will complain about soggy noodles.”
“I don’t know if I should be impressed that you know this or slightly creeped out.”
And I don’t know if anyone should ask for spaghetti and meatballs for dinner as often as Liam does. “I’ve watched you.” I step closer to the great big silver beast of a coffee machine. “I think I know how to do it. Will you let me try? You could just correct me if I’m wrong.”
“If you’re craving coffee that badly, you should have said something.” Her eyes fall to the leg I’m subtly trying to keep my weight off. “How’s your knee? You do way too much standing. You could also say something about that and take a break.”
“It’s good to walk around. Staying off it doesn’t help. And I take plenty of breaks.”
“I’m not sure that’s true. Any of it.” She lets out the longest sigh. She’s tired. She’s worked all day. She shouldn’t have to deal with this. Inexplicably. I can’t explain why, but I want to make that coffee. “Okay. If you have to.”
“I don’t have to, but I’d like to.”
“Alright. If you’d like to,” she corrects herself softly.
She swipes a hand through her braided hair.
The sun is long gone, but it still shines golden in the lights she replaced.
She steps back and gives me free rein of her space.
Not that I’m not up in it most of the day, but this feels different.
I know what danger feels like—that creeping awareness that settles into your pores, prickling all along the length of your skin, dumping into the bloodstream as red-hot adrenaline, cylinders firing full bore.
The machines are still on. I’ve seen Sloane do this hundreds of times over the past few weeks.
I’ve watched her hands too closely. I’ve thought about what her capable, soft, smooth fingers would feel like on my body.
Her palms would be hot. Would they be tentative or certain?
Would they tremble with excitement? What would my hands feel like on her body?
Would I be able to touch her exactly the way she likes? Could I make her come alive?
Fucking hell I need to focus.
She stands behind me, watching as I load up the little cylinder thing with coffee grounds.
Sloane worked those beans over this morning, giving the shop that delicious coffee scent long before she even made a single drink.
I use the kind that not many people like.
Sloane calls it an acquired taste for jet fuel, not for the faint of heart.
I bend down to get the milk out of the cooler underneath the counter. I grit my teeth and try not to hiss at the pain. I grab the whipping cream too. I like the milk laced with just enough cream to take the stomach-churning burn of the dark roast coffee away.
I make far too precise measurements, adding milk and cream, then more milk and a little more cream.
The espresso shots dribble in a steaming flawless flow into the cup below.
I manage to steam the milk without a hissing, brutally hot explosion.
I dump it straight into the coffee. There’s no fancy picture like Sloane often draws, drizzling the foam in that fancy, barista way.
I know enough not to take a sip of that drink for a good while, unless I want to burn my tongue right off.
Behind me, Sloane claps. I turn to face that dazzling smile that she wears more often than not.
Maybe not for me, but she’s never shy about giving it to the people that she knows.
Her eyes spark and laugh, dazzling me. Sloane has presence.
My heart was already racing, but it picks up, hammering hard.
My palms are so sweaty that the milk and cream almost slip out of my hands as I put them back.
My pulse kicks up at the jolt of pain from my knee.
I choose to blame the sweat I can feel at my temples on the warmth in here, and the pain.
Not on Sloane standing so close to me, so irresistibly beautiful.
She slips past me, her shoulder brushing against mine as she leans in to turn off the machine. She does her little routine of shutting down after that. Everything gets powered off to be cleaned after dinner.
It shouldn’t be fantasy fodder, but watching Sloane’s capable hands make quick work of it, her hips shimmying, breasts rising under her sweater with every breath…
I don’t want to fall onto that futon and think about her hands.
Her lips. I don’t want to think about her underneath of me, her soft curves rising to meet mine, chasing pleasure, that gorgeous smile beaming up at me.
I don’t want to envision her on top, her hair a soft cloud enveloping us as she takes me inside her—
Fuck.
Also… great. I now have the hard-on from hell that I’m going to have to somehow cover up. I angle away and discreetly and quickly adjust myself, then bend down and massage my knee. It’s not an honest distraction, but it really does hurt.
“You need to get off that knee.”
I feel extra guilty when Sloane flutters around me. She grabs the coffee I just made and shuts off all the lights. She motions over her shoulder for me to follow her upstairs.