Chapter 15 #2
I inch closer to her. My hand reaches for her chin, turning her head and tilting it upward to face me. “You know, I’m not just book smart. I’m good with my hands too.”
Her breath hitches, as does mine. The double entendre I injected into the air weighs heavily on us both. Though neither of us says anything. It continues this way until she breaks the silence halfway up the stairs to my en-suite.
“I remember,” she says with her back facing me.
“Good,” I whisper to myself. Pride soars in my chest as I fix the leak, hoping that if nothing else, she never forgets that feeling. I know I never will.
Once I get the leak in the bathroom under control, I meet Sarina in the kitchen. I go over the documents I needed to review with her and can’t help but notice her attention drift.
“Am I boring you?”
The chair squeaks against the floor as she rises to her feet. “You, no. These dry-ass documents? Absolutely.” Her shoulders lift in a shrug. “No offense.”
There’s no denying that everything I went over with her is as dry as overdone toast. “None taken. Can’t argue with you there. I couldn’t help but notice you kept looking out the window.”
“Sorry, it’s just that the view you have here is incredible.” Her heels click their way over to the floor-to-ceiling window off the kitchen, and I follow her.
“Yeah, it’s all right.” I downplay the view that I definitely overpaid for.
To most it’s just that, a view. Nothing special.
The floor I’m on gives me an optimal view of Central Park on one side of my penthouse, and on the other the entrance to the Met, which was the main factor in me purchasing this place.
I love art and the Met is one of my favorite museums. Not only are the art installations inside breathtaking, but the architecture of the building is too.
Even though my career is a far cry from anything in the arts, I enjoy being able to visit when my schedule allows it, and to admire the Victorian Gothic Revival style from the comfort of my home.
She turns her attention to me. “You don’t have to be so modest. The view, as well as every detail of this place, is stunning.”
I bite my tongue, wanting nothing more than to say that the view and all the contents inside one of the world’s most famous museums doesn’t hold a candle to her beauty. But I hold back. I have to. That’s not only highly inappropriate, it makes me look more desperate for her than I already am.
“I’m jealous. I love the Met.”
“Have you been?”
“No, I just said I love it to impress you.” She rolls her eyes. “Yes, I’ve been. Many times. It was one of the first places I went to when I moved to the city. I love art.”
“Me too.”
“Really?”
“Yes, that’s one of the reasons I chose here to live. The Met, has always been one of those places for me, outside of the gym, that I can escape to and clear my mind.”
She nudges my arm playfully, and the proximity of her touch sends a wave of heat throughout my body. “Looks like we have another thing to add to our very limited shared interests list.”
“Oh, so you’re keeping track, huh?”
“I mean, we have very little in common. It’s not difficult to lose track.”
“You know what they say, opposites attract,” I blurt, instantly regretting it though much to my relief she goes right over it.
“Who is your favorite artist?”
“Frida Kahlo,” I say.
“Mine too. She knew how to take pain and make it beautiful, even when it hurt to do so.”
“I agree. You can add that to your list of what we have in common.”
“Guess I can,” she breathes just as silence creeps over us as we stare out the window.
I can’t help but think of everything that has pained me, and if I had to guess, she’s doing the same, since that look in her eyes that captivated me the first time I peered into them has risen again to the surface.
“You know, you should have a talk with your sister.”
“Why is that?”
“Because she made it seem like you were so boring.”
Thanks a lot, Lo.
I don’t know what possesses me to ask what I do, but I’m realizing the brain-to-mouth connection I usually have down pat is faulty around her. “Am I?”
Her lips fold inward as she hums, wanting to speak but deciding not to.
“You can be honest.”
“Nooo…”
That’s a loaded ‘No’, if I’ve ever heard one.
“It’s okay,” I encourage her, wanting to hear what she really thinks of me. “You can tell me. Use your words.”
I can’t help but to notice her chest rise and fall a few times, as if she’s trying to consult herself first. “You can’t be talking to me like that.
Anyway, I think the version of yourself that you present to the world is, yes, a tad boring, but when you allow the real you to poke through, I think you’re anything but. No offense, that is.”
Her honesty if refreshing. I also didn’t think it was that obvious. It seems my friends and family have gotten so used to how serious I have to be in my day to day, that they’ve forgotten there’s more to me than that. And sometimes, I forget myself.
“None taken.”
Her gaze moves past my shoulder in the direction of the kitchen where we were working. “You know, everything we went over could have been done on the phone.”
“I know.”
“Or in person. In our office. But that would mean you’d have to actually come into the office.”
“I know,” I repeat, hoping she’ll drop it.
“Are you avoiding me, Mr. Ramos?”
The smile I was trying to hold back bursts onto my face.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing, it’s just that you called me—”
“By your name, what’s the big deal?”
“Nothing.”
Dissatisfied with my response, she crosses her arms in front of her, shaking her head. “If it were nothing, you wouldn’t have a shit-eating grin plastered on your face.”
“It’s just that I like how my last name sounds coming from you, that’s all.”
“Better than Mr. Armani?”
This is torture. Here we are reminiscing about the night that’s been playing in my mind, and I hope hers, on repeat since it happened, yet it feels like we’re both skating around the invisible line drawn between us.
“Yes,” I confess. Although if I were being honest, I think I’d like the way anything she calls me sounds.
She takes a deep breath, and with the addition of newfound air to her lungs, it looks like she’s taking on the burden of all the words she’s choosing not to say in response.
“Is that all?”
A loaded question.
I should say yes. Technically, we covered everything we needed to. But I don’t want to say yes. I don’t want her to go.
Since my inability to articulate a sentence in a reasonable time when I’m around her has become my new norm, she interprets my silence as her cue to gather her belongings at the kitchen island. And once again, I follow after her.
“I’ll have everything we discussed ready by the end of next week.”
“Right.” I let out a pent-up breath. “Thanks, I appreciate it.”
“It works out perfectly that it’s not due right away, since I have to head to my sister’s impromptu bachelorette party tonight.”
“You sound thrilled.”
She lets out a sigh. “It’s not my sister’s fault, it’s just everything with her wedding —and my dad mainly— has been complicated.”
Knowing the little I do about her dad, I can only imagine. And I don’t pry past that. We walk in silence to the door and I can sense she has something else to add.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course, anything.”
A faint blush rises to her cheeks, though she maintains a stoic front in comparison as she speaks. “Did you have that mirror hung above your bed before or after we met?”
The saliva caught in my throat burns, forming a harsh lump that I can’t swallow down, resulting in me trying to clear it. Repeatedly. I almost forgot she used my en-suite bathroom.
How do I answer this?
With the truth, I guess, that’d be a good start.
I walk her to the elevator she came in by. “Before,” I lie.
She pauses, turning around to allow her gaze to appraise me freely, taking every inch of me in.
“I like to watch,” I add, feeling my throat grow tight with my confession.
“Me too,” she says, coyly. “I guess the old art installation room was fate then. Before The Wilted Flower was a bar, it was an art gallery. I know the owners so I was able to convince them to keep the mirrored room open, since it was always my favorite.”
“Do you go there often?”
“I used to. I hadn’t gone in for a while. And never with anyone else. You were my first.” She winks and the aftermath of that simple flirtatious gesture stings.
I hate having to downplay it all in the interest of being professional, if that’s even in the cards for us. I want her to know how interested I am and how she makes me feel.
“I’m honored.” It comes out like a joke, but it’s the truth. I am. Very much so.