“I didn’t know if you take anything in it, so this one’s black and that has cream.” I point them out. “Do you take sugar? I can find some, if you need it.”
He shakes his head and reaches for the black coffee, takes a long swallow. “God, that’s good.”
He takes another gulp, closing his eyes while swallowing. My eyes track the movements of his throat, then linger at the hollow between his collarbones.
I kissed that spot. Fifteen years ago, I put my tongue there and tasted his skin. The salt from his tears, then the salt from his sweat when things got heated between us.
I haven’t seen this spot since that night. I wouldn’t now, except that the first two buttons of his button-down shirt are undone and his undershirt is rumpled and stretched from his nap.
When I drag my eyes away and lean back on my hands to look back at his face, Jason is looking at me with an expression I can’t interpret. His eyes flick between me, the coffee in his hand, and the beer bottles on the small table.
“What?” I ask after the moment drags out to be a little uncomfortable.
“Nothing,” he says. “Thank you for the coffee. I’ll take that beer too, actually.”
I spring to my feet and cross the room to the cabinet that holds the mini-fridge. There are two bottles of red wine on the surface and yes, a wine key to open them with. I bring it back and use the bottle opener end to crack open both beers, then hand one to Jason.
He cocks his head to the side and gives me that same inscrutable look again.
“What?” I demand.
His lips twitch and he shakes his head. “Nothing. Really. I just…I feel like a cranky toddler being attended to by a hovering parent desperate to find something to placate me with.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he waves his hand at me. “I don’t mean that as an insult. It’s just…I’m not used to someone taking care of me.” He says it like it’s a fact, not a complaint.
Is that what I’m doing? Taking care of Jason?
I suppose I have been thinking of ways to make him more comfortable since he arrived. He looks so tired. And it’s not like I have many other responsibilities right now. No clients to train, no cycling classes to teach, just a handful of yoga sessions to guide here at the resort.
There’s only one thing I have to do this week and Kelsey doesn’t need me until Friday.
“Doesn’t look like you’re doing a great job of taking care of yourself.” I wince when he raises an eyebrow at me. I didn’t mean that the way it sounds. The care and feeding of Jason Perez is none of my business and hasn’t been for a long time.
“Well, thank you again for the coffee and beer.” He raises his beer bottle and tips it towards me. I grab mine, tip it in his direction, and we gently clink bottles.
Then I take a long drink and try like hell not to watch Jason’s throat as he swallows.
Six
Jason
“I’m going to take a shower,” I announce, and the words feel abrupt in the stillness. Victor startles visibly, and shoves back from the sofa’s edge as if I’ve hurled something at him. Great. This week in Costa Rica just became even more awkward. A full seven days together, under one roof?
I have no idea how I’ll survive it.
I lift the paper cup for a final swallow; the coffee is lukewarm now and bitter on my tongue. I push myself to my feet, fighting the heavy drag of jet lag.
“Um…” Victor clears his throat. He’s standing on the other end of the sofa now, hands clasped behind his neck.
“Yeah?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“Before you take that shower—” My eyes betray me by drifting to watch how his arms flex under the thin cotton of his T-shirt. “I’m leading yoga sessions in the evenings before dinner, and in the mornings before breakfast.” He unclasps his hands and checks his watch, one of those bulky digital activity trackers that looks almost delicate on Victor’s wrist. “I figured I’d start around five-thirty, and we’d go about thirty or forty minutes, to give folks time to shower and change for dinner. Kelsey and Adrienne said they’ll join.” He ducks his head, then meets my eyes again. “Would you like to come?”
I shift my weight. “I’m not very good at yoga.” Leah dragged me to a class once, in a studio with mirrored walls and a spongy floor. Everyone else unfurled their mats in seamless synchronicity while I fumbled behind them, my hamstrings protesting every stretch.
“You don’t have to be good at it, Jason. Yoga isn’t about accomplishment. It’s about balance.” I must look unconvinced because he softens, shaking his head with a smile. “Some stretching might help after your flights, is all I’m saying. Tonight won’t be intense. And I’m a very good teacher, if I do say so myself.”
He doesn’t need to add that I owe him some courtesy for being a dick earlier. He brought me coffee—hell, even a cold beer—after I’d been a total asshole. He’s gone out of his way to be kind.
