Page 46 of Rewind It Back

“And the latte art?” he asks. “That’s perfect too, huh?”

There’s literally no art. It’s just a couple of white blobs of foam randomly scattered across the top.

“What exactly is it?”

He scoffs. “It’s a swan, Hal. Obviously.”

“Oh, yes. I see it now. It’s very... intricate. Very... abstract.”

He bursts a laugh, and I take a sip to hide my smile from hearing the sound. I’m not sure if it’s his laughter or the latte, but every inch of me goes warm.

“Thanks for protecting my ego.”

I playfully roll my eyes. This man has never had an ego needing protection. He’s a goofball who has no problem making a fool out of himself to allow those around him to let down their guards.

I take another sip of my latte because holy shit, this is good, and as someone who loves a luxury espresso drink but can’t afford to splurge, this iseverythingright now.

“Feel free to practice that latte art on me anytime you want. This is delicious. Thank you.”

He leans a hip on the kitchen counter across from me, watching me drink. “You’re welcome.”

Taking another sip, this time a bit of foam sticks to my upper lip. I don’t think twice about cleaning it off with a slow slide of my tongue until I look up to find him watching the whole thing.

His green eyes are hooded and focused on my mouth.

“It’s good.”

He hums, his attention lasered in. “Good.”

Friends.

“Do you want to try it?”Good Lord, why does my voice sound like that? It’s all breathy and soft.

He wets his own lips as his phone rings, breaking the moment. With a quick clear of his throat, he checks the screen where his dad’s name is large enough for both of us to see.

The energy changes once again when Rio’s glare hardens, looking at the screen then up to me. “I have to take this, but I’ll make it quick,” he says, slipping into a room down the hall before closing the door behind him.

I don’t give myself a moment to wonder what his relationship with his dad is like these days.

Because we’re friends. Professional, working friends.

Friends who stare at each other’s mouths, but friends, nonetheless.

And since I’m here doing my job, I take myself on a self-guided tour of the first floor.

Rio’s walls are all white, like he said. It doesn’t seem like anything has been done since the day he bought the house. Builder-grade gray carpet lines the living room, dining room, and hallway. The floor in the kitchen is a square tile with swirls of gray and beige, and the backsplash is a stark-white subway tile. The countertops are a black and tan granite with heavy contrast, and the cabinets are a dark faux wood.

There’s nothing innately wrong with this house. It’s still considered new when you think of the lifespan of a home, but it also doesn’t have much personality. And for this home to be Rio’s, the man who has more personality in his little finger than most people have in their whole being, feels wrong.

It’s also screamingfrat housethanks to the empty liquor bottles lining the top of the cabinets and the Xbox in the living room, which has been transformed into a home theater, with more controls than I’ve ever seen attached to a single console. The furniture is mismatched, as if he just needed enough seating for everyone and couldn’t care less about the aesthetics of it all.

If there’s one thing this little tour of mine confirms for me, it’s that his friends and teammates spend a lot of their time off here, and space for them is a priority to him.

I’d write that down in my notebook if I felt like I needed the reminder, but him making others a priority is an ingrained part of him that I’ve known about since I was eleven.

The door to the first-floor bedroom opens, but Rio’s attention is glued to his phone as he ends the call with his dad. His jaw is tight, his nostrils flaring a bit on his way back to meet me.

I should ask if everything is okay, but us broaching the topic of either of our families right now would only blur that professional and friendly line we’re attempting to toe.

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