Out of Focus (Love in LA #3)

“I want to keep eating, but we still have four mains coming and dessert. How are we going to do this?” Rafael lays a hand on his muscled stomach. Even through the cashmere sweater he’s wearing, there’s no hiding that he is solid muscle.

“You quitting on me already, Machado?” I raise an eyebrow, and he smirks at me.

“Never, red.” He takes a sip of his sparkling water without breaking eye contact. Why the bloody hell is that hot?

Once again, the chime of the doorbell breaks whatever spell we find ourselves under.

Morgan wheels in a whole cart of food. It’s obscene and also wonderful. “I hope you’re both still hungry.” He makes quick work of swapping a few empty plates and moving the half-eaten appetizers to the cart so that the entrées can be on the table. Chicken schnitzel, pot roast with mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, and fish and chips—which I will be judging most harshly.

There’s a big focus on comfort foods at this place, and I am all for it.

Morgan places a clean plate in front of each of us. “I figured you could serve yourselves family style. Does that work?”

“That’s perfect, Morgan. Thank you.” Having warmed up to our server, I smile up at him, and he beams right back at me.

“You’re so welcome. I can’t wait to hear what you think about the fish and chips.” He winks at me and clasps his hands across his chest again. “Anything else I can get you?”

We both shake our heads, taking in the enormous amount of food on the table. “I think we’re all set. Thank you,” Rafael adds.

“Bon appétit.” Morgan closes the door behind him, and Rafael reaches for the pot roast.

We quietly serve ourselves, both starting with two dishes. “Ready?” he asks.

“You might have to roll me back to the car if this is anywhere near as delicious as the starters.” I puff out my cheeks, but they quickly deflate when my handsome date’s booming laugh fills the room. I wonder when it’ll get old, making him laugh like this.

As we eat, we mostly chat about the food. There is still quite a bit left over when we both decide to call it quits.

“All right. Fuck, Marry, Kill: Dinner Edition.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me, and my giggle breaks free. “Let’s hear it.”

“Oh, I have to go first, do I?” He nods, smile unwavering as he watches me closely. “Hmm. All right. I’d fuck the schnitzel,” I say seriously. Rafael nearly spits out his water all over me; he starts laughing so hard. I join him because that’s a sentence I never thought I’d say. When we both calm down, I continue, “I’d marry the macaroni and cheese, and I’d kill the fish and chips.” I sit back, content with my answers.

“I knew you’d kill the fish and chips.” A small, knowing smile plays across his lips. “My turn. I’d fuck the shit outta that pot roast and mashed potatoes.” We both laugh again, though we recover much faster this time. “It’s weird talking about fucking food.” I respond with an uh-huh. “I’d also marry the macaroni and cheese. And I’d kill the schnitzel.” He grimaces when he gives his last answer.

“No! How am I supposed to get shagged now if you kill my schnitzel?” I lift my hands and let them land loudly on my lap. His eyes narrow slightly, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek.

“You won’t miss it, pumpkin. I’ll make sure of that.” His eyes lower when he catches the movement of my legs crossing, his lips lifting at the corner in a smug way that would have angered me weeks ago, but now, it only makes me curious for what my future holds.

I’ll make sure of that.

That’s a promise of a good time if I ever heard one.

Once all the plates are cleared, Morgan brings us coffee and tea, and we opt to take the desserts to go. The promise of dessert with Rafael later is, unsurprisingly, thrilling. Though I suppose we might just take them home. Separately. Hmm.

We take our mugs and set the biscuits Morgan insisted on bringing us—just in case we wanted something sweet now—on the table by the fire. We walk to the railing to enjoy our hot beverages as the city below shimmers with lights from cars on the streets, neon signs, and all of the Hollywood flair.

Rafael points out a few places he can make out below, like where there’s another great bookstore and the general direction of Santa Monica.

When we finish our drinks, we take a seat on the sofa side by side, but he takes my calves, twisting my body to drape my legs over his lap.

“This was wonderful. Thank you.” I reach out my left hand, resting my elbow on the back of the couch and letting my fingers run through his hair. He doesn’t say anything; he just lets me explore this new dynamic between us, where we can touch one another more freely. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” I confess.

“What? Touch my hair?” He leans into my hand when I scratch his scalp.

“Mmhm. It’s even softer than I imagined.” Is it possible I’m drunk on too much delicious food?

“You imagined, huh?” He looks at me wide-eyed, a smile I recognize as playful by the way his lips press together, like he’s holding back a wide grin. I feel the heat blazing in my cheeks and begin to pull my hand back, but Rafael wraps his fingers around my wrist, keeping my hand in place. With his other hand, he trails his fingers along my forehead, down to my temple, pushing some of my curls away from my face. “I’ve imagined things, too,” he says as he tucks some hair behind my ear. His index finger presses on my cheek. “Like this perfect, rosy blush of yours.” He drags his finger over my jaw, down the side of my neck, stopping at my pulse point. “And all the other places you might blush just like this.” He trails his finger along my collarbone, and the touch sends a shiver through me. But I’m not cold. With all of the heaters out here, I haven’t even needed my sweater.

He moves his hand to my waist, pulling me closer to him, and before I can miss his hand on my skin, he replaces it with his lips. I gasp when his tongue swirls on my collarbone; then his lips take the reverse path of his fingers. When he sucks on my pulse point, my fingers grip his hair more tightly, and he groans, the sound traveling like lightning through every nerve, landing on the spot where they all converge between my legs.