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TWENTY-SIX
SOPHIA
There’s a knock on my door as I’m pouring hot water into a mug for some tea. I peek through the peephole and exhale, trying to release some of the excitement that’s appeared.
Will glances me over as soon as I open the door, his gaze as intense as I’ve ever seen it. Memories of last night trickle in, barely dulled by the hangover I woke up with. After he left me in the restroom, I spent the rest of the evening drunk on him, more than any other substance.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” He’s wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, his dark hair still damp. He must have come straight from working out at the practice facility.
He looks very American, and I’m definitely fantasizing about pledging my allegiance. He still hasn’t let me touch him. I was too dazed last night to even offer before he left the restroom.
Will’s expression is unreadable as he shoulders his way into my apartment without waiting for an invitation.
I slam the door shut behind him. “Sure, come right on in.”
I don’t hate that he didn’t wait for permission, though. I like his decisiveness. And it’s not like I’ve never entered his place uninvited.
He glances around the kitchen and living room, then the open door leading into my bedroom. He’s never seen the inside of my place before. Just walked me home once.
“What’s wrong with your cabinet?”
“What?”
“Your cabinet.” He walks over to the sink, focused on the cabinet door that’s never fully closed.
“Oh. I don’t know. It’s been like that since I moved in.”
“Do you have a screwdriver?”
“Uh…I don’t think so,” I say.
Will nods, opening one of the drawers and rummaging through it until he comes up with a small knife I’ve used with cheeses. He does something with it inside the cabinet, and then a minute later the door is shutting securely for the first time. “Hinge just needed to be tightened,” he tells me, setting the knife on the counter.
“Oh. Okay. Thanks.”
One corner of his mouth curves up. He’s not paying attention to my apartment any longer, that green stare totally focused on me.
“How was your day?”
“Uh, okay. I did laundry.”
I’m nervous, and it’s a foreign, flustering feeling. I held my own last night—for a while there anyway, until his tongue got involved—but today feels different. Afternoon sunlight streams in through my apartment’s windows, casting a golden glow over Will’s expression. He’s studying me the way I look at photographs, deliberation and admiration and a little disbelief.
Will nods, barely a bob of his head, then asks, “Do you like Indian food?”
“Indian food?” Not at all what I was expecting him to say. I know what I’m hoping him showing up here means, but I’m not sure if I’m right. Maybe he’s just here to apologize again.
“Yep. Fritz recommended this place in Prinzregentenplatz.”
His pronunciation is improving. Barely, but it’s not any worse.
“Okay…”
He’s looking for restaurant recommendations? Maybe I’ve been demoted back to tour guide.
Will exhales. Shakes his head once. “Remember when I told you I’d never given a woman my number before?”
