Right now, he looks lost for the first time since he started. He bangs on the side of the machine with an open palm.
"Come on. You piece of shit," he mutters.
He's slapping it into submission.
It must be the whiskey, but my face grows warm. My eyes sweep over the back of his body, the way I'd never dare to do if he were watching.
He's fit, with a physique that can't hide under layers of clothes.
Watching Leo in an unscripted moment of frustration is amusing to me. I've considered him over the past few weeks and found him hard to read. Reserved, but not quiet. Polite, but short of friendly. And though he's confident and sometimes abrasive in the way he states his opinions, he doesn't strike me as egotistical.
I can't decide if I like him or not, but I guess an opinion would be premature at this point. Especially when he's strong-arming an inanimate object.
I forget who talked me into buying the espresso machine, but we did get a good deal on it. The fact it has a built-in coffee grinder and can froth milk for my lattes was enough to warrant its purchase in my eyes. Once we installed it, we quickly realized the machine is a huge pain in the ass. Turns out, no one was in the mood for a learning curve to get a cup of coffee in the morning. Luckily, my office staff is smart--a quarter of them are engineers. They figured it out fairly quickly. But every time a new person comes in, watching them struggle to make a cup of coffee is almost an office joke.
I take a step inside and the floor creaks beneath me. Leo stops and looks back, his blue-gray eyes narrowing as he notices me for the first time.
"How long have you been standing there?"
I hesitate for a moment because I'm not sure I want to admit the answer.
"Long enough to witness you harass the machine. And call it a piece of shit."
I'm sure my tone is matter-of-fact, but the corners of his lips twitch.
"Heard that part, huh?"
"I did. That piece of shit cost an arm and a leg."
"My apologies." There's no embarrassment in his tone, only amusement.
He puts up his hands in surrender, but despite his gesture, there is nothing yielding about him. His gaze is tenacious in a way that makes me feel alert.
I can't deny he's attractive. His smoky-blue eyes lower my guard a notch, tricking my subconscious into remembering him as someone I used to know, a long time ago.
He goes on, "I know what that must've looked like--I assure you, I don't typically hit things when I'm frustrated. Only coffee machines. And sometimes computers."
I smile because I can't help it, and because the warmth of the whiskey is still licking away at my stomach. I have to remind myself to keep my tone professional, which is strange for me. I typically don't need reminding.
"Noted," I say. "Do you need help?"
"No, thanks, I almost have it."
In the second or two he considers me before turning around again, his eyes glint with words he must decide at the last minute not to speak. I walk farther into the room as he figures out how to navigate the various options of the machine.
I'm watching him keenly again, which is easy to do when he's right in front of me looking the way he does. His dark-blond hair is cut under his ears and lays in a natural pattern atop his head. He's a masculine sort of handsome, not a pretty boy by any stretch of the imagination. No. Leo is all rugged good looks and, if I'm honest, pure sex appeal.
"Planning for a late night of work?" I ask.
"I'd honestly prefer to come in tomorrow, but I've got a commitment." He glances back at me. "Are you here for a coffee as well?"
I blink, then recover by reaching into a cabinet for a cup.
"Yes, I've got a few more things to wrap up tonight," I lie.
He reaches out his hand toward me before he looks back around. I feel myself tense up, unsure of what he is trying to touch. His eyes meet mine and seem to catch my reaction.
"Let me have your cup," he says.
Of course. The machine can brew two cups at once. I hand it to him and our fingers brush.
Jesus, I'm enjoying this more than I should.
The machine makes a beeping sound, churns to life and starts brewing. Leo turns to survey me again, leaning back against the countertop, his hands in his pockets. I suddenly feel a spotlight on me. I wait for him to speak, but he doesn't. Not for a second, maybe even ten. All I know is, he's looking at me and I'm resisting the urge to shift my footing.
A long time ago, I learned to use lulls to disarm people. Silence feels unnatural and compels people to blurt things out just to break it, revealing things by accident. I rarely even notice when I'm doing this. It's become an automatic part of my interactions with strangers. I notice with Leo. Because with Leo, I'm the one squirming on the inside.
Finally, he says, "Can I ask you a serious question?"
I clear my throat. "Sure."
"Why is the coffee machine this complicated? Is it a ploy to ration the coffee around here?"
My lips threaten to curve upward. "The rationing of coffee will never happen, I promise."
"Ah," he says with a small smile, "our leader is as merciful as she is beautiful."
My lips part a few seconds before I'm ready to speak again. Was that an innocent compliment or is he flirting with me? He sounds so comfortable saying it that it makes me feel ridiculous for reading too much into it.
That's twice now he's made me nervous.
Apart from his small smile, his demeanor remains professionally detached, with no indication he is consciously coming on to me. I tell myself perhaps this is how he interacts with women. A man who looks the way he does must be accustomed to female attention, must make a habit of unconsciously casting out sex appeal like a lure, just to see what bites.
I'd like to think I'm the one who makes people nervous, men in particular. Men are easy. Or, at least, they've always been before. I'm not sure I enjoy it when the tables are turned.
I glance back at the doorway. My subconscious is willing for someone to walk through it so I don't have to be alone with Leo anymore. But I know no one is coming. It's possible we are the last two left in the office.
"Who's getting married?" He asks.
The randomness of his question rattles me. Then I follow his gaze to what I'm still clutching in my left hand. The invitation. Have I been holding it this whole time? I swallow and resist the urge to crumble it up, revealing my disdain to this stranger.
He notices something in my reaction because he saves me from responding.
"That's the one downside to living in San Diego," he says. "It's wedding season year-round. I've got one myself, tomorrow."
Coincidence? I try to think of a way to pull more details from him, but he turns toward the freshly brewed cups.
"I hate weddings," he goes on, handing me my cup. This time, our fingers don't graze, yet I sense the absence of his touch as distinctly as I felt the presence of it.
"Why is this one special?"
"It's not. I'm attending on behalf of my father. The Bells are business partners of his. It seemed important to them that someone in our family witness their propensity for extravagance."