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I nod. “It will always be your choice. If I ever do anything or say anything that makes you uncomfortable…”
She raises a finger in my direction. “You don’t, Devon. You must know that. Look at us. Look at where we’ve gone already. Look at where we are.” I hear her vulnerability in every syllable. The implication is written in broad strokes. At this pace, we both know where we might be a week from now.
She wants me. I want her. But I hold the cards. I carry the secret. This game is rigged for her. I keep saying I’m a good guy. It’s time to prove it.
“Let’s wait awhile.” I remove the weight of the decision from her shoulders.
Her eyes flash something I can’t read. I don’t know her well enough to know if it’s relief or concern. It only solidifies what I should’ve said at the start. We don’t know each other.
“Let’s focus on getting through the next week. On having moments like this. Like we did last night. Let’s get to know eachother and, in a week, if we want to press that Turbo button together, I’ll be all in. Deal?”
She twirls the french fry in front of her face. “In that case, I guess I won’t have you wear those ridiculously sexy shorts for me again.” A strained laugh escapes, and she takes a nibble of her fry. “And for the record, you can never go wrong bringing me garlic fries.”
“Duly noted.” I stride to the other side of the counter, scooping up two containers of Chinese food. “Clarifying question?”
I turn to catch her hand back in the container, stealing another fry. “I like questions?” She giggles and carries the container to the table.
“Am I still allowed to fill my cup with my daily allocation of Zara glances?” My question isn’t meant as a joke. Regardless of the answer, I know there’s no way my eyes won’t find their way to wherever she is while she’s in the café.
“Yes. We may still ogle each other as much as our hearts desire.”
I make note of her use of the word heart.
“If we’re going to do this, we need some ground rules. We can look but no touching. Touching makes me…” She doesn’t finish the sentence. The words unnecessary. I feel the same.
She turns, giving me her back as she returns to the counter. As much as I tell my eyes to look anywhere but at her swinging hips, they don’t listen. No touching means no kissing. If I had known that quick ghost kiss we shared earlier might be the last one we shared for a week, I would have let my lips linger a little longer.
I can do this. One week. I can keep my hands to myself. I can keep my secret hidden for a week.
All I need to do is focus. In a week, I’ll officially have the coveted role I’m training for. In a week, Zara’s pitch will be behind her. In a week, I’ll be able to kiss her again.
One week. I can do this.
Chapter Eleven
Zara
The crash of glassware behind me doesn’t cause me to turn. Nor does Devon’s shout, “I’m sorry. It slipped… I’ll get another drink for you.”
Instead, I lower my design pen to the tablet, the final touch up of the volleyball baseball cap design will have to wait. I flip up the screen on my laptop, the spreadsheet already open. I update the cell from three to four. The title Barista Bumbles flashes. The bar chart to the right of the table updates, triggering the sound of a car, tires skidding, crashing. It’s a silly sound clip that I found while multitasking on this morning’s Zoom call. The happy distraction help make the twenty-minute torture session fly by.
For the last three days, I’ve tracked Devon’s blunders in the shop. He’s trending down, and I suppress a giggle, recalling Devon’s words shared on a break when I showed him the chart this morning.
“It’s directionally correct.”
For the last three days, he’s been a man of his word—we’re taking things slow. We still ogle each other a hundred thousandtimes a day with a look that says the last thing we want to do is go slow. But we don’t act on these feelings, no matter how badly I want to.
Devon sits with me every break. Every single one. That must mean something.
He continues to be a disaster in the café, which has extinguished any hopes I may have of him pulling off the dance routine. I pick up my phone and tap my new favorite folder. My fingers swipe, and I stare at the gorgeousness in front of me.
Devon.
Since we agreed to look, don’t touch, when Devon tried on the outfits three nights ago in my apartment, I turned it into a fashion shoot. My camera roll swelled with over a hundred photos of him. I told him it was so I could see how the clothes hang from a body from every angle.
We both knew it was a lie. Over half my photos are closeups of Devon’s face. His ridiculously handsome face has me clinching my knees together and swooning.
With tons of leftovers and a few remaining outfits remaining, I invited Devon back to my place the next night. He showed up with dessert. An entire lemon iced pound cake because he saw me lick my lips when a woman sat near me with hers in the café.
