So close, Samantha. So close. Why’d you stop now?
I need to move. Work. Maybe take a cold shower.
I hop back up on the barstool, staring unseeingly at the laptop on the counter. Where was I again? What was I doing?
Who am I?
I open the laptop because it feels like the professional thing to do, when I spy a bar to the right of his kitchen, beckoning to me from beneath gentle overhead lighting.
Oh, yes. Yes, that is exactly what this moment calls for. I’m not going anywhere anytime soon, and if I don’t have something to relieve the tension that thrums through me, I’ll crack.
I hop back down from the barstool and head to the bar, and I hear him curse just before he opens the door.
“Miguel,” a woman’s voice says. I freeze, my fingers gripping a glass at the bar. It’s a nice woman’s voice, all sensual and seductive, and doesn’t exactly sound like it might be his mama.
I can’t see anything from here, because the kitchen’s tucked away and the entryway door’s paces behind the doorway. I reach blindly for a bottle at the bar and tip something into my glass. I don’t even see it, I’m too focused on the sound of heels clicking on the tiled floors, heading my way.
“Elise,” Miguel begins.
Elise? That’s a… woman’s name, right?
There’s the low hum of a female voice accompanying the sound of those heels clicking on tile. I freeze.
“I’m sorry, I’ll have to cancel our plans for tonight,” he says, just as the heel clicks enter the room and freeze in place when she catches sight of me. We stare at each other, and make no mistake, we’re sizing each other up. She’s gorgeous, tall and lithe and fit, a slinky black dress gliding over her perfect body like it was custom designed just for her. She has short, raven-black hair cut stylishly, accentuating the line of her jaw and her high cheekbones. Her makeup is flawless, pouty red lips frowning at me as she takes me in.
I look down as I take me in, too, and see what she sees.
Frumpy T-shirt dress I picked up on consignment, that fits me well but has seen better days. Worn black flats, bare legs. A body that’s passable but hasn’t seen the inside of a gym in way too long. My hair’s all over the place, I’m not wearing any makeup, and I’m pretty sure my eyebrows need a good pluck.
Oh, dear.
Who is she? Oh, God, who is this woman? Can’t be his sister, because no one goes to see their brother dressed like that.
Does he have a girlfriend? Like a dope, I just let the man stick his tongue down my throat when he’s claimed?
Oh my God. What if she’s his wife?
I pull myself together, though, because only a fool jumps to conclusions like that.
Or maybe only a fool assumes a man who kisses her is single?
Miguel walks into the room, his hands shoved into his pockets, and he looks all pissed again.
“Elise,” Miguel says, “meet Samantha.”
She tips her head to the side curiously, still eyeing me.
“Nice to meet you, Samantha,” she lies, because I can tell by the tone of her voice there are plenty of things she’d rather be doing, like perhaps dusting ceiling fans or de-boning fish.
I swallow. “Pleased to meet you, too,” I also lie, wondering how exactly one walks in heels that high without pitching forward and chipping a tooth. When an awkward silence falls on the room, I decide to swig my drink. It’s sweet and decadent with cherry undertones, and my tastebuds come to life. Whoa. This shit’s delicious.
I look at the glass, thinking I definitely didn’t pour enough.
“Careful with that,” Miguel says, and when I look up, he’s staring straight at me. Elise shoots him a furious look she quickly quells, like he isn’t allowed to boss around anyone but her.
A warning bell chimes in my head.
“Miguel,” Elise says, turning to him gracefully, though her jaw’s tight and she’s clutching her clutch like it’s personally offended her. “Is this your… house help?”
Oh no she didn’t, the bitch.
“Friend,” I mutter. “We’re friends.”
More like frenemies, but whatever. Do you make out on the sofa with frenemies? Is frenemies-with-benefits a thing? It should totally be a thing.
My cheeks heat, and I want to smack her. She’s dismissed me as anything even slightly romantic, either because she’s in denial, or because I don’t look the part.
And for the first time since I’ve met him, I’m grateful Miguel’s a total grump, because his eyes flash at her accusation, and it’s kinda nice he’s directing that anger at her.
“Elise, you need to leave,” he says, gesturing to the door as if to underscore the leave part. My heart does a little hop. Maybe she isn’t his girlfriend, or did I just break shit up?