Heartbeat Repeating - E.M. Lindsey Page 0,35
sugar daddy doesn’t budge and doesn’t say another word, so Avery finally unwraps the bag and a small figurine tumbles out onto the counter along with two chocolate bars that look unfamiliar.
He feels like someone hit pause on his body—like everything has stopped for a few seconds. Then his fingers twitch, and they touch the little thing. He doesn’t know what the fuck it’s supposed to be, but it feels important.
“I saw that when I was visiting my parents,” Alejandro says quietly, and he drums his fingers in his familiar rhythm—tap tap tap. “It was at Tesco’s. And I got you chocolate.”
“I …can see that,” Avery says, and he’s not sure what the fuck he’s supposed to do with all this. “Is that why you asked me about the chocolate?”
“It was stupid,” Alejandro says. He’s definitely blushing now, and Avery feels like his entire world is being turned upside down. “I was there, I saw it. I bought it—then I thought maybe you hated chocolate so…”
“I don’t,” he says softly. He touches the package and feels bumps and ridges beneath the paper. It starts to settle under his skin that this is an actual gift. This isn’t some expensive watch or a coat or a designer laptop bag. This isn’t something impersonal that was chosen by the price tag. It was a thing on a fucking supermarket shelf that Alejandro saw. Something he saw and it made him think about Avery. It may very well be the most important bar of chocolate he’s ever gotten in his entire life.
“Thank you.”
Alejandro lets out a breath and glances away like that was just too fucking much. A man who takes on the world’s most powerful in board rooms, and he’s having some existential crisis about whether or not his sugar baby might like a chocolate bar. He’s a man who worked to make nearly a billion dollars at his company, which takes guts and courage and probably a little bit of his soul. And he looks petrified that Avery—of all people—might reject a two-dollar piece of candy.
“I used to eat those when I was a kid,” Alejandro carries on, and Avery’s entire soul threatens to leave his body because what? “We weren’t allowed sweets at school—or at home, really.” There’s something soft going on with his mouth now—not quite a smile, but almost, and God, he gets instantly hard. It’s fucking saying something that his body is that responsive to even the hint of an emotion, and it should make him angry. And maybe he will be later—when he’s done being tragically horny. “Kids would sneak them in, and we’d trade for them.”
Avery’s fingers trace the chocolate again—and then he leaps. He pushes the wine aside and breaks open the package and he snaps the bar in half. It looks good—better than American stuff. It’s got more of a bite to it than a Hershey’s.
He doesn’t quite look up at Alejandro during all of this, but he can see him in the corner of his eye, watching like he’s a bomb about to go off. Avery knows there’s a right move and a wrong one—a red wire and blue wire.
He says a prayer and makes a choice then eats one corner of the chocolate. Alejandro sighs, then Avery finally looks at him and offers up a square. “You should have some.”
“I don’t like sweets.” The words sound robotic, like they were just waiting on the edge of his tongue.
“Everyone likes sweets,” he cajoles, and he sees something inside Alejandro flinch. “Sorry. Sorry, I shouldn’t push. Maybe you’re allergic. It’s not like I have your file…”
A large palm lays flat on the counter, just inches away from his own. Then Alejandro pushes closer and the tip of his first finger grazes the edge of Avery’s palm. He doesn’t dare move. “It’s my OCD. I know you know about it.”
Avery laughs even though he’s not trying to be mean. “Everyone does. It was in a magazine.”
Alejandro makes a noise somewhere between a snort and a laugh, but he doesn’t pull away. Avery has never really believed in miracles—even the whole Chanukah thing has seemed like a bedtime story, but right now, he’s on the verge of believing.
“I don’t like taking food from people, so usually I just lie and tell them I’m not hungry or that I’m allergic.” He shrugs and looks mildly embarrassed. “It’s called maladaptive coping.” Alejandro’s finger moves, grazing more firmly against his skin, and Avery’s entire body shudders.
He wants to