Page 21 of Cloud Storm

His comment makes me chuckle, but fortunately I manage to hide it while I organize our makeshift breakfast, serving two cups of coffee and plating the cake, not forgetting to reserve a large piece for Mr. Hatz. He’d consider missing out an unforgivable offense.

“You are going to crawl on the floor imploring forgiveness while I decide whether I grant it to you or not, then you will invite me to have lunch with you.”

“If you would just keep still for a minute, I could finish my speech, Ariel.” I notice he’s drying his hands on the fabric of his jeans, and it’s good to know that I’m not the only one nervous here. “I don’t do this frequently.”

“What?” I ask with a smile. “Ask for forgiveness or admit that you were wrong?”

Even with my back to him, I feel the tension radiating from his body, permeating the air and swarming through my apartment.

“This is complicated,” he murmurs.

“Relax, Suit, I’m not going to bite you.”

Turning around, his eyes meet mine and despite my words, I do want to bite him. Bite him and kiss that mouth and find out what he tastes like.

“Will you always call me that?”

“What?”

“Suit. I don’t like that nickname,” he complains.

“Wimpy! I don’t like you calling me Little Mermaid, but here we are.”

“And in any case, why do you insist on calling me that?”

“Because the first time I saw you, that day in your office, you were in a suit, a very sharp one.” He smiles and although that’s not a pleasant memory, seeing him now causes me tenderness. And while I think of it, who wears a suit in California? This is San Diego, for God’s sake.

“Well,” he breathes. “I wear a suit to work, because in case you weren’t aware, it’s the required dress code in the bank and if I have to do something, then I do it well.”

There, I already knew that he was born a perfectionist.

“Okay then, I’ll change your nickname if you agree not to call me Little Mermaid again. From now on I’ll call you the Smug Suit.”

“Do it and I’ll call you Soap.”

He raises his eyebrow, challenging me to contradict him.

“Don’t you dare, Lancelot.”

“That’s better,” he concludes smiling. “Way better.”

The apologies have been forgotten and you know what? I don’t need them anymore, the anger is gone. I’m just happy that I was able to accomplish my goal despite everything and that’s more than enough reason to bring back to life all the good vibes I’ve been feeling lately.

I find it incredibly erotic to see him enjoy the cake so much, the way the fork disappears in his mouth, how he passes his tongue over his lips, looking for lost crumbs.

I have been so busy watching him, I forgot to eat my own little slice of heaven, so he uses the opportunity to steal some cake from my plate.

Living in hot-dreamy-land is where I am.

There is something between us, an easiness that I have no idea where it comes from, but something deep inside tells me that I can let my guard down.

Although a little voice at the back of my mind still insists on telling me I shouldn’t.

Before I head off to take a quick shower and get dressed, we continue to give a good account of the cake that, according to the Suit—well no—according to Lancelot, is the finest thing he has tasted in his whole life.

Charmer, he better not even think that I’ll forget that he invited me to lunch today.

Something I had never considered is combining my outfits to match the color of my hair. Today I tried putting on a red jumper that I’d had for a long time and when I saw myself in the mirror, I was shocked at the clash with my purple hair.

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