Motion(Laws of Physics #1)(20)

“Is that what you’re wearing?”

Abram’s question pulled my attention away from my feet to his approach. I noted his hair was wet and his clothes were different.

“Yes.” Glancing down at myself, at the semi-tight jeans and plain black tank top I’d been wearing all day, and then back to him, I asked, “Why?”

Abram lowered a pair of aviator sunglasses into place, blocking his eyes. “No reason.”

“Should I change?” I tossed my thumb toward the kitchen stairs. “Is this a rococo guitar shop? Is there a dress code?”

“What’s rococo?” Abram walked to the front door, stopping directly in front of me.

His approach and proximity made me tense, so I believe I can be excused for not thinking before responding, “Rococo is characterized by an elaborately ornamental late baroque style of decor prevalent in 18th-century Continental Europe, with asymmetrical patterns involving motifs and scrollwork.”

His left dimple made a brief appearance, a very brief appearance, but I almost didn’t notice because, just then, I caught a whiff of soap and shaving cream and something else I couldn’t identify. It—he—smelled SUPER amazing. Wet and fresh and warm and clean. It smelled so good the tension in my body dissipated, leaving goose bumps and a languid kind of stunned relaxation instead. From a smell.

“No. Not rococo. Let’s go,” he said flatly, opening the door and motioning for me to exit.

I didn’t move. I lowered my eyes to scan his clothes while also maybe inhaling deeply. I told myself I was comparing his clothes to mine to determine if I were dressed appropriately while also breathing normally. I was not sniffing.

Upon completing my perusal and inhaling the glorious scent of him—but not sniffing—a few more times, I could see no deficit in my outfit. In fact, after his shower he’d changed and now we were similarly attired: jeans, black shirt, he was in dark sneakers, I was in dark sandals. One might even say we matched.

Lifting my chin to peer up at him, I found him gazing down at me. Right there. Super close. Still smelling super good. My breath caught and any comments I had about the similarity between our attire scattered. I could feel the heat from his body.

Time seemed to slow as my mind sluggishly wondered how I’d arrived at this moment. I could mostly make out his eyes behind the dark lenses. They were lowered, focused somewhere on my face. I didn’t think it was my eyes.

Did he move? Or were we always standing this close? And why wasn’t I cringing away? Goodness, his face would be nice to sit on.

AAHHHH!

“Um.” I flinched, startled by the direction of my thoughts, and stepped back, scratching my cheek. Frowning, flustered by how flustered and hot I suddenly felt—flustered squared—I sputtered, “I, uh, yeah. I go. Out. The door.” Unnecessarily, I pointed to the open door, and then dashed through it, my heart swooping between my throat and cervix.

Shading my face from the afternoon sun, I took two large breaths and endeavored to regain my dismantled composure. It was hot, even for August. I replaced the lingering exquisite smell of him with the city air, a heady aroma of pavement and steadily rising temperature. Pushing open the gate, I darted through it and began speed walking up the street.

“Where are you going? That’s the wrong way,” Abram’s voice called after me.

I turned, rubbing my forehead. I had no idea where we were going.

“There’s no escape from destiny,” I mumbled one of my anytime-occasion phrases to myself, jogging back, and keeping my attention pointed at the sidewalk behind him. “I’ll follow you.”

He didn’t move, and I felt his scrutinizing gaze travel over me. I thought about tossing out whatever while also actively biting back the urge to say another of my anytime-phrases, such as, As the prophesy foretold or So . . . it has come to this.

The less I spoke at this point, the better. Clearly, Gabby’s text had lit a spark, and that spark had flared, and now oxidation of a nearby fuel source had occurred. I needed to keep my head down, be quiet, and stop thinking about sitting on his face. The flames must not be fanned!

Damn Gabby and the power of suggestion!

Perhaps this was something odd about me, but when my physical urges were like this, sometimes they made concentrating difficult. I’d discovered that a tangible, present partner wasn’t necessary for satisfying these urges, yet space, quiet, relaxation, and time to think of fantasy situations were essential. But for right now, and likely for the next week, I could do nothing about it. Satiating measures would have to wait until I returned to California.

Ignore him. That’s the only logical course of action. Good, solid plan.





5





Time, Velocity, and Speed





Ignoring Abram proved difficult.

On the way to the shop, I walked slightly behind him. This made sense since he knew the way. I distracted myself by counting the number of houses we passed instead of staring at his ass, and I deserved a medal for this because he had a super great ass. Super. Great.

I also distracted myself by cursing out Gabby in my head. I rarely noticed man parts, and usually only as a Well, look at that nice thing. Huh. Moving on. Presently, however, I was on the precipice of full-on man-part appreciation. Frustrating.

Once the houses gave way to shops, I counted the bus stops, but continued to curse out Gabby.