Page 9 of The Embrace of Evergreen
“No.”
“You’re no fun at all. Maybe I’ll ask him.”
I take a sip of my espresso before answering, “You should.”
Why does that leave me feeling sick to my stomach? I saw the man for all of five minutes across a crowded coffee shop. I shouldn’t care if Gabriel wants to fuck him. Hell, I should be happy for both of them; they’d probably have a great night together. They’d probably have a great morning, too, as they stumble out of Gabriel’s bedroom, rumpled and giggling and trying to steal my plastic-flavored coffee. They’d probably fall madly in love and buy a house in the suburbs and get dogs and have babies. They’d probably be happy together forever.
I decide to ignore the fact that thinking about their happiness makes me decidedly unhappy.
I’m grateful when Gabriel drops the subject, kisses my cheek, and heads back to work without a word, even though I know he thinks my abrupt response means that he’s won this particular battle.
I’m even more grateful that he doesn’t say a word when I show up to the café earlier than normal the next day, and that my appearance happens to coincide with the time of day I first saw the winkable stranger.
I see him a handful of times over the next few weeks. We make eye contact and smile at one another each time, but I haven’t let myself wink at him again. I haven’t let myself approach him even though I want to. I haven’t let myself buy his espresso or ask him to dinner - or if he wants to fuck - even though I want to.
I haven’t studied the way the sunlight that streams in through the large windows and over the blue velvet couch he favors dances through his short auburn hair, highlighting strands of red and gold. I haven’t strained my eyes from across the room trying to figure out whether there are any flecks of brown or gold hiding in his unusual forest-green eyes. I haven’t stared at his broad shoulders or noticed the way they taper down to narrow hips as he orders a refill or politely places his cup on the counter instead of leaving it on one of the tables before he exits the café. I haven’t noticed that he has the body of a marine or professional baseball player or Greek god. I haven’t noticed the way his long, pale fingers almost tenderly caress his keyboard as he works or theway his brows furrow and his typing pauses from time to time as he closes his eyes in thought.
I definitely haven’t.
I haven’t thought about him while I’m talking with Gabriel during his lunch break. I haven’t thought about him while I’m lost in a spiral of thought and emotion and flame at the shop. I haven’t thought about him as I lie in bed, trying my best to fall asleep at night. I definitely haven’t thought about him while my hands slide slick and wet across my skin in the shower.
Nope. I’ve barely noticed the man at all.
Gabriel hasn’t mentioned my obsession. He hasn’t said a word about the fact I’ve been to the café more often than normal or commented on the way my appearances are almost always earlier in the day than they used to be despite my intense hatred of mornings. He hasn’t pointed out that he occasionally has to repeat my name to draw my attention back to the conversation when I get lost in surreptitiously watching the man’s fingers flying as he types, or the tip of his tongue trace his bottom lip when he’s deep in thought. Gabriel hasn’t even brought up the fact that I’ve come home alone the past three Friday nights instead of finding a warm, willing body to enjoy.
The thing is, I don’t know why I can’t stop watching the man. I don’t understand why I can’t keep my mind off him for more than a few hours. I’ve beeninfatuated before, sure, but years ago, when I was young and stupid and too naïve to know better. I’m not foolish and innocent any longer. I know what the end result of indulging this hormone-induced fascination will be. Where allowing myself to feel like this will lead. I’ll end up hurt and alone and wondering yet again how something that once seemed so good could have gone so desperately wrong.
Chapter 5
Ethan
I’m shocked by how much I’m enjoying this job. I’ve liked my past few positions well enough, I suppose. The owners have been nice and the industries interesting. This one, though…this one is a breath of fresh air so strong that it feels as if I’ve spent years not realizing I’ve been starving for oxygen. I read the employee bios on the gallery website before I accepted the position, but while there was a photo of the original owner, Max, the two newer co-owners, Emily and Troy, didn’t have them. So when I’d shown up to meet with them for the first time, I’d been surprised, but not exactly shocked, to find that the woman with the refined elegance and red mohawk who had sold me the glass sculpture my first day in the city was actually Emily.
“Shall I assume you’re so in love with the piece that you’ve come to see if anything else speaks to you?” Dressed to the nines once again, she’d smiled kindly inrecognition when I arrived at the gallery Monday morning.
I cleared my throat and dropped my gaze awkwardly for a moment before realizing that wouldn’t exactly instill much confidence in the man the owners were entrusting to come up with a solid business plan for their expansion.
“I’m actually here to meet with the owners. I have a ten a.m. meeting.”
It was nine thirty, but I always like to arrive early rather than risk being late and potentially thought of as unreliable.
As her smile brightened, I quickly shook off my remaining nerves, although I wasn’t sure where they’d come from in the first place. I know how good I am at my job, and I don’t ever get close enough to anyone to really care what they think of me outside of those parameters.
“You’re Ethan?”
“I am.”
She extended her hand, her handshake firm and welcoming. “I’m Emily, and I’m thrilled to know that in addition to coming highly recommended, it seems you’re an art lover as well. Come on, Max and Troy are upstairs in the office with coffee. I don’t know about you, but I always need more than one cup before I’m fully functional.”
I chuckled as I followed her up the stairs. “Three is my minimum most days.”
She glanced back over her shoulder, still smiling brightly. “I think we’re going to get along just fine.”
She’d led me into a small office space that was flooded with natural light and tucked into a corner of the building’s top floor so discreetly that I hadn’t even noticed its existence when I’d visited only two days prior.
The two people who’d been talking quietly when Emily and I walked in both stood to greet me. It only took a few moments of conversation for me to realize just how perfectly the gallery reflected their group. Each of them was unique and vibrant and completely distinct from the other two. On the surface, it was almost surprising that they’d ever even find themselves in the same room let alone in business together, but once they began to interact, it was clear that their working dynamic and personal eccentricities served only to highlight how their differences worked in harmony for the good of the gallery and its artists.
“Welcome to Seattle, Ethan. How are you finding our city so far?” Max began as she took my hand between both of hers for a moment in something resembling a handshake from someone’s eclectic hippie aunt, a description that isn’t far off. Max is a stunningly graceful woman in her early sixties, whose long salt-and-pepper hair swirls around her like a veil or a halo when she walks.
