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“I’m not.” I rise to full height and lead her down the hallway. “You sure there isn’t someone else you can get. I’m going to ruin this for you.”
“Stop with the negativity,” she scolds me, pacing in a circle around me, her knowing eyes inspecting every inch of me. It’s not unlike what every casting director does at an audition. It’s familiar.
She snickers to herself. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that a guy who looks like you is used to having girls check them out.”
My pulse kicks up, and I tell myself not to overreact. If I don’t speak, she’ll continue to focus on me. “Not any girl. Just the one who’s already checked me out a thousand times today.”
She smacks my arm. “You said it was six hundred and forty-seven.”
“Yeah, it was until I put on these indecent shorts. I can practically feel your eyes on my rear right now.”
She lifts a finger for me to take another twirl for her. Her giggle fills the air, and I spot her chewing on her finger. “Well, it’s a very nice…” I stop spinning, giving her a view of my backside. “…pair of shorts.”
I swing my hips side to side. “Yeah, it’s the shorts you’re admiring.”
She appears in front me, her eyes still focused on my shorts. “Devon? Can I say something and please don’t take this the wrong way.”
“Now I’m worried,” I kid her, but my line fails to break the look of concentration on her face.
“You have the body of an athlete.” I cross my arms against my chest, nowhere to hide. “Your muscle tone, the way your thighs pop every time you move. When I designed the shorts, that’s what I wanted to highlight. Most men’s volleyball uniforms are built like basketball shorts. They miss what brings female fans to the game. Watching half-clothed super-fit athletes jump around in tight clothes that feed our fantasies.” I lower my arms to my side. “And you’re perfection. It’s as if you stepped off my design notebook. No way you’ve gotten this body from making coffee.”
An actor’s body is part of the toolkit we bring to the table. I’ve played bit roles in action movies, have played football teammates in three different movies where my face was covered by the helmet. I run three miles every morning and hit the gym four days a week. This body isn’t an accident. But I can’t say any of that.
“Genetics, I guess.” Every lie chips away at me.
“If that’s true, your kids will be gorgeous.” My eyes find hers, and I expect to find it filled with surprise or even a little bit ofregret. Instead, all I find is a look of admiration and dare I say, hope.
“Why men’s sports? I thought you mentioned you work in women’s fashion.” I pivot the conversation, and it has my desired effect. She lowers her hopeful gaze. It’s replaced with a look of melancholy.
“I have a passion for all things fashion. I love women’s fashion, but let’s just say the opportunities aren’t what I thought they would be.” She walks back to her shopping bag and pulls out what looks like a polo shirt. It has the same blue and white team colors as the tank top. She fists it in her hand. “Sometimes you take advantage of what’s in front of you in hopes that someone will recognize your talent.”
I catch the polo shirt tossed at me and nod. I’ve felt the same. Taking a role in a project I know won’t be seen by too many people in the hope that someone will recognize my small contribution and remember me when they have another opportunity.
I whip off the tank top and toss it in her direction. She doesn’t make any attempt at catching it. It floats down to the café floor. Her gaze bores a hole in my chest. My very bare chest.
It never crossed my mind that I should be changing in the bathroom. On set, time is of the essence. If we damage an outfit, and there’s a backup, we change as quick as possible to not burn sunlight and to keep on schedule. But Zara isn’t an actress on a Hollywood set. She’s a woman. And I’m a half-naked man standing in front of her.
Her right shoulder lifts, that annoyingly sexy sweater doing what it’s done all evening, falls from her shoulder.
Make that two half-naked people in a café.
I have no idea what to do. As a man, I want to stay in this moment and drink in her gaze. But as a barista in over his head, I should cover up. But I don’t.
“I’m so freaking jealous,” she mumbles.
I know better to ask, but she makes sure I never get the chance. “I don’t even know her, but I’m jealous of your future girlfriend.”
I snicker and slip on the polo shirt. It does little to reduce the flame burning bright in her eyes. She steps close to me, a whisper on her lips, “Do you mind?” She raises her hand an inch from my chest. I nod, giving her consent.
She presses a palm to my chest, resting it there for a beat. She pinches the material between two fingers and hums to herself. She steps around me, her hands smoothing down the shirt across my back. Her light touch has my mind racing to thoughts a kind barista shouldn’t possess.
When she reappears in front of me, both hands on my chest, I close my eyes. It takes every restraint I possess not to kiss this gorgeous woman.
She’s just doing her job, and I need to remind myself to do the same.
I open my eyes to find her gaze locked on my face, not her outfit. She doesn’t say a word and neither do I. We take a synchronized breath together. The air sizzles around us, and neither one of us needs to speak. This look has nothing to do with our jobs.
This is hormones and desire. This is two people alone in a darkened café after hours. This is two people sharing a thousand stolen glances at each other. This is two people realizing the proposition they’ve agreed to comes with benefits neither of them counted on.
