Chapter 12 #2
“She’s fine,” I force out, mentally tracing the pattern in the rug.
“I only came to upgrade the security on your work laptop. The Strykers’ firewall system has been inundated with cyberattacks.
They’ve insisted I ensure your security software is up to the challenge, should anyone try to gather wedding details off your device. ”
More like I’ve insisted.
That’s an irrelevant detail, though.
I pull the silver thumb drive out of my pocket, presenting it without raising my eyes from the carpet. “This has an upgraded system on it in case yours needs to be swapped out.”
Alice seems to tremble slightly as she backs toward the hallway. “O-of course. I’ll go get my stuff. H-hold on.”
The moment she leaves my sight, my brain recalibrates. What just happened? I need to focus.
Holy hell, now is not the time for a hard-on.
I rearrange my jeans, lowering myself onto the futon and dropping my head back. I start to count by threes, but that doesn’t work nearly as well as the sight of the watercolor hanging overhead. I fall into the tranquil colors and blurred edges of the scene, relieved when my blood starts to cool.
Through the wall behind the television, I hear shuffling and a few thumps.
Within five minutes, Alice reemerges wearing a pair of navy leggings and one of the frilly tank tops I noticed while folding her clothes.
I wish she had forgone the fluffy pink cardigan layered over it so I could see the thin straps and the lace skimming her bare chest.
Damn it. My erection resurges as she bends in front of me, setting her laptop up and accidentally flashing me a quick glimpse down her top. Get a grip, Amir.
When I force myself to concentrate, I note that she doesn’t offer her password. Instead, she unlocks the computer and then retreats to the only other chair in the room, watching me.
Good girl.
I’ll never sleep again if she doesn’t start showing some initiative where her own safety is concerned.
Breathing deeply, ignoring the damp whirl of lavender perfuming the air, I sit forward and get to work. The system on her device is as outdated as I would expect for someone working with her budget. I’ll have it upgraded in no time.
She moves in my periphery, and I tell myself it’s human nature to look up. Is it my fault that my eyes latch on to the gentle sway of her hips or the bounce of her ass?
Yes, my more gallant side answers.
Jesus. I’m here practically against her will and now I’m ogling her. No wonder she shoots me wary glances every few moments.
I work hard to keep my eyes on my task, breathing a sigh of relief when I hear her humming in her closet-kitchen, knowing the small room’s galley style will hide her from my view.
Frowning at the desktop, it occurs to me that I might have been too quick to give her credit for protecting herself. From what I can see, everything is laid out on her home screen, each clearly marked and color coordinated. Ripe for plucking.
She has tons of folders, full of event images.
Vendor contacts and contracts. Only one email account.
The same commonplace Facebook and Instagram accounts I’ve already perused.
And something girly called Pinterest, which is also overflowing with wedding photos, arranged into various inspiration boards.
Though, there are some “secret” boards. But those mostly seem to consist of lingerie pictures and… honeymoon destinations? Why?
For fuck’s sake, I curse myself internally. What am I doing looking at these?
My father would have knocked me in the back of the head.
A new spiced, floral aroma joins the others swirling around the tiny room, warming my nose. It smells so incredible that curiosity gets the better of me. I lift my head just in time to watch her cross the living room, moving with unhurried poise, carrying two teacups balanced on saucers.
With her eyes cast down, she places one beside my left hand and backs into the blue-patterned armchair. “It’s hibiscus tea, with just a tiny bit of spiced honey. Y-you ordered tea at the café that morning, so I thought you might… like it.”
I do. I love it, in fact. Not just for the hundreds of varieties and dozens of different preparations, but because tea has always held a special place in my relationship with my dad.
He wasn’t able to bring a lot of his cultural traditions with him when he immigrated, but proper tea remained one of his sacred rituals until the day he died.
When we all lived under one roof, I often found him sitting alone at our kitchen table well after my mother had gone to sleep.
Usually, he had a mug of yerba mate in one hand and some philosophy book in the other.
But if I caught him staring at nothing, lost in space, I went to join him, pouring for myself before sinking into his silence.
Those were the nights we tended to have our deepest conversations. The nights we talked about the meaning of life, the dreams he had for me and my mother.
Over tea, he taught me every lesson I needed. How to listen well. The importance of respect for myself and others. How to treat a woman. All the male-female dynamics that mortified me in my youth.
I never realized how lucky I was to have a dad who spoke to me about everything. Other guys I met in the military and the police academy considered themselves fortunate to have fathers who deigned to watch the game with them on Sundays… But I had a real teacher. A role model.
Until I failed him.
I stare down into the fresh cup of tea, unnerved by the morose bend of my thoughts. What is happening? I’ve gone from determined to turned on and now, depressed. All in ten minutes. And I never even answered the woman.
“I do like tea,” I force out. “Thank you.”