Chapter 5 #2
She smooths a hand over her white linen dress, street-length, flowing softly against her shape, splashed with bold blue watercolor florals that seem painted just for her curves.
The flush still lingers on her cheeks, endearing and sweet.
“Yeah… yeah, no emergencies, thank God. Just the usual aftermath.”
Her eyes dart to the small, candlelit table splashed with water and overturned cups, then back to me, vulnerability shimmering in their depths. “I made a mess,” she admits with a sheepish smile, gesturing at the spill. “I just… wasn’t expecting to see you.”
One eyebrow arches as a slow, teasing grin curves my lips, warmth flooding my chest at her honesty. God, she’s beautiful. Utterly captivating.
The pink in her skin is swallowed by a deep red as Juliette shakes her head, quietly chastising herself under her breath. “I didn’t know you were coming, that’s all I meant to say.” She shakes her head a little, looking both flustered and hot. Warm, too.
“I didn’t either, until about an hour and a half ago.
I’d just gotten back from a run with Geo when she called.
” I pass her the flowers, a little twinge of excitement flaring in my veins when she takes them from me, and her hand grazes mine.
I’ve grazed touches with many women over the years, but rarely do I manage a casual graze with Juliette.
It’s electric, and everything I was already certain it would be, leaving me speechless and a bit terrified as I blink down at her. She sifts through the petals with the tip of her finger, dipping into the hydrangeas to inhale. “They were apology flowers. To Zennie. In case she was mad at Kat.”
Juliette laughs. “Smart.” She glances back to the partially constructed table as the woman in the hairnet replaces the cloth, and sets a new pitcher of water atop.
“I’m sorry about that,” she tells the woman, who waves her off without hesitation.
“Not a worry.” She produces a few domed plates off of her small cart, leaving the lids on, and sets them on the small table.
“Now, take your time. Each of them are labeled, and ingredients and available ingredient substitutions and possible dietary alterations available are here,” she says, producing a laminated but tri-folded pamphlet, the entire schema done in the same pinks and purples.
“Thanks so much Maxine,” Juliette says, taking the brochure.
Maxine leaves, dragging her empty cart behind her. Once the door is closed, I tap the pamphlet and smirk. “Thank god the cakes have better style than this place, right?”
Juliette giggles, bringing her hand to her mouth to stifle her laugh. “Stop. She can hear us, I’m sure.”
The more she tries not to giggle, the more I want to make her laugh.
I want to see her tip her head back, close her eyes, and laugh like she doesn’t have a care in the world.
“Oh, she can’t hear. And if she can,” I say, making a show of cupping my hands to my mouth and mock shouting in a whisper hiss, “Maxine, this color scheme looks like we’re in Barbie’s Dreamhouse. It’s gotta go!”
Juliette erupts into laughter, using one of the folded paper napkins to blot at tears forming in her eyes. “It’s definitely giving Barbie’s Dreamhouse, that’s true. I’ll give you that.”
I lean over the empty plates and napkin, and bring my lips to her ear. “Is Ken in the room with us, do you think?”
She shoves me in the shoulder. “Stop, you’re so bad.”
The door opens, and Maxine pops her head in. “Regular or decaf?”
In unison we answer, “decaf.”
Her cheeks flare with pink. “I already had two cups at home.”
I can’t stop staring directly into her eyes. “Me too.”
“Well, are we ready?” she asks, her volume dropping into a private tone as she reaches for the lid on the first dome.
“Ready,” I tell her, getting to my feet long enough to shrug out of my sport coat. “Okay, sugar sweats, I’m ready for you.”
Juliette pulls the dome away, revealing three rectangular shaped pieces of cake, one dark, one a burnt orange color, and the last, white.
In front of each is a tiny folded piece of paper with even tinier writing.
I jut my finger out, toward the slices. “Should we try the salted caramel and almond first?”
“Oh shoot, one thing I want to do before we start,” she says, placing the lid on the table, next to the plate.
She bends to the side of the table, and retrieves her purse, which she begins rooting around in.
A moment later she produces her phone, and snaps a photo.
She looks at the screen, analyzing the photo, giving me a private moment to analyze her.
She’s always been beautiful, but in the last handful of years, Juliette has blossomed.
She’s discovered her passion in creative photography, and that’s brought her so much confidence.
Even the dress she’s wearing today is an evolution–showing her ample curves and vivacious form was something she never did before.
Maybe that’s when I really started to look at her differently.
Maybe? What am I saying? Why lie? Of course it was where she caught my attention.
I remember it like it was yesterday, because it was the first time I saw her in a dress.
It was three and half years ago at a party my brother was throwing for Mercer Properties.
Kat brought Juliette, and when I laid eyes on her–God help me.
She stepped into the reception area with the overhead light illuminating her and my world roared to a stop.
That emerald dress she was wearing poured over every curve I’d only ever imagined beneath her usual soft cotton and denim, the glittering fabric hugging her perfectly, making me jealous of her damn dress.
Sequins glittered across the swell of her full breasts, catching light around her waist, illuminating the lush hourglass I’d never seen until then.
And that slit. Sweet mercy, that slit climbed her thigh like a promise.
One smooth, golden leg flashed out, then vanished, then flashed again, and my dick would not stand down.
Juliette catches me watching her, and the way her face flushes has me getting… hard. Thank god for this miniature table.
“What?” she asks, lifting her arms to hover the phone above the slices of cake yet again.
“Just watching you work,” I admit, partially truthful. I love watching her take photos, watching her finally in her element after years of juggling meaningless careers. But I love watching her, period.
She swipes at her cheek, and it’s then I notice a thin diamond band around her finger. The only finger that actually matters. “I thought there was something on my face,” she says, winking before she refocuses on the photo she’s taking.
I run a finger beneath my collar, finding my skin hot and itchy. My eyes will not move from that simple band on her finger. I know she’s not engaged. I know this. Kat would have told me. Hell, Juliette would have told me. Still. I don’t recognize that ring and why the fuck is it on that finger?
“Why didn’t you bring your big camera?” I ask her, unsure of the name or how to identify it.
She snaps a few more with her phone, and sets it on the table.
I can’t help myself. I tear my eyes from the ring long enough to look at her lock screen, and relief runs through my veins.
I know Juliette has a boyfriend. But if he was the lockscreen photo–Jesus, listen to me.
Using the pitcher, I fill both of our glasses with water as Juliette explains, while she cuts the first piece of cake for us to try.
“I did bring my big camera,” she says, resolute in her tone as she lifts her camera from the empty seat adjacent, which had been covered by the tablecloth.
She replaces it, and reaches for her water, bringing it to her mouth before pausing.
“I forgot to put my batteries on the charger and realized they were dead when I got here.” She sips her water, but I notice the red creeping up her neck.
“Shit happens,” I sigh, reaching for my water, too.
She sets hers down, moving it around on the tablecloth by the stem as she stares at the rippling surface. “For someone who is aspiring to be a professional photographer, it’s pretty ridiculous that I forgot to charge or even check the fuc–freaking batteries.”
I want to say so many things in response to those handful of words. First, “you know, you can curse around me. You’re not a little girl anymore. You won’t get the stern look I used to give.”
In this new light, where I see Juliette as a beautiful, talented, sexy individual instead of the person I watched become a woman before my eyes, it feels somewhat tawdry and borderline risque to mention our platonic past.
But her eyes don’t change, and neither does her expression, and that both assures and disappoints me. This flicker of attraction is clearly one-sided, and that’s for the best. After all, we’d be a disaster, wouldn’t we?
“You’re a professional now. Why do you call yourself an aspiring photographer?
” Anger borders my tone, but I’m not angry with her, I’m angry with her self-view.
Juliette is a wonderful photographer, and one of her first photos ever–one of the Bay Bridge at night during a hailstorm–is matted, framed, and hanging in my bedroom. Over my bed.
She tucks a strand of honey hair behind her ear, and my eyes catch on that fucking ring again. Why does it have to be on that finger? And why does Juliette having a ring on that finger make me both angry and excited?
“I don’t have a professional portfolio, or a website, and I don’t have a roster with clients,” she replies simply, as if this is the definite answer, and she’s right about her lack of career.
I click my tongue and lean back against the chair, blinking at her in utter disbelief. “You have the talent and skill, and you put it to use. You are a professional. The rest of that is just semantics, Juliette.”