Yuna’s head swivels fast. “Oh yeah, it is Edgar.” She waves like a shipwreck victim spotting the coast guard. “Hey!”
Edgar nods at her once as he walks up. “Hello, ladies.”
That velvety voice with a hint of Louisiana heat caresses me, and I swear my ovaries just shivered and released more eggs. An utterly futile move on their part, since I have no plans to listen to my hormones, now or later.
“How come you didn’t tell me you were coming?” Yuna gives him a faux pout. “I would’ve planned a
party!”
“That would’ve been an imposition.”
“So…are you here to do barre?” I ask, absolutely refusing to entertain the possibility that he might be here to see me, because…why would he? It was just one time, and we haven’t been in touch since that night. Developing a sudden desire to put on leotards and come to L.A. for his daily exercise is actually a more likely possibility. He didn’t get that hunkalicious body from sitting behind a desk and signing off on big projects.
“Actually, I’m here to see you,” he says, his eyes coming to rest on mine.
I manage an outward calm that impresses even me. “Well, I’m afraid that’s not possible.” Before Yuna can invite him, I put a hand on her arm. “We have a girls’ night out planned.” That part is true. We always have a drink and hang out after barre.
“I can put on a dress if that’s what it takes,” Edgar says.
I stare at him. If anybody else had said that, I might’ve laughed, thinking it’s a joke. But he said it with such somberness that I can’t dismiss the possibility he’s actually serious. And I don’t want to star in another scene. I’ve already hit my drama quota for the year.
“Ten minutes,” I say, then turn to my friends. “You guys go ahead. I’ll catch up soon.”
They drag their feet to the changing room, walking sideways and then full-on backward. Yuna in particular is craning her neck at an angle that I didn’t think was humanly possible.
“I saw a Starbucks downstairs,” Edgar says.
“That works.”
I hoist my purse and march forward. I figure if I walk in front of him, it’ll be better for libido control because I won’t see that gorgeous ass that I gripped so hard…or admire those wide, strong shoulders that I clung to as orgasms exploded like fireworks.
But having him behind me isn’t that helpful. Not seeing him only makes me hyperaware of him in other ways—the even sound of his shoes hitting the stairs, his shadow stretching and shortening as we move under the stairwell lights. Besides, my back keeps tingling, and I wonder if he’s checking me out. He did love my ass. My right cheek prickles, memories of his teeth grazing over the sensitive skin warming my blood.
I walk faster.
The Starbucks is crowded. The cool air is replete with the smell of coffee, tea and pastries, and I inhale deeply to shake off the unwanted lust gathering inside me. My mouth waters at the scent of pure, unadulterated carbs and sugar, but I restrain myself. I didn’t even work out today, and I should save my calories for later.
Edgar places a hand on my elbow as we move toward the smiling, eager barista. If it were anybody else I might pull away, but I can’t. His gesture is incredibly gentlemanly, almost old-world. I wonder if he’s the type to lay down his jacket over a mud puddle, then shake my head. What am I thinking? He’s wearing Armani. Nobody mistreats Armani like that.
He gets a cappuccino, and I order a decaf iced tea. He makes a “both of those” gesture with his finger and reaches for his wallet; I start to put a hand on his arm to stop him, then catch myself. Touching him more is a bad idea. I need to be clearheaded.
“You take care of your drink, and I’ll take care of mine,” I say.
“It’s no trouble.”
“It kind of is to me.” Especially when I’m not sure why he’s here.
He must’ve done some homework if he tracked me down at the barre studio. Does he want to hook up again? But flying out to L.A. and hunting me down is too much work for sex, isn’t it? Even amazing sex? Even for a guy? I am, of course, completely awesome in bed…but I’m not delusional.
He looks like he wants to argue for a moment, then shrugs, the gesture small and clearly stating that this isn’t a battle he cares to wage.
“If you insist.” Then he uses a black AmEx to pay. Feeling like a peasant, I swipe my lowly, nothing-special Visa card.
He locates an empty table with two stools. I hoist myself up on one and hook my heels on the thick rung.
“Okay. So what are you doing here?” I take a few sips of the tea. I might not have worked out, but I still need to hydrate.
He puts the coffee to the side, utterly uninterested in the brew. “I’m here to do the right thing.” He pauses, his lips firming.