Out of Focus (Love in LA #3)

ME:

I’d never say no to a snack.

I’ll pack some comfortable clothes, though I’m extremely curious as to why I would need them.

RAFAEL:

So… see you tomorrow at 3?

ME:

See you tomorrow at 3.

Great. I have thirty-one hours to prepare for this, which is completely fine because I should only need every single one to sort this out since I can’t ask Lainey or my sister to help. It’s fine. This is all good practice and prep.

At least, that’s what I’ll keep telling myself.

29/

i was so right about those pants.

charlie

At three o’clock on the dot, there’s a knock at my door. I didn’t buzz him in, though, so it can’t be Rafael, can it? When was the last time I buzzed him in?

I open the door to find the man himself, holding an iced coffee and a white paper bag, grinning from ear to ear. He has dark jeans and a light blue sweater on with a zipper at the collar that looks so soft, I’d like to snuggle it. His brown boots are scuffed but not dirty. Oh, and he’s leaning on the doorframe, the jerk.

The moment his eyes take me in from head to toe, his grin falters, and he nearly drops the coffee. I reach for it, but he holds it up and away from me. “Turn around,” he says.

“What?” I frown up at him, confused by the request. “No, hello, just turn around?”

“Yeah. I said what I said. Turn around, red. I need to see if I was right about something.” He spins the coffee cup, making the ice rattle around inside, and my eyes track the movement. “You get the coffee when you turn around.” I roll my eyes, turning around so he can’t see me. “I saw that,” he says softly before clearing his throat. Facing him again, I stick out my hand to fetch my reward. His smile is slow, like the dawn opening with the first rays of sunshine.

Eventually, the dimples pop, and I feel myself swallow, needing that coffee right now, at this very second. “Hey, shorty. You look gorgeous.” He doesn’t waver, he simply remains as he is, leaning and looking and smiling. It’s unnerving.

Finally, he lowers the coffee so I can reach it, and I immediately bring it to my lips, needing the cold relief. The room suddenly feels too warm.

“Hi,” I respond meekly. “Is that for me?” I point to the small paper bag he’s holding in his other hand. “Oh, do you want to come in? Or should we go?”

“It’s for you, and we can get going if you’re okay eating this in the car.” He holds out his hand to take my coffee from me, and I reluctantly hand it back so I can get my bags and lock the door.

In the elevator, he takes the tote bag I packed my trackies and jumper in, exchanging it for the iced coffee, and I realize something. “Did you ask me to turn around so you could look at my bum?”

“Yeah. I really did.” He smirks proudly, without shame, as I gape at him, my jaw dropping to the floor. “I was so right about those pants.”

I decided to go with one of the previously approved date outfits, the leather leggings and a sweater. I scoff my response, unable to find words for him. I like that he noticed. I like that he asked me to turn around. I like that he thinks my bum looks good.

This is exactly how a date should begin. With coffee, snacks, and the other person making you feel good about yourself. This is definitely it.

When we get to his car, he opens the door for me, waits for me to set my phone down, and then, he reaches over and buckles my seatbelt. I swear it’s the sexiest thing to ever happen to me, watching him move over my body, feeling his hand push the seatbelt in, smelling his citrusy scent as he shifts to stand. It shouldn’t be so effective, this simple movement, but it’s more than enough to have the stomach flutters making a comeback. I’m thankful for the few seconds to calm down before he’s in the car.

“You haven’t even looked in the bag yet,” he says as he starts the car and buckles his own seatbelt.

Can you really blame me for forgetting about the food when I have a whole other kind of snack sitting next to me?

I open the bag and find a container with a slice of cake with white icing on it and a small plastic fork neatly stashed in there. The cakey part is a bit orange, and I bring the now open container up to my nose to smell it, trying to discern the flavor.

“Is this carrot cake?” I scrunch up my nose, trying not to smile at the ridiculousness that is Rafael bringing me this particular dessert.