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I close my eyes, enjoying her. Wishing I could stay here and forget about Brett and all his bullshit. There has to be some explanation. I should just tell her what I know and ask her.
But what if…
“That front desk,” she says. “Once the pieces are together? And with the burnishing? Right?”
“We rocked it,” I say, trying to push out the shred of doubt burning at the back of my mind. I trust her. But trustworthy people get in bad situations. They get in over their heads.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I say. “But you know, this place would be so much better if it had better shared spaces.”
“What do you mean?”
“This is the only viable couch,” I say.
“Yeah, well…” She frowns over at the junky couch across from us. The two ratty chairs.
I tease her about it being so Road Warrior and she hits me and I catch her wrists. I want to never let her go.
“Not just a nicer lounge area, but it needs larger and more functional collaboration spaces. The way we all had to crowd into Latrisha’s area? No. You could double the workspace if you expanded to the upper level. There could be cots, sleeping rental by the hour, Japanese-hotel style. Hire a manager to oversee the tools and double as a barista and referee, and the stuff you’d sell would pay their hourly and you’d have somebody quasi-managing.” I make suggestions about how they could get creative with events and partnerships, to figure out the right scale to make it sustain itself as a nonprofit. Anything to get my thoughts off the hell of that doubt.
She seems more amazed with every ensuing idea. It makes me feel prouder than all the year’s groundbreakings combined. “That’s brilliant,” she says.
“I know.”
She snorts.
I tuck a stray hair behind her ear. She’s not a threat.
“Seriously,” she says, “I don’t know how you see it. It just comes together in your mind.”
“It’s not magic.” I put my lips to her ear. “Have you seen the other couch?”
“Shut it.” She laughs.
I let my lips hover there a split second too long.
She gets a serious look in her darkly fringed eyes. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Shit.” She slides her hand over my forearm, to where I was burned at the forge end of the space. “You should put something on this.”
I put my hand over hers. I don’t care about the burn; it’s the spark of our chemistry that’s torching me. Everything is so fresh and real with her, with her glasses half down her nose and her devil-may-care hair and pink monkey-face T-shirt. She’s beautiful to me like this. So different than anyone I ever date. Unguarded. Natural.
She gets a text. “Hold on.” She shifts in my lap and taps out an answer.
My fingers press into her upper arm, her left hip. Memorizing the feel of her.
Her chest rises and falls, nipples pressing through worn fabric. A T-shirt and jeans is practical for this place, but it feels more right for her than the librarian shit. So why the reserved outfits? She makes her money in an Etsy store, or she did up until last month. She can wear anything she wants.
It’s not like she’s transformed completely, of course. She still wears her brown glasses. And the ponytail I so badly want to undo is still there.
I slide my hand over the glossy hair.
She tucks away her phone and gives me a fun, vixeny look and that little half-smile that I want to kiss right off her face. And I do.
She sighs. “I don’t want to return to the real world.”
