by Mia Carter
I turn and walk as softly as I can back over to the couch. The conference itself doesn’t start until the morning, and I had been working remotely, holed up in here. Now that I have my keys and my drive back, I feel intensely relieved.
But with that relief, woven through it almost, there’s another feeling.
Chloe makes a soft, sleepy noise, and my senses immediately prick up. Then she curls up a bit tighter—she must be cold.
I stand up and look in the nearby closet, finding a spare blanket.
One last trip over to her, and I drape it on her body. Should I take her shoes off? No, I think. I don’t want her to wake and think that I’ve touched her. Undressed her.
With this thought as a word of caution, I head back over to the sofa.
It’s there. The files are all there. Of course they are, she said they would be. I go through my pitch deck again, back it up onto my laptop. Work continues to be work, messages flying in as the day back in Portland dawns. Nine p.m. here means it’s right before lunch back home, right? I scrub my face with my hands and keep on working.
My body is screaming at me to stop. I’m a pro at ignoring it, though. I don’t have the time for it, not now.
Chloe, out like a light, is currently sprawled across the entirety of my bed.
When ten o’clock rolls around, I give up and give in.
I close my laptop and rub my screen-tired eyes. The couch isn’t so bad. And it’s just one night. I’ve certainly slept in stranger, less comfortable places. And if it means Chloe gets enough sleep, it’s a very small sacrifice to make.
“Oh!”
A soft sound of surprise wakes me, and I look up from my horizontal position on the couch. A comfortable enough couch last night, but this morning—
“I’m— Are you in my room, or am I—?”
“I… Yeah,” I say, pushing myself up off the couch with a stretch and roll of my shoulders. “You looked pretty green when you landed. I thought I’d let you sleep it off and then take you to your room.”
“Oh,” she says, nodding. “Thank you. I think.”
Chloe crosses her arms over her chest at this, and I notice that she’s taken off her navy-blue hoodie at some point. Underneath it, she’s wearing a forest-green T-shirt with the words Endor Forestry Service: Keep Our Planet Green! emblazoned across it, with a pair of spear-carrying teddy bears beneath it, smiling up at what looks like the moon. But beneath the shirt, her figure is curvy and full, the kind of inviting softness that begs to be taken in both hands—
I abruptly pull my gaze up to her face. Chloe doesn’t seem to notice my ogling. She just turns and makes her way over to where her bag sits at the foot of the bed.
“I have your keys—” she says.
“No, you gave them back already.”
“I did?” Chloe looks up at me, paused in the process of unearthing what looks like a star-print zip bag.
“Yes,” I say. “You did.”
A moment later, it’s like all of the color drains from her face.
“Oh no.” She turns away from me, her hands still clutching the bag to her chest, like armor. “What—what did I say?”
I want to laugh at this. Not at her discomfort and chagrin, but just—
“You were fine,” I say, standing up from the couch. “You were tired.”
“I’m so sorry—”
“It’s fine.”
“I shouldn’t have—” She turns around at this, her eyes darting up from where she likely expected me to still be sitting, rising to meet mine.
In the quiet of the room, the audible growl of her stomach cuts the tension. Her cheeks flood with color again, and she softens, just a bit. “I’m so sorry.”
“I’m going to order some room service,” I say. “And you can shower, if you want to.”
Her eyes widen at this, just a little. The way the morning light slants in through the window makes her eyes seem some undefinable color, between soft forest green and gentle brown. Her face is bare, healthier looking now after a rest, lips a warm coral, freckles like the memory of constellations dusting across her nose and cheeks.
I’m staring.
Gathering my wits back together, I clear my throat and pull my gaze away. “If you want to, I mean. I’m not saying you need a shower—”
Her face broadens into a grin at this. I’m glad she finds my discomfort funny.
And I’m glad she isn’t scared of me, either. Not for the moment, at least.
Chloe disappears with her bag into the bathroom. A minute later, I hear the shower running.
She’s in there for a while. I honestly can’t blame her. By the time she comes back out wearing a soft-looking sweatshirt with a little embroidered rainbow on the chest pocket and a pair of slim-fitting gray jeans, the food is here.
And I can’t help it. My gaze traces the line of those jeans, past the holes in the knees and what looks like a bit of orange paint on the cuff of one leg. They hug her hips perfectly. She looks like some kind of fresh-faced, girl-next-door fantasy.
I swallow back my reaction and try to keep from staring.
“Breakfast,” I say, with a gesture to the rolling cart, which has been transformed into a table. “I ordered a little bit of everything. I didn’t know what you liked.”
“It looks wonderful,” she says, as she rakes her hands through her hair, gathering it back in a messy ponytail. “Thank you. I’m so sorry, if I had known—and you slept on the couch all night, I—”
“It’s really okay.”
Truth be told, I’m still a bit sore from sleeping in an awkward position on the couch, but I’ll live.
The table is laden with foods both familiar and unusual. Eggs, bread and rolls, sausage and fruit, but also what looks like cinnamon buns, little flat pastries with something that looks like hard-boiled eggs in a bowl beside it, and fish. Herring, I think.
Well, when in Helsinki.
I take a little bit of everything, and she follows suit.
It’s a little-known bit of trivia that Finland consumes more coffee per person than any other country in the world. I’m grateful for this fact as I pour us both a cup of the steaming-hot brew from the carafe set out on the table.
“Cream or sugar?” I ask her, but she shakes her head and takes a hearty drink of it, despite the temperature.
“Wow.”
“Sorry,” she says, setting the cup down. “I just… I’m barely human until I’ve had, like, at least three cups of coffee.”
I nod at this and grin. “That’s reasonable. And there’s juice, too. Some kind of mixed berry, I think.”
“This is all…” Her voice trails off as she looks around the place. “This room is amazing. I mean, I think this is bigger than my entire apartment.”
“Yeah,” I say, following her gaze, taking it all in. It isn’t that I didn’t look around at the place when I’d checked in yesterday, but I’d been so busy, so preoccupied with work and worry and thinking about Chloe saving my ass, I never really stopped to appreciate it. But it’s gorgeous. Elegantly furnished, a mixture of new and modern, it somehow looks cozier and more welcoming than my own apartment, which is larger, but still mostly unfurnished.
I look back at her. Chloe is tasting some of the herring, I think, making an intrigued face. She catches me looking and smiles a little, close-mouthed and self-conscious.
Cute.
Cream and sugar go into my cup of coffee, and I stir it with a spoon. As the edge of the metal clinks softly against the rim of the ceramic cup, I’m viscerally brought back to a memory of a much earlier time, sitting with my mother in a restaurant—no, a diner—when I must’ve been seven years old, and worrying, even then, about the cost of things. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before now. I straighten up a little in my chair and fidget with my tie, tucking it more smoothly down below my buttoned suit jacket.
Part of me—a very quiet, still part of me, buried deep within my chest—wants to spoil Chloe on this trip, for n
o other reason than gratitude. Maybe not no other reason. Maybe just because I can, and I want to.
“I’ve never even been out of the country before,” Chloe says, with a tone that sounds almost apologetic. “I thought I would do some sightseeing. But you’re probably in the conference all day?”
“Yes,” I say. “I have to be there in about forty-five minutes. The tram out front runs basically straight there.”
“I was reading that the city is pretty accessible by tram.” She nods, pulling what looks like a small cinnamon bun, dotted with pearl sugar, out of the basket. “Are you going to be able to get around, check out the city at all, while you’re here? Or are you stuck inside?”
“I’ll try and make some time to get out.”
Chloe nods like this is the right thing to say, and I mentally rearrange my schedule so I can uphold what I’ve just claimed. I’ve never been here before either, and while I’d been so focused on the conference, the panel I’m a part of today, and then my meeting tomorrow night—not to mention getting my damn keys back—I hadn’t even considered that the rest of the city is right there, just waiting to be explored. At this, I turn and look out the window. It’s going to be a beautiful, clear day today. Perfect for exploring.
I wish I could go.
“You can ask at reception,” I say, as I turn back to the meal before us. “They have all kinds of things to do in the city. Ideas, I mean. What to see, and where to go. Unless you like to wander and find out for yourself.”
She smiles a little broader at this and tears off a piece of the cinnamon bun. “I do. Sometimes you find the best things in unexpected places, don’t you think?”
Yes, you do, I think, peering into her eyes. Now that she’s in the light, I can see that they’re somewhere between dappled, soft green and shady brown. Pragmatically, I assign them the value of hazel, even though that doesn’t seem to be quite as descriptive, too small a word for how pretty they are.
I clear my throat, though, and pick up my coffee, taking a drink.
The way the light hits her face makes the curve of her cheek look like porcelain, even though that’s an absurd comparison. I chide myself. My duty to her, and to her welfare, is over. She slept safely, she’s awake now. I should give her space.
“I was going to ask you,” she continues, mercifully unaware of the contents of my brain, “about my return ticket. There’s no date or flight number on it.”
“It’s open-ended,” I say, grateful to have something else to talk about besides the adventure I can’t join her on or the sunlight in the room that kisses her skin, but leaves me in shadow. “So you can take it to the counter at the airport and head home whenever you like.”
Chloe sets the rest of the bun down on her plate, and her moss-green eyes widen a little. “Really?”
“Really.”
“That’s very generous of you,” she replies. Her hand closes around the glass of berry-red juice and she looks up at me. “You’re really assuming that I won’t trounce all of your hospitality with this.”
I shrug. “Anything to convince you that your kidneys have no value to me.”
She laughs at this, a little too loudly, but bright and honest. That smile—
“It’s, what, around ten at night, yesterday, at home?” she asks, after she’s taken a sip of the juice. “Wow, what is in this? It’s really good.”
“Yes, it’s—that sounds right.” I take my phone from my pocket and frown as I swipe to check the notifications. How had I not noticed it buzzing away in my jacket? “Sorry, I think I have to—”
“Oh, please, go ahead.”
I don’t want to get up from the table, but work is tugging my attention away. I push my chair back and apologize again, already returning a missed call from my assistant. Ten at night, back home, I think, as it rings. Why is Jonathan up so late? It’s never crossed my mind before.
“Hey,” he says when the phone picks up. “Sorry to bother you—”
“No, it’s late there for you,” I say, cutting across him. “What is it?”
“Burke is a last-minute confirmed for the meeting tomorrow,” he says. “I just got the email, and I wanted to let you know.”
Burke. That would be the one and only George Burke, founder of Riverside InfoLogics, a temperamental genius who’s a giant in his field, one who has been known to intimidate even the most stalwart of programmers. As a rule, the profession is not always known for its open-mindedness and inclusivity, and George Burke unfortunately does nothing to negate that stereotype. Known for his take-no-prisoners, pull-no-punches attitude, more than one unwary developer has been felled by his cutting approach to code review.
I sigh and turn to face out the window. “Okay. Thanks for letting me know.”
“Good night,” Jonathan says.
“Night,” I reply. “Oh, and go to bed, Jonathan.”
“Yes, sir,” he replies, with a smile I can hear through the phone.
I end the call and turn back to the table.
“I have—”
“I don’t want to—” she practically stammers, then blushes, gesturing at me with a wave of her fingers. “You go.”
“—work,” I finish, feeling a smile grow, just a little, at the blush on her cheeks. “I’ll call reception, have them check you in, get your room ready. They’ll send the keys up here, and you can head over whenever you like.”
She nods. “Okay. Thank you.”
“I’m just glad you’re feeling better,” I say. “I have to go, though.”
She nods again.
I take my things into the bathroom for my turn at the shower. Not thinking about the cloud of soft, lemon-mint shampoo that isn’t mine, and isn’t the hotel’s either. Or the way one of the towels had been damp, but still hung neatly back up on the rack.
My body—traitor that it is—very briefly makes my interest in the thought of Chloe in the shower known. Not just her, but the whole domestic fantasy of it. The nearness, the way my mind skips from cute stranger to her keeping her shampoo at my place. Ridiculous, and I know it. But I always have been a bit intense. No matter what my body thinks about hers, I suppress that response and turn the water to cold as I rinse the soap off of my skin. It’s just biology, anyway.
When I come out of the bathroom, dressed and fixing my cuff links back into place, jacket draped over my arm, I see that Chloe has moved from the little breakfast table to one of the plush chairs by the window.
“The front desk said that my room is ready whenever I want it,” she says. “Just have to go down and get the key. I’ll take all my crap over as soon as I can. Thanks for letting me crash here.”
“Of course,” I say. “You did crash pretty hard.”
“This is gonna be the weirdest walk-of-no-shame I’ve ever had, just for the record,” Chloe says, with a chuckle.
The phrase throws me for a second, until I understand her meaning. And she also seems to realize that her mouth has run away with her thoughts. She shakes her head and turns away, a cute flush on her cheeks. I can just hear her mutter, “Oh my God, seriously?” as if she’s chiding herself.
It’s impossible to keep the smile off my face. I say absolutely nothing.
I slide the jacket of my suit on, tugging here, straightening there, and find the tie once more where I’d left it hanging on the doorknob. From her perch by the window, with her legs drawn up and tucked beneath her, Chloe sips her black coffee and picks at the cinnamon bun, pointedly not watching me.
“Have a good day,” I say, and she nods and says, “You, too.”
I put my shoes on, get my things, and go.
Down on the street, I’m pulled to look back—as if Chloe is going to be, what, waiting for me in the window? She won’t be, so I force myself not to look.
But wouldn’t it be nice if she was?
I arrive at the convention center, which, although beautiful, is still a convention center. I’ve seen enough of the insides of those to give up trying to differentiate be
tween them. I enjoy the view on the way much more. Across the tops of the buildings, I could see both the white-domed cathedral as well as the Russian Orthodox church. The beauty of the city makes me feel a bit frustrated that I’m going to be inside of a stuffy building instead of outside, in the city, or just exploring for the next eight hours.
But, it is what it is.
My day is pretty packed. I have just enough time to get checked in and make it down to the panel I’m scheduled to speak at, and then after that, there’s a talk I’d like to attend at eleven thirty about wireless security. Following that, a lunch meeting that’s been double-booked for weeks, right up until yesterday, when Jonathan got it all ironed out. And then another talk at two, given by a friend and former colleague.
Standing in the conference center’s glass-and-steel entryway, chatter rises up all around me as I get my badge at the check-in table.
But I don’t have time to look for familiar faces. I’m being called over to the table.
“Hey!” From a few yards away, I hear the unmistakable voice of Josh Eze calling out to me.
I turn and see him. Josh gives me a wave, and when he comes closer, I smile, clasp his hand in mine.
“It’s been forever, man. How are things?”
Josh shrugs and can’t contain his usual infectious smile. “Things are good. Real good. You?”
I shrug too, and sigh. “I guess I’ll be able to tell you after this weekend. You know how it goes.”
“Yeah, I do.”
Josh is just a few inches shorter than I am, and good-looking to anyone with eyes. He’s Nigerian-American, fiercely proud of it, and charming as hell. The two of us started, then sold, a very early company together back in college. Josh had been the network-with-people guy, while I was the network-with-the-network guy, just by virtue of the fact that I found it excruciating to schmooze. It’s not my strength, but it is his.
“Hey, so when are you finally going to come work for me?” he asks.
“I could ask the same of you.”
“Nah, I like Boston,” Josh replies. “And besides, my fiancée’s family is all local, so—”