Out of Focus (Love in LA #3)

Rafael is the one coughing now, and Vó laughs. It’s a lovely sound, her raspy laughter.

“I get it. I see why you do that to your afternoon coffee now. This is fantastic.” I turn to the woman across from me. “Muito bom,” I tell her, then take another sip as she smiles at me once again. “I was just about to say it’s all right if you’d like to speak in Portuguese. I don’t mind.”

“No, you are a guest. But I like that you came prepared with a little Português. Did Rafa teach you?” The way she says his name is wonderful. It sounds like haffa, and her voice changes slightly when she says anything in her native tongue. That natural raspiness in her voice is more pronounced, and she can let her vocal cords do what they’ve always trained to do. When she speaks English, her voice is clearer, but it’s almost unnatural. Not unpleasant, just slightly forced when she has to manipulate her mouth to create sounds it’s not used to.

“I didn’t teach her anything. This is kind of a surprise.” His serious tone unsettles me, my mind immediately racing to wonder whether I’m mispronouncing things, if what I did is insulting, or if he thinks I’m a massive idiot. “A very thoughtful, very sweet surprise,” he adds, yet again reading me with such ease. His hand comes to rest over mine on the table for only a second. In that time span, our eyes lock, and he mouths thank you, and squeezes my fingers in a way that reassures and completely settles me. I don’t understand it, this capacity he has to scramble my every thought and then put them all back together again.

As we eat, we mostly chat about the food in front of us, where it comes from, and the rich history behind so many of the ingredients. Brazilian culture is fascinating, and there’s no amount of late-night internet reading that could ever duplicate the experience of learning about it from someone like Ana Maria.

“Why is the coffee in such a small cup?” I ask, immediately feeling my cheeks heat in embarrassment. I’ve been wanting to ask, but it sounded like such a stupid question in my brain.

“Fantastic question,” Vó says. “Portion control. Imagine a huge cup of coffee with this much sugar? Ai ai ai.”

My eyes snap to Rafael, remembering his coffee cup from the other day. He brings his index finger to his lips in a shushing motion, and I laugh, watching as he starts to do the same.

“Oh, I know all about how my neto drinks his cafézinho by the liter.” She laughs with us, and I fear the coffee isn’t the only thing making me feel warm and buzzed.

After insisting that I was not allowed to help with clean-up, I walk out to Rafael’s car to grab my laptop and the bag he forgot in the trunk. His car is impeccably clean, not unlike his house, and I wonder whether he’s the type of person who organizes his closet by color. I love order but struggle to achieve it, and as a fellow ADHD’er, I guess I’m just waiting to find—holy mother of all doom piles. It’s the trunk. I found it. This is where his mess lives. Ha!

“Wait, red, don’t—” Rafael runs toward me, arms flailing. “Ah, fuck.” His head falls, chin touching his chest as he raises a hand to scratch at the back of his neck. It’s his biggest tell that he’s uncomfortable in some way.

“Finally,” I say as I wave a hand over the dumpster, also known as his trunk. “I found an imperfection!” I walk closer to him, close enough that I can feel his heat, and we’re both standing in front of the evidence of his mess. “I was starting to think maybe you were one of those rare neurodivergent people to always be neat and tidy.” I poke at his chest, and he raises his head, a playful grin now on his face. “But nooooo, you have messes too.” I poke again. “Not so perfect, huh, Professor Machado?” Another poke.

He takes hold of my wrist and pushes me back, so my bum rests on the bumper, his thigh coming to rest between my legs. His other hand snakes around my waist, settling on my lower back and holding me close to him. “Careful, shorty. I like that nickname a little too much.” He leans over me, bringing his lips just below my ear. “And I might be tempted to show you exactly how messy I like to get,” he whispers. His warm breath caresses my neck, and I shiver, even if my skin feels as if it’s on fire.

And then he’s gone. He takes the bag he needed out of the trunk with the hand that was behind me and backs away, leaving me breathless. “Don’t forget your laptop,” he shouts with a wink, and he turns and struts away with all the confidence of a man who just left a woman completely turned on with a few words and a simple touch.

I want to hate how good he is at this, but I’m reaping all of the benefits, so can I really hate it all that much? At all?

This is exactly why I need practice. It can’t be normal to react like this to a person. If this happens with Robert, I’m going to fumble my words or, worse, do something completely embarrassing. I must just be feeling things more extremely because this is so new, this kind of closeness with someone.

It takes a few minutes to collect myself and my laptop. Also, I take a second to take a photo of this trunk, because I never want to forget that he is just a regular neurospicy man who needs a doom pile in order to survive.

Walking back into the house, I hear quiet laughter from the kitchen, followed by a groan. A manly groan. A groan that definitely does not send a shiver up my spine because people making sounds with their throats can’t possibly cause such a reaction, can it? Fact: it can.

“Any other one but this one, Vó. Por favor.” Rafael’s back is to me, but I can see he’s got an apron draped over his front. I walk around to stand next to Ana Maria, and my laptop slips out of my hand when I take in the situation in front of us. Thankfully, I already had it hovering above the countertop, so it lands with a loud clatter, but without any damage. The lovely woman next to me laughs harder.

I take in the apron from top to bottom. The front is covered in a very realistic, very high-definition photo of a man. A naked man. With nothing but a hot dog bun covering the man’s, uh, hot dog.

My hand flies to my lips as I try, but miserably fail, to hide the squeal making its way up my body and out of my mouth. I shake my head, unable to make eye contact with Rafael when he’s wearing something so revealing. And yet not, because, of course, I know that’s not his real body in that photo. It couldn’t be. Could it? The man has a perfectly chiseled six-pack , a smattering of hair on his pecs, and the beginnings of a happy trail hiding behind the bun.

Sensing the multitude of thoughts and questions bumping around in my brain, he steps closer, tying the indecent cover-up at his back and whispering, “The real thing is definitely better.” He walks away, taking ingredients out of the fridge as I do my best not to think about the possibility of that statement being true.

While lost in my thoughts, they set up their tools and ingredients, all while Rafael asks for a different apron several times. His requests are ignored every time.

I set up my laptop on the island, taking a seat for the front-row show I’m about to witness. If just being in the same room as these two is entertaining, I can’t even imagine what watching them cook will be like.

“What are you making today?” I ask no one in particular.

Rafael answers, “Bolo de laranja, which is orange cake.”

I’m supposed to respond with something. I know I am. But my brain is stuck on the way he said the words in Portuguese. He could be saying anything. He could tell me to piss off and I’d like it. I’d ask him to tell me again.

Damn it, what is going on with me? He smells my neck once, and suddenly, I’m like a dog in heat. Pathetic.

I survey the ingredients, of which there aren’t many, and hum. “Sounds delicious.” I open a new document and title it Orange Cake, then set up a spot for ingredients to be listed. The leather notebook I now recognize as one of Rafael’s prized possessions slides into my sightline.

“I figured you might need this if you want to transcribe recipes while we’re prepping or whatever. You don’t have to; I just didn’t want you to be bored or anything.” He presses his lips together as if to keep himself from rambling further. His usual lightness and confidence are gone, and I have an innate need to get them back.