The Friendship Fling

21 cause of death men leaning

21

cause of death: men leaning

Ava

It is a truth universally acknowledged that every man looks fitter when he leans; against walls, counters, or, god forbid, doorframes. So when a familiar voice reaches me and the curly-haired man it belongs to props himself against the coffee bar, I’m embarrassed to admit that my eyes are drawnstraight to him. But this reaction isn’t a crime . I’m allowed to acknowledge these things.

‘Good morning to the coffee industry’s most cheerful employee.’ His eyes slide to my right, where my new co-worker stands patiently. ‘Unless your colleague is intending to give you a run for your money.’

Dylan smiles, but she’s clearly not sure how else to react. Mateo’s replacement isn’t bad so far; she seems competent, which is more than I can say for the man who did a trial shift the other day. She hasn’t said much, and I don’t know if it’s because she has first-week nerves, or if she intends to have the kind of silently efficient working relationship her predecessor and I had. I make a mental note to try to find out which one it is.

‘Dylan, this is Finn. He’s kind of like the City Roast stray cat. You get used to him.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ She laughs quietly and tucks the chunk of hair behind her ear that keeps falling out of her tiny blonde ponytail. ‘Do you want me to go and clean the tables?’

‘That’d be great, thank you.’ Once she’s out of earshot, I lean across the counter. ‘She’s pretty, isn’t she?’

Dylan’s taller than both of us, with delicate features and thick-lashed hazel eyes as yet unburdened by the woes of working under Carl’s management.

‘Sure, but there’s only one barista for me.’ His eyes flash and my stomach squeezes. Jesus, this man flirts more than he breathes. ‘And he just quit. Broke my heart.’

I let out an exasperated sigh and rest one hand on the machine, the other on a bottle of milk. ‘What do you want to drink? A surprise?’ Recently, he’s been showing up at the till and saying, ‘Surprise me, Monroe,’ like he’s the main character in a TV show.

‘Please. But, as much as it pains me to say, can today’s be decaf?’ I pull out the tin of decaf grounds and he continues, ‘I’ve had three coffees in the office already today and I fear I’ll spend the rest of the afternoon in the bathroom if I add one more.’

‘What a visual. Thanks for that.’ As I steam the milk and wrinkle my nose at the colour of the decaf, he scrolls his phone, distracted. I raise my voice over the bubbling. ‘Everything okay?’

He rubs the back of his neck and exhales slowly. ‘Yeah. Just trying to make plans with someone.’

It’s rare he doesn’t overshare, so there’s a tiny twinge in my gut at his evasiveness. But he doesn’t have to tell me everything. He’s probably texting Alex; they were clearly having a great time at the restaurant. I log his order on the till and only the faintest smile pulls at his mouth today as he taps his phone against the reader.

‘Go and sit down. I’ll bring your drink over.’

‘I could get used to this,’ Finn says, putting his phone on the table as I place a new mug next to his laptop.

‘Don’t.’ I take a hazelnut wafer bar out of my apron pocket and add, ‘And please be nice to Dylan. She’s the best trainee so far and I want her to stay.’

‘I’m always nice.’ His eyes glitter from behind his glasses. He links his hands together and raises his arms above his head, making that weird grunting noise that only comes out when you stretch, his shirt lifting on one side to reveal a band of tanned hip.

I blink and nod my head towards his screen. ‘What are you working on that’s had you stuck in the office drinking their shitty coffee today?’

‘I started the day with a few meetings and lost track of time.’ Gingerly, he adds, ‘I got to the final stage of the process for the San Francisco role. Who knew I’d be able to convince them I could do my job?’

In my head, I say I knew . He could convince anyone of anything. But the corporate world is so alien to me; I’m not sure I could handle going through an application process for weeks on end.

He continues with a sigh, ‘I need to prepare a pitch and it’s taking forever. It’s essentially preparing and presenting an entire long-term marketing campaign. I think I’m feeling the pressure more than usual because it’s a company I’ve always wanted to work for.’

For all that we talk, any time San Francisco comes up, however briefly, part of me wants to yell, Slow down, summer’s not over yet. I realise it’s ridiculous; I knew this was coming. But the fact he’s one step closer to getting the job now puts it into stark perspective.

Finn’s phone pings and he glances down at it instantly, before disappointment tugs at his mouth. I can’t tell if it’s the job application that’s doing it, or whatever has glued him to his phone, but tension pulls at his shoulders and lands in the set of his jaw. It looks alien on him.

‘And now I’ve been looking at the pitch for so long that I’m just not sure if it even makes sense. There are two parts: a presentation and a handout that I’ll email them, for them to reference afterwards. The verbal side of things is fine—’

‘Because you can talk out of your ass.’

A short laugh puffs out of him. ‘Well, yeah, exactly. But I want the handout to be good too, and I have to make sure I can actually read everything during the presentation. I want it to be perfect.’ He scratches his neck and continues. ‘Sometimes the words swim around a bit on the page for me, you know?’

I’m transported back to helping Max with his homework after school, going through line after line with him to make sure the words were sinking in. ‘Are you dyslexic?’

He shrugs. ‘Maybe? I’ve never been tested.’

I tuck a chair under a nearby table. ‘I can look over it if you want.’

It takes every ounce of effort not to take it back when I realise this thing could be twenty pages long, could take me hours to check over. But I don’t. The offer sits out there like a wayward ball in a game of catch.

‘Really? Would you?’ His gratitude glows bright and hopeful; sunshine warming a pavement, drawing out the weeds from the cracks.

‘I’m not exactly busy.’ I gesture to the near-empty coffee shop around us before untying and retying my ponytail as I reiterate, ‘I’ll do it.’

‘You’re an angel, thank you.’ Something loosens from his posture, a single knot pulled from the tangle. ‘Dunno what I’d do without you, Ava Monroe.’

I try to brush off his words like I always do, but some part of them takes root.

And then his phone flashes with a text, and his eyes light up as he reads it, and his full smile returns in all its blazing glory. I don’t know who’s texting him, but whoever’s on the other end of the phone has untangled the remaining knots and released the weight from his shoulders.

I shake my head and that root dislodges. My heart’s grown accustomed to a lack of sunlight. Nothing can bloom there.

‘I’m studying part-time at the moment,’ Dylan tells me one afternoon while I help her carry a few boxes to the stockroom, her short hair falling out of her ponytail as usual. ‘But I’m hoping to squeeze in a bit of travel before my career properly starts.’

‘Have you done much travelling before?’

‘None,’ she says. ‘I’ve barely even left London.’

‘Where would you go?’

I grab a KitKat while we’re here in the back room and her eyes widen in silent disapproval. She starts emptying her box and filling the shelves with its contents while I flatten cardboard and chomp on my chocolate bar.

‘I love the ocean. I’ve lived in London my whole life, so the sea has always felt like the perfect place to refresh. I’ve been trying to convince my boyfriend to go somewhere but he doesn’t think it’s worth it right now. Thinks we should travel when we’ve retired and all our ch—’ She grimaces and clears her throat before she continues, ‘When we have more free time.’

‘A few weeks here and there isn’t going to destroy your career,’ I say.

‘It’s fine. I’m kind of nervous anyway, so it’s probably for the best. I’m not even sure if I’d enjoy it.’ She says this, but her expression’s still wistful.

‘My brother works in travel. I can put you guys in contact if you want. He’d probably— ugh.’ I crane my neck to peek through the glass and see Carl walk in with a woman I don’t recognise. ‘Sorry, Carl’s here. I should go and do my job.’

I wipe my hands on my apron and swallow my final bite as I push open the door. Our manager has seated the power-suited woman at his table and reaches me at the till with superhuman speed.

‘We have Nadia from head office in this morning.’ He’s smiling as he talks, but it’s entirely fake and he doesn’t blink once. ‘She’s going to observe and give feedback, so please put your best foot forward.’

He looks at my shoes as he says this. I’m wearing my Docs, which aren’t technically part of our uniform, but I’m going out after work and didn’t want to lug them around with me on this morning’s commute.

‘Will do,’ I reply evenly, resisting the urge to tap my heels together like I’m on my way to the Yellow Brick Road.

‘Could you make her an oat latte? Make sure the milk is perfect.’ I start to prepare the shot and he adds, ‘And while you’re there, can I have a flat white?’

I comply, and over the next hour or so, I’m on my best behaviour. From our short interactions, I get the impression Nadia sees right through Carl. She talks separately to both Dylan and me about how it is to work here, and of course, while I don’t expressly say anything bad about Carl, I’m not exactly subtle about how unsuited I think he is to management either.

Nadia nods a lot when I speak, listening when I tell her what my favourite elements of working here are, how I like the structure and organisation, and the satisfaction of knowing how things work and how to share that with people.

‘Of course, we love when people stick with us for a long time,’ she says, handing me her empty mug. An image floats across my vision of me, middle-aged, still working in this shop, and a shudder rolls through me. ‘But it’s important to us that everyone is working to their strengths, whether that’s front of house or elsewhere. Your perfect role might not be behind this counter.’

Carl appears then and says, ‘Dylan’s new, so we’ll be working on finessing her coffee skills as soon as possible.’

‘She’s doing great so far,’ I tell them, and Dylan gives me a small smile in thanks. ‘And we’re already on it – I’ve planned a training session for later.’

‘Oh, that’s good,’ Carl says. He turns to Nadia, ‘Didn’t I say Ava was on top of things?’

I have to be on top of things because he isn’t, but that’s neither here nor there.

‘Well, this has been a lovely afternoon. It was good to meet you both,’ Nadia says.

A few minutes after Carl sees Nadia out, he packs up his stuff and comes to the till to say, ‘Sorry, I need to run. You’ll be fine closing up, won’t you?’

‘We’ll be fine,’ I reply. As the door slams shut behind him, I hear Nadia’s words in my head. It’s important to us that everyone is working to their strengths, whether that’s front of house or elsewhere. Your perfect role might not be behind this counter. Something spreads through my chest. It takes me a long time to realise it might be hope.

I give a half-hearted wave goodbye to the final two customers in the shop as they leave. Well, final two apart from Finn, who’s at the table closest to the till, having recently taken on the mantle of being the last customer to leave the shop every single day.

‘Honestly, you should go home,’ I suggest. ‘You’ll just be watching me painstakingly turn forty-four mugs around until all the logos face the same way.’

‘Don’t threaten me with a good time,’ he says without looking up. He’s squinting at his laptop, too close to the screen as usual. ‘Are you free this evening for a bucket list activity?’

I’m in dire need of a physical and mental distraction, which is why I spent yesterday evening scrolling through Hinge matches and acquiring a new target. ‘Nope, sorry. I have plans. A date.’

I pick up a spoon and immediately drop it back on the dishwasher tray when the metal scalds me. I go for the mugs instead, collecting a couple in my apron like it’s a kangaroo pouch.

‘A date, huh?’ Finn’s tapping increases in fervour, and it makes me wonder how many keyboards he’s burnt through. I transport the mugs to the counter without further calamity and he asks, ‘What’s he like?’

‘He,’ I gingerly stack the clean mugs in their home above the coffee machine, ‘is six foot four.’

He’s still only half paying attention, brow furrowed as he squints at his laptop. ‘Happy for you. Any particular personality traits of note?’

‘When you’re six foot four, that is your personality trait.’ I finish stacking my mugs before adding, ‘But then, you wouldn’t know anything about that, as a short king.’

The frenzied tapping of fingers on keys stops abruptly as I turn to the dishwasher to hide my smirk. I take my time collecting more mugs in my pouch, and by the time I turn back around, Finn’s hauled his face from his screen and is eyeing me incredulously. ‘Did you just call me a “short king”?’

‘It’s fine, don’t worry. People love that now. You don’t need to be insecure about it.’

‘I’m confused. I’m literally— no. I’m not telling you how tall I am.’

‘Adorable that you think I don’t know how tall you are.’ I recoil at the noise as I indelicately set the next batch of mugs on the counter. ‘Tall women have a preternatural perception of height, so I can say with absolute certainty that you are five-eleven and a half. Although,’ I place the mugs one by one on top of the machine, ‘I think you usually round down to five-eleven, because you’d rather pleasantly surprise someone than disappoint them. And you know what? I respect that. It’s nice when short men embrace their height.’

‘You’re unhinged.’

‘And you’re not six foot,’ I say, my stacking complete. ‘Every inch matters.’

‘So I’ve been told.’ His eyes flash dangerously, so fast I almost miss it, and then he’s back to normal, stretching his legs under the table with a yawn, a rumpled prince bored on his throne. ‘No brickwork predilection?’

‘Not as far as I know.’

‘Ava?’ I spin around to find Dylan in the doorway to the stockroom, where she’s been tidying the shelves for the past forty-five minutes. If I’m honest, she’s so quietly productive I’d kind of forgotten she was still here. ‘Are we still doing the training?’

I glance at the time. I’m not meeting Aiden until later, so I’m struck by an idea. ‘Today’s your lucky day, Finn. Didn’t you tell me ages ago you wanted to learn how to do latte art?’

He sits up straight. ‘Now? You’re not kicking me out?’

It’s a few minutes before closing time, but fuck it. I stalk to the door and flip the sign to ‘closed’. ‘I’m showing Dylan anyway, so you can try too.’

‘Do I get an apron and a badge?’

‘No. And you’re not technically allowed back here, so if you break anything I will tell Carl you forced your way behind the counter and intentionally caused mayhem, and Dylan and I were simply two damsels in distress too distraught to resist.’

She shrugs, tucking that loose strand of hair behind her ear. ‘That sounds fair.’

Finn packs his stuff neatly in his bag, leaving it on the table before taking tentative steps towards Dylan and me. ‘Literally no one would believe you could be a damsel in distress.’ He mutters something that sounds a lot like, ‘You’re causing me distress.’

‘Let’s hope we don’t have to test that theory,’ I reply. He waits at the end of the counter and I add, ‘Come on, then. But wash your hands first. With soap.’

I catch the tail end of an eye-roll.

Once my students have both washed their hands, they stand to attention slightly to my right. In the five seconds it takes for me to pluck a bottle of milk from the fridge, Finn somehow procures and ties a spare apron around his waist. I can’t be bothered to fight him on it.

‘This milk expires today so I don’t care about using it for practice, but I’d rather not waste coffee beans, so we’re going to reuse some old grounds and hope for the best.’

‘Second-hand coffee.’ Finn nods sagely. ‘Put that on the menu.’

I tamp some used grounds and brew a few shots in preparation. ‘We’re going to focus on latte milk today.’ I pour milk into the jug, just below where the metal protrudes at the spout. ‘This is usually the amount of liquid you need. Some milks make better microfoam than others. Whole milk is the easiest to work with, while something like almond milk is kind of a bitch to steam properly.’ I open my mouth to keep going but Finn has raised his hand like we’re in class. ‘Yes, Finlay?’

‘Why is whole milk easier to work with?’

‘It has a higher fat content. The chemical composition is better balanced to make the shiny foam we’re aiming for. Generally, the creamier it is, the less finicky it is to use.’

He gives me a thumbs-up and I have to try extremely hard not to make fun of him for it.

I settle back into position. ‘What we’re doing is adding air to the milk and, in doing so, heating it up. Let me show you.’ I go to turn a knob on the machine so that it’ll release a burst of steam, but feel Finn leaning over my shoulder to watch. ‘Finn, I can practically hear your heartbeat. Back up a bit.’

He mumbles an apology and I start steaming the milk, talking them through the difference between the sharp tearing sounds at the start and the lower rumble as the wand moves deeper into the milk, telling them to pay less attention to how it looks and more attention to how it sounds and feels.

I tap the jug on the counter to release any bigger air bubbles, swirl it a few times and then lift it to my swamp-water espresso. I explain each step, every flick of the wrist and, even with the poor-quality espresso, the art isn’t bad. ‘Who wants to try?’

Turns out latte art is not a skill you can perfect in one evening. On the plus side, Dylan’s now made not one, but two near-perfect cappuccinos. We’re meant to be making lattes, but a win is a win.

A few attempts later, the three of us stand over her and Finn’s most recent cups, peering at the shapes in the milk.

‘I feel like I’m cloud-gazing.’ Finn turns his mug to look at it from a new angle.

‘That’s a really good hippo, if it’s any consolation,’ Dylan says helpfully.

‘You know what,’ he lifts the cup to inspect it up close, ‘that is consolation, actually.’

‘I’m going to wash the mugs up,’ Dylan says, picking up as many as she can carry to the sink without spilling the contents all over the floor. ‘There’s no point running the dishwasher just for these.’

I look back at the few remaining latte attempts. Two of them are essentially just a mass of indeterminate foam, but the third contains an unintentionally intricate design. It’s almost impressive how perfect the shape is.

‘That’s—’ Finn starts to say, grabbing my forearm and pointing at the mug.

‘Don’t.’ I put a finger up to silence him, wriggling out of his grip. I refuse to laugh at something like this. I am not twelve.

‘I’m not completely depraved, you see it too, right?’

I bite my lip, avoiding eye contact as best I can.

‘See what?’ Dylan asks as she comes to collect the final cups. She puts a hand to her mouth, eyes wide. ‘Oh wow. That belongs in an anatomy book.’

That’s all it takes for a snort to squeeze through the dam I’ve built, and then the branches give way entirely and Finn and I are snickering like school kids at the back of the classroom after finding illicit graffiti on the table. Apparently we are, in fact, twelve.

Once Dylan’s back at the sink and the dregs of our laughter spill out of us in quiet chuckles, I say, ‘I thought you were meant to be the mature one.’

‘When did we decide that?’ He wiggles his nose to adjust his glasses as he shoves his sleeves higher up his arms.

‘When you consistently acted like a fully functioning adult while I just flailed about in the shallow end.’ I press my hip against the counter. ‘I bet you even know how to do your taxes.’

‘I do, actually,’ he says after a pause. He wipes his hands on his stolen apron, tightens it, then adds, ‘Okay, I’m gonna try one more.’

‘I believe in you,’ I lie.

He shoots me a mistrustful glance that makes my mouth twitch upwards and then takes his position at the steam wand, clutching the metal jug like a baby who’s only recently discovered the use of their hands. ‘I feel like I’m holding this wrong.’

‘You are, you need to turn it a bit.’ He turns it the wrong way. ‘No, the other— let me help you.’ I step between him and the counter to lean across his torso and carefully prise his fingers from the jug to reposition them. If my hands feel cold on his, he doesn’t flinch. In fact, he’s perfectly still, sending flames licking up my entire left side at every spot his body touches mine, solid and scorching. My voice catches in my throat as I say, ‘Now stay like that.’

When I turn the dial to release some steam, his hands immediately revert to their original position, so I instinctively place mine over his and hold everything where it should be. I feel his breath at my ear and I turn my head instinctively, my nose barely missing scraping against the dense stubble at his jaw. And yet, it’s only when I smell that familiar body-warmed cologne and leftover chlorine on his skin that I really register just how close he is. Close enough to count the trace of freckles scattered across his nose and cheekbones like tiny fairy footprints. Close enough to see his pupils have dilated, the easy warmth of his eyes replaced by wildfire. Close enough to catch the way those eyes drop to my mouth once. Then twice.

‘Shit,’ he rasps, as hot milk churns up and over the lip of the jug and across the counter. In a whirl, he rushes to the sink while I leap back and look for some paper towels, ready to clean up the mess I was hoping to avoid.

‘What happened here?’ Dylan asks, drying her hands on her apron.

Brilliant question. I’m wondering the same.

As the door bangs shut behind Dylan ten minutes later, I hurriedly finish the rest of my tasks, desperate to be out of the shop and away from Finn and his confusingly magnetic presence. ‘You can go too. I need to get changed in the back for my date.’

‘Sure. I’ll put these mugs away and then I’ll leave.’

I give him a quick smile to say thanks but avoid his eyes, before I head behind the counter. My mind reels as I tear off my layers in our employee bathroom, replacing my T-shirt with a strappy top. I can’t tell if the lace-edged sweetheart neckline makes me look too booby, or if I simply just exist, with boobs. Still, I reach into my top and rearrange them, because I know exactly what I want from my audience tonight.

I apply a red lip stain and smack my lips together a few times until I’m satisfied with the colour. Sure, Finn looked at my mouth, and I might’ve looked at his, but it’s hard not to look when you’re that close. I haven’t had any action in a while, so the slightest contact with a man is sending my mind into a frenzy. Especially one with arms like that. And eyes like that. And a smile and – whatever.

By the time I take down my hair, I’m feeling much calmer. It’s time to get horizontally distracted tonight with a giant man with a beard and a proclivity for putting three ‘x’s at the end of every text he sends. That’s what I need.

I take my phone from its perch on the sink and read my texts. There’s a message from Aiden.

aiden: Can’t wait for tonight, just leaving now xxx

I fire back a text that’s probably more flirtatious than I’d usually go for, but I’m a woman on a mission. Then I spot two messages from Max.

max: As IF you didn’t remember what today is, I’m offended

max: (This is a joke, I’m glad you’re busy)

Shit, shit, shit. How did I forget? My heart twists as my fingers fly over my screen to reply.

ava: I’m so sorry, I’ll call tomorrow?

Max replies:

max: You’re allowed to live your life, Col

max: That’s kind of the whole point

ava: we should still celebrate though

I slip my phone into my back pocket and take one last look in the mirror. The person staring back at me doesn’t try for permanence. She gets her fill, and then she leaves. That’s the way it’s been for years.

So why does it feel like I’m suddenly wearing clothes that aren’t mine?

When I step back into the shop, I expect to find it empty. Instead, Finn’s leaning in that perpetually casual way of his on the other side of the counter, wearing the same smile from the other day while he texts.

As he glances up from his screen, something moves across his face. My heart betrays me with a stutter when his eyes train on mine. I push my shoulders back and stand tall, reminding myself that we are friends, and that I have a goal for tonight that he is categorically not involved in. I stride over to the till to make sure it’s turned off.

He seems like he’s weighing up what to say, his mouth opening and closing just slightly. ‘Your date’s a lucky man.’

‘I’ll let you know tomorrow,’ I reply with a shrug, and he expels a soft laugh.

After a few moments of silence, he says quietly, ‘I didn’t mean it like that, though.’

I can’t look at him. Trying to forget the hunger in his eyes when I was pressed into his side feels futile, when his words seem to have a similar effect on my weak-willed body. God, I need to get away from him. I need to release some of this tension with someone who won’t make a mess of my life.

‘I hope he’s not lying about his height,’ I say, attempting some levity.

He matches my tone. ‘It’d be terrible if he were only six-three.’

‘Right? I’m so glad you understand.’ His gaze burns into my back as I walk around the shop unnecessarily, doing the final checks that I know I’ve already completed. I move back in his direction and wonder aloud, ‘What do you think might disappoint him about me?’

He scratches his jaw and releases a long exhale. ‘I can’t think of a single thing that’s disappointing about you.’

It makes my breath catch, but then I remember that Finn’s like this with everyone. He reaches the front door first and holds it open, and for a few moments, we’re in a standoff. I refuse to move, scowling at him for being, well, him, I guess.

His eyebrows raise in amusement. ‘Just walk through the door, Ava.’

‘Don’t tell me what to do.’

He folds his arms and leans against the door. ‘Did I do something wrong?’

‘No.’ I close my eyes and my exhale mixes with the evening air between us. ‘I’m just in my head about something. Thank you for being the delightfully chivalrous, door-opening man that you are.’

‘You have a real talent for making compliments sound like insults.’

I slide past him, and he follows close behind. ‘And you have an affinity for receiving insults as compliments, so I guess that’s why the universe stuck us together.’ I lock the door in three places, then tug the handle a few times to be extra sure. ‘That, and a perverse desire to challenge me.’

The easy demeanour is back, and he cocks his head to one side. ‘Challenge you how?’

‘To see how long it’ll take for me to get so exasperated by your facts and endless chatting that I bar you from the shop.’

‘There’s gotta be a part of you that loves it, because so far, you haven’t kicked me out once .’

‘There’s still time, Finn.’

My phone lights up with two more texts from Max.

max: Officially six years old

max: They (I) grow up so fast

Six years since wordless bargains with the universe that I’d make all over again if I had to. Since enough tears were shed to fill one side of the scales and tip the balance of fate in our favour. Familiar wisps of smoke skulk around the edges of my brain at the memory of our family being in that dark place.

‘You’re wrong, anyway,’ Finn says, lightly bumping his shoulder against mine. His uneven smile is morning light burning through fog, and miraculously, the shadows retreat, and my head feels a little clearer. ‘The universe stuck us together so that we could laugh at frighteningly anatomically correct frothy milk dicks together.’

A laugh flurries out of me. ‘How does it feel knowing you just said a sentence that no one in the world has ever said before?’ I can’t help but groan at the memory of that ridiculous latte art. ‘Fuck, I hate that I laughed at that. It was a one-off. I’m actually an extremely delicate lady.’

‘No it wasn’t, and no you’re not.’ His gaze sweeps across my face, then slowly moves down my neck, then even lower, lingering on the lace edging my top. My pulse flutters wildly in response. His jaw tightens when he meets my eyes again. ‘You are completely indecent.’

He says it like a prayer.

The silence lasts a second too long. My body’s on high alert, so I clear my throat. ‘What I am is someone who has to leave. I only have twenty minutes to psych myself up for an evening of pretending I enjoy the company of men.’

If there was any tension between us, it drifts into the night with the sound of his laugh, and it reminds me that he can snap out of this like it’s nothing, like he didn’t just send my stomach tumbling out into the ether. He is not for me. I’d do well to remember that.