Page 58 of Ella Gets the D
I race to send an apology when three dots appear.
Julian
Hey, how are you?
Not the kind of thing you ask if you’re exploring the insides of someone’s body. Then again, he is the type to multitask.
Sorry for the late-night text. I’m good. You?
Julian
I was up. Exhausted might be too mild of a word.
Relatable.
If Julian keeps hours like his father, he’s working around the clock. I’ll still take a room full of preschoolers over suits any day. At least my tiny crew takes naps and stays calm if snacks are in play.
Sounds rough. Julian, I’m sorry.
Julian
Is it too late for a call?
My skin tingles at the request. It’s a call, not a date. We’ve texted before but never had a reason to hop on the phone. People make calls all the time. The President. Beyoncé. No need to act like a schoolgirl who finally got a note from her crush.
Maybe he’s curious about the light bill, or if I’m putting out the recycling.
Julian
El? If it’s too late, could we talk tomorrow?
Now works.
The phone buzzes in my hand. I expect to see the goofy photo of Julian in the birthday hat I took at the ice cream parlor, but it doesn’t come.
”Avideo?” My scream reaches Julian’s name written in white letters and not the man thousands of miles away who’s hell-bent on staring at my oversized white tee and natural curls pineappled on top of my head.
Eff it.
I dive to the middle of the bed, careful not to tip over the bowl of tortilla chips and mini spread of salsa and queso. The call screen fades on a swipe right to a view that makes the apex between my thighs shake.
“There you are.”
Julian leans back in a leather armchair, illuminated by the soft glow of the floor lamp that casts a crown over his silhouette. A king of temptation on his throne. The camera angle starts at amanspread of swole thighs in camel-colored plaid trousers and leads up to a long torso in a matching vest. His forearms rest on the chair, free from the white button-down rolled up to his elbow. My eyes travel from the maroon and blue tie up to the black goatee dusting his rich brown skin.
His plump lower lip dips behind pearly white teeth that accordion his mouth into a smile. He leans back against the chair and casts his hooded gaze on me.
“Hi.” I shudder at the deep voice that seizes me by the throat. “You look…edible.”
I should be ashamed of how fast this man has me panting from the same two letters I typed to him. A finger trails up my cheek to tuck a loose curl behind my ear and slides across a chunky texture.
Shit, my avocado mask.
Here I am overheating at wondering which part of my body Julian thinks is edible, and I’m the second coming of Jim Carrey fromThe Mask.
“Edible,” I say with a groan. “Right.”
His laughter rumbles through the phone he reaches to grab. “How are you?”
