Eye Contact Page 14

  “I am. That’s the client I met with the other day after I talked to you on the phone.”

  “Wow!” she remarked, bending to get a closer look. “I’ve never seen such tiny paint brushes before. It’s so detailed.”

  “It’s all in the details,” I agreed. “He’s a really nice guy and is eager to get his appearance back to normal.”

  She lifted one of the photographs and studied it closely. “How do you zoom in this far?”

  Laughing at her fascination, I explained, “It’s a specialized camera. Here, I’ll show you.” I made my way over to where I had an ophthalmic slit lamp set up and gestured for her to follow me. “Have a seat if you want.” I invited her to sit in the place the client would sit.

  She paused, wary. “Just like I’m the patient?”

  “Yes. I’ll take a picture of your eyes.”

  I sat across from her and brought the instrument toward her. She leaned her face into the slit lamp and grabbed the handles on each side, resting her chin atop the cushioned bar.

  “Put your forehead all the way forward against the strap on top,” I instructed as I leaned forward too. My hand reached to turn the knob to power up the light, and my fingers barely grazed hers. The slightest little touch of her skin sent a brief shock of energy through me, but I held it together. I wondered if she had felt it too.

  As her right eye was illuminated by the beam lamp, I looked deep into her iris, really taking in every detail. Her eyes were brilliant and gleaming, a shade of blue that would be a challenge to match. The centermost part of her iris surrounding her pupil was a pale blue, crystal clear, like a deep pool of water. The shades of blue got darker the farther out you looked, with a defined dark sapphire ring outlining the entire diameter. There were tiny flecks of gold sprinkled throughout that one would probably otherwise never even notice. Our faces were so close, our eyes mere inches from each other, and I could smell her minty breath and the sweetness of her hair or perfume next to me.

  “Beautiful.” My compliment came out in a whisper. She didn’t speak, but the corners of her closed lips lifted at the admiration.

  The moment was intimate and special, one I would cling to for a long time to come.

  “This slit lamp has a specialized camera in it with a macro lens. It allows me to take a close up photograph of exactly what I’m seeing. Can I take a picture of your eye, Andie?”

  “Yes,” she answered with a low whisper. “Please do.”

  I clicked the button with my right hand to snap the photo then moved the view over to look at her left eye, repeating the same actions: gazing, examining, wanting to dive in, and eventually taking a picture. Not wanting it to get awkward or uncomfortable, I backed my head away from her, a satisfied grin overtaking my features.

  “Now what?” she asked as she moved her head away from the chin rest.

  I pulled a thumb drive from the side of the base of the slit lamp and stood up, with her following me to stand. She was patient with me, allowing me time to make my way over to the draft table where she’d seen the initial iris button being painted on. When I arrived at the desk, I opened my computer and inserted the drive into the port, pulling up a folder to view the pictures. Hers were the last two taken, all the way at the bottom, and I double-clicked to bring them up large on the screen.

  “Oh my gosh! Those are my eyes.” She was astonished and bent at the waist to lean in, getting a closer look. “That’s incredible.”

  “I agree. They are incredible.”

  She stood tall with a bashful expression overtaking her face, and I regretted making her feel that way. There was a moment of hesitation on both of our parts and while I ached to touch her, I decided against it.

  “So, on with the tour.” The space felt heavier, and I wanted to honor her request to keep things casual. “Over here is the work station for the hardware and construction.” I showed her a few different models of prosthetic shells that were in different phases of construction and talked through how I went about making them. She hung on my every word, genuinely interested.

  “Okay, wait—so you hand carve the wax molding shell?”

  “Yes, and once I’m done with that aluminum iris button, which is painted on the back, reversed so the color can be seen through the dome of plastic, it will go here.” I showed her, pointing to the shell.

  “Unbelievable. This is truly remarkable. I’m so fascinated by all of it.”

  Chuckling at how cute she was being about the whole thing, I approved. “I’m so glad you like it. I think most people think it’s kind of weird.”

  “It is weird, but in the best way. It’s such a cool specialty and you’re beyond talented. I’m just—I’m amazed.”

  “Thank you.”

  We walked a little farther into the room and she paused, waiting for me to lead the way. I hesitated, fearful that it would be too suggestive to offer to show her my living space. I didn’t know if she sensed it or just didn’t care, but she initiated.

  “So is this where you live?” she inquired, looking in the direction of the next door.

  “It is. We don’t have to go in there right now though. Maybe later. I mean, not later tonight—unless you want to…but I’m not suggesting that I’m even insinuating—oh God.”

  Thankfully, she lightened the mood and put me at ease. “Relax, Vaughn. I’d love to see it—unless, of course, you don’t want me to, like if you have dirty underwear lying all over the place or something.”

  “Nope. No underwear. I’d love for you to see it.” I opened the door and we entered the large studio-style apartment setup. “It’s nothing special, but it’s home.”

  She sauntered in, glancing all around to take it all in. I didn’t need to narrate any sort of tour. My kitchen was on one side with a small table and four chairs, and a sofa sat on the next adjoining wall with its back to us, facing the large television mounted in front of it. There was a standard-sized window to the left of the entertainment area with blackout curtains covering it, and then my king-sized bed was to our right, flanked by two nightstands. I didn’t have a true closet, so an armoire and a dresser stood next to my bed.

  “Where’s your bathroom?” she asked.

  “Oh, sure. You can head right through there—that door,” I gestured.

  “No, I don’t need to use it—I was just curious where it was. It’s the only thing I didn’t see.”

  She was so damn beautiful and as she strolled around, taking everything in, I took the time to really look at her. She was taller than normal with the slight heel on her shoes but still a few inches shorter than my six feet. Her jeans were fitted and her legs looked fantastic. Her shoulders were exposed from her cutout shirt pattern, and the smooth skin of her perfect complexion was creamy and pale. My fingers tingled with the desire to touch her skin.

  “It’s very…masculine,” she observed, critiquing my decorating style.

  “You mean boring?”

  “No. I guess I just thought…with you being an artist, well, I pictured your room being crazy and expressive. Bold colors, paintings on the walls, something…different,” she admitted.

  “When I come into this space, I want to relax. All the colors, art, expression…that’s too stimulating for my bedroom.”

  “I see. Makes sense.” She meandered over to my dresser, picking up a frame I had stood up on the top. “Who is this?”

  “That’s Hattie…Ms. Hattie,” I murmured. When her eyes lifted to mine in question, I elaborated. “She was my foster mom.”

  Chapter 24

  Andie

  “I’m sorry,” I offered as I gently set the frame back on the dresser. We hadn’t even left for our date yet and I had already brought down the mood.

  “For what? Don’t be,” he insisted. “It is what it is. I had quite the colorful childhood.” His eyes were somber but his expression firm.

  “Well, I’d love to hear about it—I mean, maybe not right now, but…yeah.”

  “I’d like to tell you a
bout it, about her. I want to tell you everything,” he said softly as he inched closer to me, reaching his hand out to brush back a strand of loose hair and tuck it behind my left ear. His lips parted and I couldn’t look at anything but them…so full, soft, kissable. The moment was thick with both of us wanting but unsure. He squeezed his eyes closed and interrupted the silence a few seconds later. “We should go. I want to take you to dinner.”

  I smiled, feeling slightly relieved, and nodded. He pivoted around and I handed him his crutches to head out.

  “So where are we going?”

  “One of my favorite spots. I hope you don’t mind being outside. It’s supposed to be nice weather, and they have a cool rooftop bar.”

  “Oh, I think I’ve heard about this place. Is it in San Marco?”

  “No, right here in Riverside, not too far from here actually.” I followed him as we walked out of his shop, being patient with his slower steps. “It’s called White Lamb.”

  “Yes, I have heard of it,” I affirmed, excited to finally try the hot spot I’d heard people mention before. “Are you going to be able to get upstairs though?”

  His lips curled up and he stepped aside to let me out the front door, turning to lock up after I stepped away. “They have an elevator, but it’s sweet of you to think of that.”

  We reached the passenger side of my car and I reached down to open the door for him. I took his crutches and held them while he backed up and sat back, sort of falling into the seat. He swung his legs into the vehicle and reached out to retrieve his crutches from me as he joked, “I’m glad to see chivalry isn’t dead.”

  I shut the door gently with a smile on my face, relieved at how easy and comfortable our evening was going so far. He was charming and joking with me, allowing me to relax a little more with each jab.

  We quickly arrived at the restaurant and he insisted we do valet, citing his ‘disability’ as the reason. The restaurant was quaint but swanky and modern as far as the vibe and décor went. It was packed and I was sure we would have to wait for a table, but when we exited the elevator to emerge onto the rooftop, the hostess directed us toward the far corner of the space to an open couch that had an empty table. The view was incredible as the setting sun lit up the sky with vibrant oranges and pinks. We got comfortable, and I could barely tear my eyes away from the sky to look at the menu. When I finally turned to look at Vaughn, he was staring at me. He was looking at me like I was looking at the sky, smiling when our eyes met. I returned the expression, suddenly feeling shy, and shifted my gaze to start reading the menu.

  “We have to get the fried olives as an appetizer,” he demanded.

  “Yeah?” I read the description: pimento-stuffed green olives, breaded and deep-fried with a creamy aioli dipping sauce. “It sounds kind of weird, to be honest.”

  “Weird but amazing. It’s non-negotiable,” Vaughn insisted with a wink.

  “If you say so. I’m up for trying anything.”

  The server came over and took our drink orders, Vaughn ordering a gin and tonic and me a glass of pinot noir. He added the appetizer, garnering approval from the waitress, like it was some secret, the magic of these fried olives. I was anxious to see what the hype was about.

  As I watched him speak with the waitress, I eased into my seat, relaxing a bit. Vaughn was personable and charismatic without being outwardly flirtatious. I found myself entranced while looking at his mouth as he spoke. He was so damn attractive and it seemed he had no clue, which made him even more appealing. As I stared at his five o’clock shadow, borderline aching to feel the scruff against my skin, he broke me out of my reverie.

  “Andie?”

  “Yeah—yes,” I responded, shaking my head out of whatever cloud it had gotten trapped in. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Thought I lost ya for a minute there.” I couldn’t help but feel embarrassed and tried to will my cheeks not to flush. “So what do you feel like?”

  “Wh-What? Oh, right—for dinner.” Lord, I’m awkward. “I was thinking the shrimp and grits looked good.”

  “YES! That’s what I’m talking about.”

  “You approve?”

  “Oh, they’re really good, but I’m more excited that you’re going to order an actual meal instead of pushing around a wimpy salad for an hour trying not to look fat.”

  It made me laugh. “Sounds like you’ve dated some real winners in the past.”

  “You’re so different from anyone I’ve ever met, in every way. I just…I like you, Andie.”

  “Thanks?” I said, the word coming out like a question. “I like you too.”

  Our conversation was easy and seamless, and I was more comfortable with him than I had ever been with anyone before. It was refreshing, and also terrifying. I had to keep reminding myself to stop analyzing every little thing, to just relax and have a good time.

  My wine was smooth, and before we knew it, the infamous appetizer arrived at the table.

  “Okay. Prepare to have a food-gasm,” he joked, making me almost spit out the sip of wine I was in the process of drinking. It was hilarious how he just seemed to blurt out whatever came to his mind.

  What was on the plate looked…interesting. There were little oval balls covered in a crispy fried batter, beautifully plated next to a ramekin of dipping sauce. I picked one up, the olive hot to the touch, and lifted my brows with here-goes-nothing determination. As I went for it, Vaughn looked on with anticipation. I bit into the olive so I could see what was in the middle. They had taken huge, perfectly salty green olives and stuffed them with… “Mmmm, I forgot about the pimento cheese!” I moaned in approval and put the remaining half into my mouth, the crispy fried shell an odd but perfect complement. “These are SO good.”

  He dipped one into the sauce and threw it back in one bite, a wry smile spreading across his face. Sitting back into his cushioned seat, he looked pleased. “I’m glad you like them. I might have had to end this date prematurely if you hadn’t. These olives are life.”

  “I mean, life? I’m not sure they’re that impressive.” He looked wounded. “Okay, okay, they’re awesome. They’re spectacular, fantastic, amazing, phenom—”

  “All right, they’re just olives.”

  We easily finished the entire plate, Vaughn moaning and closing his eyes multiple times. It was kind of funny how much he enjoyed his food. In between bites, our discussions were light and fun, the banter between us perfectly compatible. We ordered another drink and he was obviously comfortable with me, even offering me a taste of his dinner, feeding me a mouthful with his fork. I didn’t even hesitate.

  He asked about me, wanting to know everything he could learn, yet it didn’t at all seem like an interview. I told him about my upbringing and my family, leaving out the part about my mom being an agoraphobic recluse. I figured I’d save that for at least the third date.

  “You light up when you talk about your dad,” he said. I felt my face get warm. “It’s beautiful.”

  Yeah, I was full-on blushing, and the alcohol wasn’t helping. “He was my best friend.”

  “I can tell.”

  We were in the corner, me seated on one side and him on the adjacent side, so we weren’t exactly next to each other, but we weren’t across from each other either. It was the perfect amount of distance, and he reached out to lay his hand on my thigh, just above my knee.

  “He would be so proud of you.”

  “I hope so. I think he would.”

  As the breeze picked up right in that moment, I felt such a peace being there with Vaughn, so serene and content. He turned to face me more, picking his leg up to rest it on the couch cushion. His hand rose to graze over my forearm like he couldn’t not touch me right then.

  “I’m really glad you agreed to come out with me.”

  “I am too.” And I was. The nervousness and apprehension about blurring the lines of my career were still there, but if I hadn’t pushed myself to make the decision to take a chance, I could have been missing ou
t on something great. It felt right. I turned my face toward the other side of the rooftop deck, looking out into the night sky and the view of the city’s skyline lit up in the distance, and I truly relaxed on an exhalation.

  Vaughn took care of the bill and we stood to make our exit, him letting me pass in front of him. The valet brought my car around, Vaughn tipping him before climbing in, and we started to drive away.

  “So where to?” I proposed. “Do you want to go home now or are you up for dessert?”

  His eyes lit up and he smiled. “I’m ALWAYS up for dessert.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that. I know a place.” I made my way toward the cute little bistro in Avondale that was hands down the best dessert place in the city. We lucked out and scored a rock-star parking spot just as someone was leaving, and he said he had never been there.

  “Well, if you thought the fried olives were food-gasmic, you’re about to have your mind blown.”

  He laughed. “Challenge accepted.”

  The display case was front and center when we walked in, the glass enclosure showcasing every kind of cake and pie you could imagine. Seeing his eyes grow wide was hilarious.

  “You have got to be kidding me. There have got to be thirty different choices. How do you decide?”

  “It’s tough, don’t get me wrong, but no matter what you pick, you won’t be disappointed.”

  We sat down at a cute little two-person table right next to the front window and the server approached a moment later. When we told him we were just there for dessert, he invited us to come to the case so he could describe all of the choices.

  Chocolate peanut butter pie, pineapple upside-down cake, carrot cake, chocolate bread pudding, crème brûlée, mango key lime pie, rum pound cake, red velvet cheesecake, mocha triple mousse layered brownie something something—and so much more.

  “I’m so overwhelmed,” he admitted, standing up straight to look at me for guidance. “I feel like I have diabetes just from looking at them all.”

  “I’m eager to see what you pick. You can tell a lot about a person by what dessert they choose.”