Since Selina, he kept his relationships simple. Some would call it superficial.
He intended to keep it that way.
Blood rushed through his body, proving that some parts of him were more awake than others. Still, at least he hadn’t wandered down in his pajamas. He was grateful for that.
“Jet lag.” His mouth was dry. “The reason I couldn’t sleep was jet lag. How is your head?”
“The color has changed, but I think it suits me. What do you think?” She lifted her hair and showed him her bruised temple. “Very impressionist. A touch of Monet’s water lilies. Generally one has to be careful with shades of blue and yellow, but this works.”
On her, everything worked.
He wondered if it was possible for her to look bad.
“So you think you can persuade this thing to produce a cup of coffee? It’s new. My father is an enthusiast.”
“I can see that. This is a great machine. Todd has the same one.”
“Who is Todd?” He spoke without thinking and saw her eyebrows lift. “Ignore me. None of my business.”
“Todd is a friend,” she said mildly. “A glass artist. We share studio space.” She turned her attention back to the coffee while he watched. “I’m guessing strong and black.”
“You guessed right.”
Her spine was straight, her movements a little less smooth and relaxed than they’d been a moment before.
He knew he owed her an apology but decided it was safer if she disliked him.
Safer for him, and definitely safer for her.
If his rudeness kept her at a distance, then he would have done them both a favor.
He was terrible at relationships and after what she’d just been through she didn’t need more pain from him.
He breathed deeply, acknowledging that his strategy wasn’t driven entirely by selfless motives.
He didn’t need the pain, either. Not the pain, not the guilt, nor the lingering sense of failure that tainted everything that came after.
It was about self-protection. Self-preservation.
The coffee machine purred under her expert touch and moments later she put a cup in his hands.
“Here. I hope this helps.”
So did he.
After a night without sleep, a night during which his libido had been wide-awake and having a party all by itself, he needed the caffeine. Sexual arousal appeared to have fried his brain.
The first cup barely touched the sides of his throat and she made him a second one without being asked.
“So you’re practical as well as artistic.”
“I’d argue that making truly excellent coffee is art.” She turned her attention back to the machine and repeated the process for herself.
Tasting what she’d produced, he wasn’t about to disagree.
By the time he’d finished the second cup he was feeling more human.
All he needed now was a bracing walk in the cold air and hopefully he’d be able to make it through the day.