Page 37 of Cruz

“Alright. If you’d like to,” she corrects herself softly.

She swipes a hand through her braided hair. The sun is long gone, but it still shines golden in the lights she replaced. She steps back and gives me free rein of her space. Not that I’m not up in it most of the day, but this feels different. I know what danger feels like—that creeping awareness that settles into your pores, prickling all along the length of your skin, dumping into the bloodstream as red-hot adrenaline, cylinders firing full bore.

The machines are still on. I’ve seen Sloane do this hundreds of times over the past few weeks. I’ve watched her hands too closely. I’ve thought about what her capable, soft, smooth fingers would feel like on my body. Her palms would be hot. Would they be tentative or certain? Would they tremble with excitement? What would my hands feel like on her body? Would I be able to touch her exactly the way she likes? Could I make her come alive?

Fucking hell I need to focus.

She stands behind me, watching as I load up the little cylinder thing with coffee grounds. Sloane worked those beans over this morning, giving the shop that delicious coffee scent long before she even made a single drink. I use the kind that not many people like. Sloane calls it an acquired taste for jet fuel, not for the faint of heart.

I bend down to get the milk out of the cooler underneath the counter. I grit my teeth and try not to hiss at the pain. I grab the whipping cream too. I like the milk laced with just enough cream to take the stomach-churning burn of the dark roast coffee away.

I make far too precise measurements, adding milk and cream, then more milk and a little more cream. The espresso shots dribble in a steaming flawless flow into the cup below. I manage to steam the milk without a hissing, brutally hot explosion. I dump it straight into the coffee. There’s no fancy picture like Sloane often draws, drizzling the foam in that fancy, barista way.

I know enough not to take a sip of that drink for a good while, unless I want to burn my tongue right off.

Behind me, Sloane claps. I turn to face that dazzling smile that she wears more often than not. Maybe not for me, but she’s never shy about giving it to the people that she knows. Her eyes spark and laugh, dazzling me. Sloane has presence. My heart was already racing, but it picks up, hammering hard. My palms are so sweaty that the milk and cream almost slip out of my hands as I put them back. My pulse kicks up at the jolt of pain from my knee. I choose to blame the sweat I can feel at my temples on the warmth in here, and the pain. Not on Sloane standing so close to me, so irresistibly beautiful.

She slips past me, her shoulder brushing against mine as she leans in to turn off the machine. She does her little routine of shutting down after that. Everything gets powered off to be cleaned after dinner.

It shouldn’t be fantasy fodder, but watching Sloane’s capable hands make quick work of it, her hips shimmying, breasts rising under her sweater with every breath…

I don’t want to fall onto that futon and think about her hands. Her lips. I don’t want to think about her underneath of me, her soft curves rising to meet mine, chasing pleasure, that gorgeous smile beaming up at me. I don’t want to envision her on top, her hair a soft cloud enveloping us as she takes me inside her—

Fuck.

Also… great. I now have the hard-on from hell that I’m going to have to somehow cover up. I angle away and discreetly and quickly adjust myself, then bend down and massage my knee. It’s not an honest distraction, but it really does hurt.

“You need to get off that knee.”

I feel extra guilty when Sloane flutters around me. She grabs the coffee I just made and shuts off all the lights. She motions over her shoulder for me to follow her upstairs.

We’re only going to cook dinner.

That’s the problem. And not the problem.

If the tension between us gets any thicker, it’s going to either implode or explode. Neither is a good thing.

And I know exactly why she’s stuck. Why I’m stuck. Why we’re both churning and churning and going nowhere. It’s frustrating. It’s right. It’s wrong. It’s everything and nothing. I don’t want to rush anything. I can wait. At the same time, that explosion is getting closer and closer to the surface.

We’ll see has turned every second into an hour, and every day into an eternity.

I don’t know what else to do other than try to breathe through it, steady myself, and carry on as solid and dependable as I’ve always been, at least until Sloane lets me know that she has zero doubts about being ready for more. The last thing I want is to end up as a regret in any way. No. If anything is going to happen between me and Sloane, it’s going to be beautiful. Life changing. The best thing in the world.

She deserves nothing less.

Upstairs, I sit at her table, my phone in front of me, my coffee in hand. I sip it, but it’s not nearly as good as the ones Sloane makes. It figures. She has the magic touch. I could do everything the exact same, and mine still wouldn’t be half as good.

She fills a pot with water over at the sink. “Can I help you?” I already know what the answer is going to be.

She turns around and with a big smile. “Not a chance. If we ever have dinner at the clubhouse, sure. You can cook. You’re a guest here. I wouldn’t feel right about you making your own dinner after a day of work.”

“It’s not really work.”

Her face screws up. “Your dedication to our safety is admirable. If you were getting paid, it would be big dollars to do what you’re doing, I’m sure. So, I can for sure cook you spaghetti.” She stops halfway to the stove, pot balanced in her two hands. “Do you think we eat this too many times?”

I bite down on a laugh. “Not at all. Who doesn’t like spaghetti?”

“I know a lot of people who don’t. I could do something fancy. Make some alfredo one night, or lasagna from a box. I know some great ones, as terrible as that sounds.”