33. First-Degree Sex
33
FIRST-DEGREE SEX
Leighton
The hiss of the espresso machine mingles with a show-stopping number on the High Kick Coffee sound system, nearly drowning out the sounds of my thoughts on Tuesday morning.
They’ve been chasing me all morning—the did you really do that? —along with the realization that not only did I do that, but I planned that.
When I really should be planning how to both budget for the rent increase at Hush Hush and to grow my business. Blowing out a frustrated breath, I adjust my camera, then return to my job for today—capturing the warm morning light on a matcha latte and a plate of seven-layer bars for the shop’s social media.
Taking photos grounds me when my thoughts are chaotic.
And today, that chaos is named Miles. Somehow, I thought that moment when he put me up against the wall before he caught his flight was a one-time thing. A get it out of our system moment of weakness. Toe-curling, knee-buckling weakness. But something that wouldn’t happen again.
Last night though? There was no fuck it to last night. That was pure, premeditated, first-degree sex, when I should have been, I don’t know, devising a plan for the studio. Or even sleeping.
But as I fiddle with the lens, I’m not thinking about numbers or budgets. I’m replaying the way I felt last night giving Miles what he wanted— me . I’m not even sure what I’m shooting anymore.
I lower the camera so I can refocus. And soon, the grandmother of the man I’ve been fantasizing about is staring at me inquisitively from across the counter.
“Where did you just drift off to?” Birdie asks as she measures oat milk for a latte, her purple feather boa flung jauntily around her neck.
I blink. “You could tell?”
She smirks. “Considering you’ve been standing there holding the camera without taking a single picture for the last minute? I had a hunch.”
Busted.
Birdie sets the milk down, resting her hands on the counter as she studies me. “What’s going on, Leighton?”
I can’t exactly tell her the truth: Oh, nothing much, just replaying the steamy details of what your grandson and I did last night. Instead, Birdie takes the reins as she gestures to one of her employees and says, “I’m going to need you to handle the next few orders.” She grabs a slice of coconut cake and two forks, along with a cup of tea, then slips around the counter and leads me to a free table. I suppose I do need a break .
“Romance is best discussed over cake and tea,” she declares.
I laugh, following her lead. “So we’re discussing romance now?”
“Please. You’ve been floaty all day. Clearly, love is on your mind.” She slides the tea and cake in front of me.
Birdie’s perceptiveness is both a blessing and a curse. I feel safe with her, but I’m not ready to spill every detail about what happened with Miles. She’s not only his grandmother—she’s also my client.
“Floaty, huh?” I say, deflecting.
“Don’t even try it. Talk to me,” she says, cutting into the cake and taking a bite.
I busy myself, fiddling with the napkin on the table, trying to decide how much to share. Briefly, I consider steering the conversation to business instead. Birdie is a businesswoman after all. I could ask her advice on the rent increase. But I don’t want to look like I’m angling for more work from her. And, honestly, maybe I need to deal with what’s front and center on my mind first. “There’s…someone. But it’s complicated.”
Her eyes light up. “Oh, I love complicated. Who is he? Anyone I know?” she asks so innocently.
I give it back to her in the same way. “Maybe a little.”
“And you like him?”
I hesitate for a moment, then nod. “I do.”
A grin spreads across her wise, weathered face. “I bet he feels the same.”
“He does,” I admit, warmth spreading through me at the thought.
She takes another bite, then sets down her fork with a clink against the porcelain. “So what are you going to do about all of these complications? Because, honey, complications is just another word for stuff you’re not ready to deal with.”
“Why don’t you tell me how you really feel?”
“I’m not in The Underground Grandma Matchmaking Society for nothing,” she adds, winking.
I swallow hard. “Okay, so as a member, what would you tell me to do?” I know she’s on my side. I know she’ll say go for it. Maybe all I’m really looking for is permission.
Birdie leans back in her chair, her eyes softening. “Honey, you’re young. Don’t get caught up in the details. Someday, you’ll be old, running a coffee shop, taking photos, and wondering about some guy who got away.”
Her words hit like a hammer to my chest. I glance out the window at the morning crowds rushing by on Fillmore Street, people chasing their to-do-lists and their days, my throat tightening. It sounds so easy—like you can just throw caution to the wind. But it’s not just my caution. There are others involved. My dad will always be here for me—to the end of the Earth and back. Which also means he would always take my side. But what if I try something with Miles and it falls apart? What would that mean for Miles on the team? Even if it works out, would it be awkward? Uncomfortable? Create a rift between them? Cause discomfort with the other players? Would they respect him less? Miles was affected by his injury. What if there was an emotional injury, too, from us? How would that impact him?
“I know what you mean,” I say. “But it’s not that simple.”
“Of course it’s not easy. If it were, you wouldn’t be drifting off while taking pictures of lattes and treats.” She smiles knowingly. “Speaking of, let’s take a picture of that next drink I’m making. I think you’d benefit from focusing on something familiar.”
Yes, she’s right. Her insight grounds me, reminding me of who I am. I’m a photographer, a storyteller, a human who likes to remember all the special moments. Even the ones that might pass you by. Like this one, when a kind, sassy woman who believes in romance looks out for me.
She also gave me the answer to the question I didn’t have to ask—what to do about the rent increase. The answer is the same as the romance one— focus on something familiar.
There is no magic solution to a cost jump. I need to keep taking photos. The more clients I gain, the better I can handle the ups and downs. Like Melissa is doing with the cookies. She jumped on the opportunity to add a new line of sweet things. She wasted no time.
Life keeps coming at you. And I’ll keep dealing with whatever it throws my way. I glance down at the Nikon—with this .
This skill, this ability, this talent. It’s mine, and I’ll keep using it.
I pick up my camera again, letting the act of taking photos settle the storm in my chest, even if all sorts of complications remain.
Later, when I’m at his home, covered in four small dogs, editing the photos, my mind drifts again. To the way Miles makes me feel—desired, appreciated, and seen in a way I haven’t experienced before. But maybe it’s what I’ve been searching for with my camera all these years. I spend so much of my life being the lens, but what I’ve really been looking for is someone to see me.
And of course, seeing me really means…listening to me.
Miles listens. More than anyone ever has.
Over the next several days, Birdie’s advice digs roots in me. Her encouragement—though of course she has her grandson’s heart in mind—makes me think that maybe it’s okay to give in to something that feels good, even if it’s fleeting. Maybe it’s okay to be with someone, however briefly, who listens.
I replay her advice as I work for The Sports Network, as I walk the dogs, as I make tea every morning and gaze at the sun rising while steam curls over the mug, imagining mornings like these with Miles.
Dangerous things, these daydreams. They nip at my feet as I go to the arena and plan the calendar with Everly. On Tuesday afternoon, as we’re scoping out locations in the arena to shoot the images, we walk past the mural Maeve worked on last season. My attention snags on the Presidio looming at the edge of the mural—the site of our first date. The painted image pulls me back to that day. It reminds me of kneeling in front of the lockbox, clicking it open, discovering a vintage locket. I can see him lifting it, looping it around my neck, clasping it as his fingers brushed against my skin.
I still have the photo I took of it, so I dig around for it in my files, finding it without much effort. I stare at it, slipping back in time, falling into a memory of how I felt that day with him. It’s comforting knowing that that perfect day isn’t forgotten—it’s captured perfectly in this image.
As I look at it, I shiver, just like I did then—before I gave in to the way I felt with him. To the way he listened to me.
This mural feels like a quiet echo of that moment. Maybe it’s a sign too. Have I been looking for one all along?
Everly glances at me, her expression curious but patient. She’s always had a way of knowing when something’s on my mind.
“How did you manage it?” I ask abruptly.
She furrows her brow. “Manage what?”
“The way you felt about Max…and your job.”
Everly pauses, then smiles softly. “It wasn’t easy.”
I exhale, the weight of her honesty hitting me. “Yeah, that’s the impression I’m getting.”
She sips her London Fog latte. Then she says, “He sent me these every day. He brought them to work. Then to my home. It’s a little thing, but it added up. I needed to know what I was fighting for, you know?”
Do I even know that yet? My throat tightens unexpectedly. “Some days, everything feels so tangled up,” I admit quietly. “The way I worry about the future. The present. My family. My goals.”
She nods, her voice steady. “It’s always tangled. It’s never easy. Everything is a choice. All you can do is make the best ones and know your friends will have your back.”
I swallow hard, my heart tightening with unspoken fears. But I manage a small smile. “Cheese alert: I’m so glad we became friends.”
“Me too.” Everly throws her arms around me in a warm hug.
As we return to work on the calendar, she grins at me. “You know, complicated is my middle name.”
I laugh, the tension in my chest easing for now. But later when I’m on the bus heading toward the Marina, questions swim up—what happens when Miles returns late tonight? I’m supposed to go. We even planned for me to go when we set up this arrangement in the first place. We figured I’d leave a few hours before he returned. That will make it easier, we’d both said.
To avoid temptation and all.
But are we still avoiding it?
I don’t have the answer to that question as the evening rolls on. As I straighten up, all I know is that I should leave in a little while since he’s due home in a few more hours.
I’m making sure towels are hung properly in the bathroom when my phone pings with a notification from the front door cam. A delivery arrives—grocery bags. After the delivery guy leaves, I head to the door and grab the goods so I can put them away before Miles returns tonight.
A proper dog-sitter task will be good for me. It’ll remind me why I’m here—putting things away, taking care of the home and the creatures in it. But there’s a note attached to one of them with my name on it. They’re not just for him? My heart skips a beat as I open the bag and find a note tucked inside:
For when I cook for you.
It’s presumptuous. Cocky, even. But it’s also so wonderful that my pulse soars. All the floaty feelings return, flooding every cell in my body. So much for a dog-sitter task. This feels like a task for a?—
I stop myself before my mind dares to say other words. One other word , really. That starts with a G .
But I can’t fight off the smile that pulls at my lips as I text him: Can’t wait to see what you whip up in the kitchen.
Then I add one more sentence— For us .
The giddy haze stays with me a little while as I unpack the groceries—artichokes, hearts of palm, mushrooms, tofu, asparagus, pasta—all the things I love. He really did shop for me. There’s even a bottle of wine—white, of course. A Riesling that’s so light and pretty my mouth waters.
That lovely feeling turns into something else. Something warm, something safe as I settle onto the couch, pick up a photography book and slide under a fleece blanket that’s like a magnet for the pack. Soon, the heat from four small animals burrowing under the cover with me warms me from the inside out.
The words and images blur on the page as my mind drifts to the locket, to that one perfect day, then to all the days I’ve spent with him since.
And the nights too.
Like this night when he sent me groceries, and I hardly feel like I should leave anymore. I close my eyes and drift into sleep until there’s a click of the door at the edge of my dreams.