Page 21 of Raise The Bar
We’d have fun for a while. More than fun. Maggie can turn my world upside down and set it on fire with a bit of conversation, I can only imagine what she’d bring to the bedroom. And I have imagined it. In detail. On multiple occasions. But there would come a day when it wouldn’t be enough. She would want more than I can offer, I would disappoint her, and we’d both get hurt. I’d lose her, I’d probably lose Josh and Betty, and be more alone than ever.
Fuck that.
I don’t want to date her, but I don’t want to stop seeing her either. She’s woken me up from a dreamless slumber and I don’t want to go back to sleep. Life before her was a dull gray and now, everything is in technicolor.
The elevator doors open and I walk quickly to the exit, desperate for some fresh air. I inhale deeply, but it’s a hot day and the air is thick with humidity. I start to walk toward my condo, brainstorming the best way to reach out to Maggie. I need to stay in her life, but I can’t keep crashing her dates. Come on, Callum. You’re supposed to be the ideas guy. Figure it out.
I’m almost home, having come up with nothing when I feel my phone vibrate against my thigh.
Maggie:Hi. Coffee tomorrow morning? I have something I need to ask you.
Chapter 12
Maggie
“You can go right up, Ms. Morales.”
Okay, I expected Callum’s place to be nice, but I didn’t expect a fancy-doorman-in-a-suit nice. Bougie!
I smile gratefully at him and walk across the light marble floor to the elevators. Its golden doors are spotless, and I can see myself clearly in the reflection. I’m planning to go directly to work from here, so I’m wearing my scrubs and sneakers. My hair is pulled away from my face in a large butterfly clip. Moments after I press the “UP” button, the doors open revealing a tall woman in a light designer dress and Jimmy Choo stilettos. She exits the elevator without even glancing in my direction, and I suddenly feel very out of place.
I should have worn something nicer. I could have packed my scrubs and changed at work. I press the button to Callum’s floor and continue to berate myself as the elevator climbs.
What am I even doing here? Am I actually going to straight up ask him for business advice? This seemed like a much better idea yesterday when I was in Winnie’s office. I felt so safe and accepted there, she made me feel like I could do anything. Now I’m here, dressed one step below casual, in the world’s fanciest condo complex and my confidence is nowhere to be found. Okay, maybe this isn’t the world’s fanciest condo complex. There are probably places in Dubai and Hong Kong that are more luxurious than this.
You’re making too much of this. I’m just here to ask a friend for help with something. Nothing more.
Before I know it, I’m standing in front of Callum’s door. I take a deep breath, roll my shoulders back, and knock. A few moments pass and there he is. He’s barefoot, wearing light jeans and a black t-shirt that looks like it was made for his body alone. His hair is still damp from a shower and even from this distance I know that he smells great. My stomach growls like it wants to eat him for breakfast and I say a silent prayer that he didn’t hear it. His eyes take in my appearance and he lets out a low whistle.
“Who told you about my nurse fantasy?” At the sound of my laugh, his face breaks into a grin. I want to steal those dimples right off of his face. I feel a bit sad that I’m not the only person who gets to see them.
“I don’t do sponge baths,” I say with a smile as he gestures for me to enter. There is a small entryway that leads me into an expansive living room with tall ceilings and neutral colored-walls. And neutral colored furniture. Everything is so…neutral. Generic artwork hangs in a few spots in heavy wooden frames. A natural edge coffee table is the only eye-catching thing in the room. It looks like something one would see in Vogue Living and it’s not at all what I expected. Don’t get me wrong, it’s beautiful, but in the blandest sense of the word. The room feels cold and impersonal, which is so unlike Callum. He radiates warmth.
Before I can further dissect his living space, he guides me around the corner where I spot a gorgeous built-in coffee bar.
“What can I make you?” he asks, clearly showing off a bit. “Latte? Cappuccino? Macchiato? Flat white? Irish?” He grins wickedly at the last suggestion.
“Definitely not Irish,” I laugh gesturing to what I’m wearing. “If it’s not already obvious, I have clients booked today and I don’t want anyone to lose an eyebrow. A latte would be lovely.”
“Coming right up.” He turns and starts to adjust the chrome knobs on the enormous machine. “Do you always book clients on Sundays?” He fills a large mug with what appears to be boiling water and sets it aside. I watch him as he prepares the espresso shot.
“Most weeks,” I confirm with a nod. “Many of my clients work or are busy with their kids’ activities on Saturdays, so I often book Sundays to make things easier on them.” He dumps the hot water and continues to make the espresso shot in the pre-warmed mug, setting it aside when it’s done.
“That’s very considerate of you. It’s too bad that you have to give up your Sundays.” My pulse increases when I notice how his t-shirt hugs his biceps as he pours milk into a stainless steel frothing pitcher.
“I love what I do for a living. I don’t feel like I’m giving up anything.” Our eyes meet and I smile at him. He seems to forget what he’s doing and spills milk on the counter. He curses, good naturedly, and I stifle a laugh.
“That must be nice,” he says, using a kitchen towel to clean up his mess. “Loving what you do.”
“Don’t you?”
His brow furrows as he positions the pitcher under the steam nozzle. God. The man is even handsome when he frowns. “Don’t I what?”
“Don’t you love what you do?”
“Not really.” He flicks a switch and the stainless steel monstrosity roars to life making conversation momentarily impossible. I take the moment to peek my head around the corner into the kitchen. It’s huge. Almost the size of my apartment. Gleaming top of the line appliances that look like they’ve never been used are positioned between multiple sets of white cabinets. I’m struck again by how sterile everything seems. And how much this doesn’t feel like Callum.
The noise comes to a stop and I return to watch him pour the steamed milk into the waiting mug.
