Chapter 14 #3
The woman didn’t move away immediately. She stayed beside the table, close enough that Sette could see the faintest scar along her knuckle, pale against tan skin. Close enough that she could see the tiny line at the corner of her eye that came from smiling often.
“You are very kind,” the woman said.
Sette tilted her head. “Or very easy to manipulate.”
The woman laughed, and it was warmer than her polish suggested. “Maybe both.”
Sette’s heart raced, but she couldn’t pinpoint why. The fun of the game? The attention? “What’s your name?” she asked, before she could stop herself.
“Miquela.” She said it like she expected Sette to taste it. Instead, she merely repeated it in her head. Miquela. Very fashionable. Not at all what she expected from this slick foreigner who walked into an American café as if she feared nothing but the decadent lull in a conversation.
Sette lifted her mug in a half-toast. “Sette.”
Miquela’s eyes flicked over Sette’s face, lingering on her mouth for a heartbeat. “Sette,” she echoed. “Like seven. In Italian.” Her grin grew even wider, her accent dropping. “Like the mother Romance language.”
Sette’s smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Like seven.”
“It’s a lucky number.”
“Is that what you’re doing?” Sette asked. “Collecting your bet?”
Miquela’s gaze held hers, unwavering. “No,” she said, still teasing. “I am collecting… recommendations.” Sette lowered her mug. Miquela straightened, glancing back toward the line at the counter. “You will come with me?” she asked, as if it were the most natural next step.
“Come with you?”
“To order,” Miquela clarified, smile curling. “Unless you will abandon me now, after you have promised me a flat white.”
Sette hadn’t promised anything.
But she stood anyway, because the café’s bright noise had shifted around Miquela like water around a stone, and Sette found herself wanting to exist in whatever little pocket of sanity the woman created.
She followed Miquela back toward the line.
As they moved, Miquela kept glancing sideways at her, as if amused by the fact that Sette was coming. Sette reminded herself that this woman wasn’t her type and that she had come here to be alone. Because one came to busy coffee shops in the middle of busy cities to be alone.
Yet as they reached the counter and Miquela leaned forward to speak to the barista, the French accent returning just like that, Sette felt something loosen inside of her, as if her life had been too tight lately, too focused, and someone had finally tugged at the knot.
Miquela ordered the flat white flawlessly.
Sette’s eyes narrowed. “Your English seems fine.”
Miquela turned her head, mouth close enough to Sette’s ear that the words were hot. “I told you,” she said. “I am not perfect.”
Then she smiled as if she had said something far dirtier than it sounded.
While ignoring how flushed she was, Sette watched Miquela pay and then turn back toward her with the kind of satisfaction that suggested she had just made a point.
“Now,” Miquela said, “you will sit with me, yes? Or will you run away?”
Sette didn’t run. Instead, she rolled her eyes. “I don’t run,” she said. “I have standards.”
Miquela raised her brows toward her hairline. “Ah. And I have not met them?”
“You’re still on probation,” Sette replied.
“Good. I like to earn things.”
The barista called out the next order. A man in a navy suit brushed past them without apology, nearly clipping Sette’s shoulder. Miquela’s hand came up to the small of Sette’s back to steady her.
The touch lasted less than a second, but it was enough.
Miquela removed her hand as if nothing had happened. “Come,” she said, nodding toward Sette’s table by the window. “You have already chosen the drink. Please, supervise me.”
Sette snorted but turned toward the table anyway. She told herself it was harmless. Ten minutes. Fifteen. A distraction from the loop her thoughts had been running in since she had argued with Zara about June. Hmph. If only this woman knew anything about June!
They slid back into the seats opposite each other.
Up close, Miquela’s tailoring was even more precise.
The jacket fit like it had been sewn directly to her body.
The watch was understated but expensive.
Her shirt cuffs were folded back once, exposing strong wrists and the faintest dusting of dark hair.
Sette noticed everything. She hated that she noticed everything.
“So,” Miquela said, folding her hands on the table. “The woman draws.”
“And the other woman pretends not to understand coffee,” Sette returned.
Miquela chuckled. “You caught me.”
“Immediately.”
“I am disappointed in myself.”
“You shouldn’t be,” Sette said. “It was almost convincing.”
“Almost?” Miquela leaned forward, feigning injury. “You wound me.”
“You opened in Spanish.”
“Yes.”
“You switched to French because you assumed I’d find it charming.”
Miquela’s mouth twitched. “Did you not?”
Sette paused. There it was. Time for honesty. “It was efficient.”
Miquela studied her with open delight. “Efficient,” she repeated. “That is not the word most women use.”
“Most women don’t realize they’re being maneuvered,” Sette replied.
“Ah.” Miquela leaned back in her chair, pleased. “But you do.”
“Yes.”
“And you stayed.”
The sunlight caught the angles of her face as she said it, easy and certain. Sette’s pulse flicked again. “I was curious,” she said. “It’s an occupational hazard.”
“Curiosity?”
“Observation,” Sette corrected. “I’m an artist. I watch my surroundings.”
“And what do you see?” Miquela asked.
The question hung between them, simple on the surface but not so simple underneath.
Sette let her gaze drift deliberately over Miquela’s face, her posture, the small scar on her knuckle she’d noticed earlier. “I see someone who knows exactly what she’s doing,” she said. “And enjoys it.”
Miquela’s tongue ran along the back of her teeth. “And you?” she asked. “Do you know what you are doing?”
Sette hesitated. The barista called out, “Flat white!” and Miquela rose smoothly, retrieving the cup with a nod. When she returned, she set it down carefully, aligning it with the edge of the table.
She took a sip and closed her eyes. “Hmm,” she murmured. “You were right.”
“I usually am,” Sette said, though the words were hollow in her mouth.
Miquela tilted her head. “You do not sound convinced.”
Sette glanced out the window. A bus hissed to a stop, disgorging people in a stream. The world moved forward.
“I’m between things,” she said before she could stop herself.
Miquela let that stew in the silence between them. Sette appreciated that more than she expected to.
“I used to be a doctor,” she continued. “Now I paint. And lately…” She gestured vaguely. “It’s quieter than I expected.”
“Quieter,” Miquela repeated.
“In my head.”
“Oh, that can be dangerous.”
“You sound like you know.”
“I do,” Miquela said.
There was something in the way she said it that made Sette look at her differently. “And what are you between?” she asked.
Miquela traced the rim of her cup with one finger. “Cities,” she said. “Countries. Phases of my life.”
“That sounds expensive.”
Miquela gave her a knowing look. “It is.”
“Work?”
“Investment,” she replied. “Property. Ventures.”
“Control,” Sette translated.
Miquela didn’t flinch. “Influence,” she corrected.
“And you came to this city for influence?” Sette asked.
“I came because I was bored,” Miquela said, and her honesty startled them both.
Sette nodded. “I can definitely understand that.”
They fell into an easy rhythm after that.
Miquela asked about Sette’s studio… where it was, what she painted, and whether she preferred oil or acrylic.
She listened intently, not the polite listening of someone waiting for their turn to speak, but the active kind that followed threads and enjoyed tugging on them when the time was right.
A master conversationalist. Just great. Sette found herself explaining things she hadn’t articulated in months, like how light behaved differently on linen versus canvas, how she liked to build a painting in thin, translucent layers so her erased sketches still showed some personality in her final work.
Always let them see some of the first draft.
If she ever became an art professor, she might tell her students that. Her biggest, hottest tip.
Miquela targeted her questions right into Sette’s perceived ego. She didn’t pretend to know art, but she didn’t play ignorant, either. God, for once.
“And you?” Sette asked at one point. “What do you build?”
“Casinos,” Miquela said. “Sometimes, people.”
Sette snorted. “People?”
“Businesses,” Miquela clarified, though the pause before the correction felt deliberate. “I enjoy seeing potential.”
“And shaping it?”
“If one allows it,” Miquela said.
There was something in the phrasing that made Sette’s spine straighten. I like femmes. She reminded herself of that as if this woman would never be femme enough for her. Soft mouths. Long lashes. Dresses and classy jewelry.
Yet Sette was plenty awake when she saw the woman before her. No, she wasn’t swept away. Nor was she overwhelmed. Just acutely aware of how lovely Miquela was. Very womanly, in her own way.
“You are not usually attracted to women like me,” Miquela said.
Sette choked on a laugh. “Excuse me?”
“You look at me as if I am a puzzle,” Miquela continued, unfazed. “Not a desire.”
Sette’s mouth went dry. “That’s presumptuous,” she said.
“Is it wrong?”
Sette considered lying. “It’s not typical,” she admitted. “For me.”
“Ah.”
“But you’re not exactly subtle,” Sette added, to regain ground.
“I do not wish to be subtle.” The words were spoken with such calm certainty that the air thinned between them. Miquela set down her cup with some of that careful certainty. “I should be direct,” she said.
“Should you?”
“Yes.” Miquela’s gaze held hers, steady and bright. “You are interesting. I would like to take you to dinner.”
Ah, there it was. The interest of a lusty woman who set her sights on another.
Sette’s first instinct was to say yes. The second was to say no. The third was to stall while she made up her mind.
She thought of the way her thoughts had been orbiting June for weeks now. The intensity. The cost! The way she felt both powerful and unmoored in June’s heavy orbit.
Something like this was easy in comparison.
“How do you know I’m not seeing someone?” Sette asked, buying time.
Miquela’s smile softened. “I do not.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?”
“It would,” Miquela admitted. “If you said yes too quickly.” When Sette paused, confused, Miquela leaned forward with a conspiratorial tone. “But you hesitate,” she said. “Which tells me you are thinking. I prefer women who think.”
The compliment slid past Sette’s defenses like it was nothing. She inhaled slowly. “This is very efficient of you,” she said, clinging to dry humor.
“I told you,” Miquela replied. “I like to earn things.”
Sette stared at her for a long moment. Dinner.
It was so simple. Dinner… Nothing more. They could be friends.
They didn’t have to spend the night anywhere, let alone together.
Like I’m good at that. Sette didn’t date often, but when she did, she liked to see how far she could push it on the first date.
The only reason she held back with June was because of the cost involved.
I bet this woman doesn’t cost a thing besides time and sanity.
“No thanks,” Sette said at last, firm.
Miquela was not necessarily offended. She simply tilted her head, studying Sette’s face as if evaluating her brushstrokes.
“Some other time?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
Miquela nodded once, accepting rejection without drama. “As you wish,” she said.
She finished her coffee in two measured swallows and rose smoothly from her chair. Miquela slid her jacket sleeve down, smoothing the cuff.
“It was a pleasure, Sette,” she said.
“Likewise,” Sette replied, and meant it more than she expected.
Miquela’s eyes lingered a beat longer. Then she turned and walked toward the door, moving through the crowd with that same effortless authority she had on the way in.
Sette watched her go. She thought she’d feel lighter. After all, a beautiful foreigner had hit on her in public. Even if Sette was preoccupied and disinterested… how could that not make her feel good?
Yet she grunted at her half-finished sketch of the woman who had been standing in line. Her lines and angles were a sharp contrast to June’s curvy womanhood that beckoned and beguiled Sette every time she laid eyes on June Kingsley.
She’s… not really my girlfriend. June was a muse. A costly one.
Miquela, on the other hand, had been organic. Maybe she wasn’t Sette’s type, but were most women? Did that mean they couldn’t have that mutual attraction eventually?
Damnit! Didn’t she want more friends?
Sette leaped out of her chair and hurried to the café door.
She stepped out into the cold morning without her sweater and looked up and down the sidewalk for any sign of Miquela’s modelesque stature, dark hair, or black jacket.
The woman had gone through so much effort to flirt with her!
She clocked me as someone like her! That hadn’t happened in years! What the hell was wrong with Sette?
There was no sign of Miquela, though. She had been absorbed into the crowd. Or maybe her steps were so long and quick that she was already at her destination.
Eventually, Sette slinked back inside. She sat with her warm coffee and sketchpad, chastising herself for going against every instinct that had usually served her so well.
She blamed June. Beautiful, vibrant June.
Then again, maybe Sette’s instincts were obeyed. Maybe she was meant to throw money at June like patrons had thrown money at artists for centuries. It wasn’t like Miquela would understand that, anyway.
Even as Sette picked up her pencil and attempted to finish the sketch of Miquela from memory, she couldn’t. Her mind was nothing but naked June. Clothed Miquela. Naked June.
Clothed June. Naked Miquela.
Sette pressed against her pencil so hard that she broke it in half. She didn’t even notice until the ferocious fantasy in her head passed.
Women. They ruined men. They decimated other women.
Sette was just another in June’s long line of clients. She probably didn’t even actually like sapphic relationships that much. It was all just money to her.
Even so…
Sette would be damned if she lost the bidding war. Especially since her rival was probably a man, and how would a man treat June half as well as Sette?
She picked up her phone to up her bet. The ball had been in her court.
June Kingsley… you’re mine.
Miquela had given her the confidence to think that.
END OF PART 1
Continue the saga in part 2, HER SUITOR!