Page 40 of Café Diablo

I skip across the stones in my pink Chucks, leaping onto my lanai to turn on the single bulb that hangs above the door, illuminating my hammock and breakfast table. I duck back under the hammock and walk to the side of my house to open up a patio box that I use for storage.

I wave to Edwin as he gets out of his car and unlocks his trunk. He starts lugging bags of supplies over to me, but I can see him eyeing my tiny estate as he does it. Yes, I’m practically a hobbit, but I’m not going to apologize for my small creative life without anything fancy.

“I was trying to decide if you were a real-life witch earlier today,” Edwin says, as he hands me the easels and I pack them in my storage container. “Is this cute little cottage made out of gingerbread and candy? Do you feast on small children when no one is looking?”

I nudge him on the shoulder. “You can’t say anything nice, can you?”

“You bring out the worst in me.”

“Well, as I’m sure you’re aware,” I say, walking past him to get the second load from his trunk, “Arie’s the one with the tarts and fancy gingerbread desserts, meanwhile, the only people I lure in with my sweets are those who are not quite so small and delicate.”

I don’t look back at him to see how he responds to my clear insinuation that it wasn’t candy that enticed him here. Instead, I retrieve the second load from his car and shut the trunk, walking back to him and handing him his painting before I put the rest away in the patio box and lock it.

“What exactly do you expect me to do with this?” Edwin asks, holding up the flower he painted this evening, which—in all his glorious talent—he managed to make look like a wilting disaster.

“Frame it,” I say, squeezing his hip as I pass him. “Put it on your desk.”

“My desk, huh?” He smirks as I motion for him to join me on the porch.

“That painting seems like it would bring up such wonderful memories if returned to the scene of the crime,” I say mock-innocently. “Maybe you can create a series. Frame a pair of handcuffs and hang it next to your Georgia O’Keeffe knock-off.”

“I’m pretty sure it will be a cold day in Hell before I put this in my office and then have to explain its existence when someone asks me about it,” Edwin grumbles, joining me on the porch.

“Most people know who O’Keeffe is,” I reply. “You don’t have to tell them thewholestory.”

Edwin abandons the painting on my breakfast table and I’m pretty sure he plans for that to be its permanent resting place.

“Hammock,” I instruct, grabbing the edge of the tent-like fabric and ruffling it to indicate he should get in. Again, those skeptical eyebrows leap off his forehead as if dangling three feet above the ground is the equivalent to insulting one of his grandparents. “My tiny house is … tiny,” I clarify. “And ninety-eight percent of it is an art studio. The only reason we’ll be going inside is if I’m going to paint you. And I’m pretty sure you’re already certain I’m obsessed with Georgia O’Keeffe abstracts that look like body parts, which means you’ll probably have to be nude. So, if you want to strip down to your birthday suit and spend the rest of the night as my model, hop to it! Otherwise … hammock.”

Edwin frowns at me for a long beat before saying, “You can’t just say ‘there’s nowhere to sit’ can you? Everything needs to be a whole ridiculous soliloquy.” He takes off his suit coat and places it carefully on the breakfast table.

“If you haven’t noticed, Edwin, my life’s purpose is to lure unsuspecting lawyers to my home and then torture them with death by oration.”

To my surprise, Edwin just rolls his eyes and gingerly tests out the hammock.

“Industrial strength,” I tell him. “This is one of those extreme hiker hammocks for dangling over the edge of cliffs with five-hundred pounds of gear. It will hold you.”

Pretending he didn’t hear me, he checks both of the connections that strap the hammock to the rafters. It’s held up with firm bolts attached to the structural beams.

“When the couch in your life is a hammock,” I explain, “you spare no expense to make sure it will never drop you like Humpty Dumpty.”

He sits down and tests his weight, and of course, the whole house decides to creak to undermine everything I’ve just said. His eyes flash to me, asking if I want to retract my Humpty Dumpty comment.

“Is there a pea under your hammock, your royal highness?” I toss back, as he finally decides to trust it enough to lift up his feet and lean back. “That wasn’t so hard, now was it?”

Edwin side-eyes me, asking me with a look if it’s hard for me to stay quiet for more than twenty seconds, to which the answer would be: make me a bet and let’s find out, smart ass!

I move down to his feet and start untying his shoes. “Hammocks are shoe-free zones,” I explain, pulling off his shoes before he can properly complain. I kick off my own pink Chucks and abandon both of our footwear in the corner.

Seeing Edwin in socks strikes me as odd—and intimate. It’s overly casual, considering the man was probably born wearing a three-piece suit.

“Tell me,” I say, running a finger softly up his pant leg. “Do you actually own a pair of sweatpants? Or is that against your religion? Or maybe even a pair of jeans? Shorts? Does Armani and Tom Ford make those kinds of things?”

He grabs my hands and pulls me forward so I’m standing next to his torso. “Are you asking to see my Armani shorts, Olivia? Because, trust me, they’re classy as hell. They cost about six grand a pair, but you know, I’m just a sucker for good fashion.”

I smile at him, because that was the kind of thing I’d say. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think I’m rubbing off on you, Mr. Voss,” I tease, before nudging him in the ribs. “Now, scoot over, hot shot.”

“Nah,” he replies. “I don’t want to get my Armani panties in a bunch.”

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