Heartbeat Repeating - E.M. Lindsey Page 0,34
comes around the corner. He’s too busy taking in the view from the floor to ceiling window and the way the light plays off the dark grey floors, how it all looks like Alejandro just ripped a page out of some magazine and shoved it at a contractor and grunted about making it look, ‘just like that.’
But suddenly he’s there. He’s in trousers because Avery doesn’t think he owns anything else, and his white shirt is half untucked and unbuttoned at the neck. The sleeves are pushed up, and his hair is kind of a mess. He looks human. He looks vulnerable in ways Avery has never seen him.
The sadness in his eyes that Avery occasionally glimpses through cracks in his walls is on full display now, and he’s not sure what the hell to do with himself. Normally—not that there’s ever been a normal between him and Alejandro—he’d hug someone who looked like that.
In this case, he shoves his hands into his pockets, wincing because his fists are clenched so tight his knuckles ache. “You uh…” He wants to say, ‘you rang’, like an idiot. “You wanted to see me?”
“Do you want a drink?” Alejandro asks, sounding way too formal.
He wants to poke fun at Alejandro a little bit for using actual words, but he’s also smart enough to know this isn’t a moment to shatter what vague rapport Alejandro is offering, even if it’s the dying moments of their agreement.
“I’m good,” he says. He takes a step sideways and glances out the window again. “Nice view.”
Alejandro doesn’t smile, but his face does soften and that’s…something. “You’re not wearing them.”
Avery coughs, a sort of involuntary panic response because he’s not wearing what? Had a gift arrived? One of his many watches? Shoes? There’s been so many pointless things he’s shoved into his closet and never looked at again.
“The trousers,” Alejandro clarifies after a beat, and Avery swears there’s pink on his cheeks. “From the photo.”
He nearly trips over his own feet because that was not what he was expecting Alejandro to say. The receipt on the text said read, but Avery had just assumed his assistant had gotten it and didn’t bother to respond, because what was there to say to that?
“Did you…I mean, I didn’t know you liked them,” Avery manages as he resumes his pace. “You never texted back.”
Alejandro makes a soft noise, and it almost sounds like an apology without words. Then, after a beat, he clears his throat. “We can talk through here.”
He follows Alejandro down a hallway that feels longer than it is, then they turn the corner and they’re in a kitchen. Just like the rest of the place, it looks almost fake. Like a showroom, or like he hired some designer to make everything magazine-page worthy, and he wonders if a single meal has ever been cooked on that pristine stove.
When Alejandro looks back at him, there’s something in his eyes—pained and frustrated. He doesn’t say anything—so they’re back to the silent treatment shit again—but he gestures at the tall counter where a barstool is pulled out.
The only part of the kitchen that looks lived in is that counter. In the corner there’s a small stack of mail, a set of keys, a phone, and a small plastic grocery back wrapped around something misshapen and awkward. He eyes it and then tries to reconcile this man with being an actual person who shops…which is weird.
“I said,” he starts when Alejandro pours two glasses of wine, but he gives up and sighs, taking the glass that Alejandro pushes toward him.
He wants to be angry, but in reality, he just feels bad for him. He’s emotionally constipated and confused, with an adorable frown making the space between his eyebrows wrinkle. He looks like he’s on the verge of an actual feeling, and it makes Avery’s stomach squirm because it took a fucking year and a dumping for it.
“Well,” he says after the wine goes down smooth and a little cool, “let’s get this over with.”
“Right.” Alejandro clears his throat and drags fingers through his hair before he props his hip up against the counter. Then, after a long second, he reaches past Avery for the twisted-up bag. It bumps across the counter, the sound almost too loud, and it stops in a heap a few inches from Avery’s right hand. “For you,” he grunts like a caveman.
Avery lets the wine go and stares at Alejandro long enough to make him squirm because—what? But his