She let me name her cat. That has to mean something.
At seven thirty, I leave Benny to hold things down and head to the office with the food I’d ordered. Buffalo wings, celery sticks with extra blue cheese, a Coke for me and a root beer for Lot. She’s been holed up in there for hours. I know she hasn’t eaten. Neither have I. Two birds, one stone. Simple as that.
I knock once, then let myself in. “Hey. Thought you might be hungry.”
“Huh?” She glances up from her iPad, stylus paused in her left hand, vaguely aware of me. I used to call it her art trance, like she’s living inside the sketch. While Lot’s in that liminal space, between here and there, I let myself look.
The overhead light casts a warm glow across the apples of her cheeks and heart-shaped face. Half of her hair’s tied up in a twisty knot, the rest falls over her shoulders. Full lips bare, a natural duskyrose. Skin, brown and smooth like top-shelf whiskey. Beautiful without trying.
“If you’re in the zone, I’ll just drop this off.”
She blinks me into focus and sees the food tray. “You brought dinner?”
“No big thing. I had to eat too.”
“What time is it?”
“Almost eight.”
“Shit, really?” She stretches, and her white tee pulls taut across her chest. One breast is covered by a Queen of Hearts. The other’s still a mystery. There’s black lettering underneath that reads Feeling Lucky?
I try to keep my eyes off those cards. I really do. “What are you working on?” I ask.
“Finalizing the logo.”
I cross the room. Queenie bolts off the desk with a sharp meow, the bell I bought jingling as she leaps onto the filing cabinet, glaring at me like I’m an intruder.
“Damn. Still can’t get no love.”
“She can’t be bought with a few gifts. She has her standards.”
I laugh. I missed the hell outta those quick comebacks.
I set the food down, twist off the caps, and pass her the root beer.
“Haven’t had one of these in forever. Thanks, Dyson.”
I let the government name slide, mostly because I’m distracted by her lips wrapped around the bottle, head tipped back, throat working, tongue sweeping the rim after. Watching her drink a soda feels near indecent.
“Problem?” she asks, one brow raised.
“Nope.”
She side-eyes me in true Lot form.
The years apart must’ve opened the floodgate. I’ve always wanted her, but it’s like the dam I built is gone and I’m drowning in it. My problem. And my secret.
Seeing her phone on the desk, I plug it into the charger. Bar pops up yellow. Of course.
“I would’ve done that.”
“Now you don’t have to.”
She looks at me, half-suspicious. “Why are you bein’ so nice?”
“I am nice.”
“Hmm. Not the first word that comes to mind.”
