Page 65 of Fair Trade
“All right, it’s your turn. Put your coffee down before you burn your tongue, you little gremlin.” He attempts to pry the delicious goodness from my hands, and I have a deep desire to hiss at him.
I eventually concede. “My turn for what?”
He nods at the other espresso cup. “To learn how your husband takes his coffee. This is something we should know about each other.”
Oh. Is that what this is? Marriage 101 homework? I guess that makes sense, since we need to convince the world that we’re a real couple. I’m sure there will be a lot more information for us to learn about one another.
Yet why do I feel a sudden pit of disappointment?
I blow out a quick breath and get my head on straight. I know Nick is watching me intently—it seems like he always is lately—but I don’t pay him any mind and continue with this little exercise. I make a show of cracking my knuckles and bouncing my shoulders. In a teasing tone, I ask, “All right, Lucifer, how do you take your coffee? I would assume black, like the souls of those you’ve condemn—”
“Luisa,” Nick chides from behind me.
“What?” I look up to meet his serious gaze.
“I’m going to let this slide, just this once, because I know you haven’t had breakfast or finished your coffee. But this.” He taps my forehead twice. “Letting your thoughts run wild without clueing me in to what’s got you changing up on me at the flip of a switch? It’s not going to work. We need to be open and honest with each other at all times if we want to survive the next year.”
I inwardly groan. Why must this man be so perceptive?
I bite my lip, feeling embarrassed by what I’m about to say. But I do so anyway, because he’s right. “It’s no big deal. It’s just… I don’t know. I thought you were asking how I liked my coffee because you were being, I dunno, you? I didn’t realize we were doing marriage bootcamp. Maybe I need a heads-up when we’re doing this kind of husband and wife study session.”
Nick’s intense gaze doesn’t leave mine, even seconds after I’ve stopped speaking. I’m about to start rambling, because I’d rather that than the awkward silence I’ve created, when he opens his mouth. “You prefer plátano maduros over tostones because you can reheat the leftovers the next day and throw them into yourscrambled eggs, but you’d never claim that in front of your family because tostones are the clear winner among them.”
My mouth drops. How did he—
The emails.
Shit. We’ve never discussed in person the things we’ve written to one another. Mostly because they were nonsensical chatter. But as I look into Nick’s determined eyes, I’m starting to wonder if it was more than that.
“You like wearing heels every day because your cousins were allowed to wear them at fifteen, but your parents only let you start wearing them right before your eighteenth birthday, and you made it your personal mission to make up for all that lost time. On busy days at work, you forget to eat lunch, so on your way home, you order takeout from your favorite Thai restaurant and make a little game of beating the delivery guy to your apartment. There have been a few times he’s beat you there, and he’s now in on the little game.
“You like the color pink and wear it often because it reminds the old geezers at work that their boss does, indeed, have a vagina—these are your words—not mine. And you have a deep love for all reality shows produced by Bravo. The Housewives from Potomac, Salt Lake City, and Miami are having top-tier seasons, according to your expertise.”
“Put it on my gravestone, I guess,” I mumble as I look down at my hands.
His fingers tip my chin up, and I have no choice but to make eye contact again.
“If I need to know something about you that I don’t already know, for the purpose of our arrangement, I will ask you that directly.”
I nod, words failing me.
“But if you thought that making your morning coffee was some kind of exercise, something I wouldn’t naturally want to know, then…” He trails off.
“Then what?”
He leans closer, my heart picking up at lightning speed, “Then clearly, wife of mine, you haven’t been paying attention.”
My mind whirls, and I’m trying to figure out what he means when the doorbell rings.
“Right on time,” he says more to himself than me as he makes his way to the front door.
I take a moment to collect myself, then turn back to the untouched coffee belonging to Nick.
I need something to do with my hands, so I pick up the steamed milk and add a dash. I forgo the sugar—because who are we kidding? That man probably hasn’t had anything sweet in a decade—and start to stir mindlessly.
By the time Nick walks back into the kitchen, I’m sure I’ve stirred all the heat out of his coffee.
“Special delivery,” he says with a pleased look on his face while lifting a small package.
