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“Are you kidding? My mother is an avid art collector and she taught me a thing or two about art. This is pure talent, Lucille. Why the hell did you ever stop painting?”
I looked down sadly. That was the last piece I have done before my dad died. After he was gone, I had no one else to share my passion with. Joe was never a fan of that kind of art.
I shrugged my shoulder sheepishly. “Lack of encouragement.”
From the way Sam’s brows had furrowed, I knew he understood by whom. “If Joe didn’t see this as the great piece of art that it is, then he’s an even bigger ass with terrible eyesight than I thought,” Sam concluded before entering the bathroom.
I valued Sam’s feedback on anything from the first day I met him. He never beat about the bush. He simply blurted what he thought bluntly and therefore had no doubt he was always genuine. To hear this from him today, it was an extraordinary feeling. No one who had ever looked at the portrait had noticed it was signed by me. Even more so, nobody has ever complimented me.
Sam came out of the bedroom with a set of cleanly folded clothes in one hand and with the other, unbuttoning his shirt. “Quick question. Your soap is vanilla, right?”
“It is.” I tried not to stare at his fingers as they flicked the last button open.
“I’m going to smell of you.” Sam continued into the bathroom, laughing his infectious laugh and cutting short my delightful display of his chest.
And like a little girl who had seen a unicorn, I kept staring at the shut bathroom door. Steady, Lucy. No need to drool.
Oh, dear. How did we end up on this level of friendship? Spending every night sleeping over at each other’s place, washing each other’s clothes and now undressing in front of each other?
It’s like we’ve known each other for a lifetime. And it did feel that way. I learned more about this man than anyone else. I knew he got three teeth implants. I knew he had a hair appointment booked every week, which was why he always looked the same. I knew the little toe of his right leg was broken from accidentally kicking the foot of the bed. I knew him as an excellent card player but equally great at cheating the game. I knew he was the perfect gentleman.
And he knew me. Within a few weeks, I’ve told Sam more than I’ve told Joe in seven years. For example, I never told Joe about working at that gentleman’s club. And I took Sam to the shore next to my childhood home.
This ‘thing’ between Sam and me was beginning to seem more than just a friendship. Lately, I haven’t been thinking about what I should eat later or what I should do. I’d been thinking about whatweshould do. My life had become revolving around Sam. It was a completely different kind of relationship than I had with Joe.
Sam was… Sam. He listened and remembered everything I told him. He even remembered things he was not really interested in, like the difference between Arabica and Robusta coffee. And he was super caring. Like when he noticed I was gloomy and he voluntarily took me out. Or like when he offered to be my friend and stop pursuing me, knowing that way was for my best. And he did these little things like making me coffee when he had never made one before in his entire life.
The bathroom door creaked open and I realized I hadn’t broken my gaze from staring at that door since Sam had gone in. And now, I just couldn’t even more. My sight was completely locked at that angle and unable to move.
Sam stood in the doorway, with his joggers hanging low on his waist and with his glistening damp chest on full display. “I promise I did not come out here like this on purpose. I forgot to bring in a shirt. Oh, there it is.”
Sam picked up the crumpled shirt on the floor between the bedroom and the bathroom. He must have dropped it along the way. Then went back into the bathroom. Seconds later, he returned to the room wearing the shirt and holding his wet clothes in his hand.
“What’s going on, Sam?”
Sam stopped in his tracks, clearly baffled by my words. He peered at the clothes in his hands. “I’m just going to pop these in the washing machine.”
“I meant, are we still friends?”
There now, I dropped the bombshell question. No more overthinking about this. I needed an answer.
In the few seconds of silence that ensued next, the rush of rain droplets on the windows sounded like a loud stampede in the room.
“Of course we are. We’re good friends. Don’t you think so?”
“Good friends who can’t stop staring at each other?”
Sam’s posture stiffened. Now he understood where I was steering the conversation. He dropped the wet clothes on the floor, approached the sofa and sat on the wooden table right in front of me. “I don’t mind you staring at me, Lucille.”
“Before, when we were not friends, when you were just my boss, I used to stare at your eyes. Now I can’t stop looking at all of you.” That was surprisingly easy to admit.
“You stared at my eyes? I never noticed that.”
“How could I not? Yours are the most beautiful irises on earth. I might have stared at your ass too sometimes but it’s mostly your eyes.”
Sam grabbed my ankle and tugged lightly, urging me to turn around from my curled-up position and face him, with the gesture making me spill coffee from the mug I was nuzzling at my chin. “Well, since you’re bold enough to admit that, I’ll say I stared at your breasts. The perkiest and sexiest I’ve ever seen. Not just tonight. All the time. Never stopped. Doubt I ever will.”
I caught him unashamedly looking down at my breasts and at the coffee spill trickling from my chin to my cleavage.
