He smirks. “Has anyone ever paid you back?”
I don’t want to answer, but I can tell he’s waiting for my reply. I shake my head quickly.
His eyebrows raise. “Well, then I owe you.”
He stands, and I’ve completely forgotten the conversation when he rises to his full height. His legs are really long. I glance down at them, wondering where he finds pants to fit them. Then I realize I’m staring at his crotch across the table, so I stand, pushing the chair out from under me. The height thing is way more daunting in person than in a picture on my fridge. I think he’s easily a foot taller than me.
I finish putting everything away, and to my surprise, he waits for me to finish packing. He opens the door for me, holds it with one hand, and steps back. I look up at him, unable to find my voice to thank him. He’s ridiculously tall, so I walk under his arm. His scent fills my senses.
I purposely keep a fast stride, walking ahead of him. In the hallway, I take a step toward the elevator.
“Lucy.”
I turn at the sound of his deep voice calling my name. My heart hammers against my chest. He’s standing in the doorway of 3B, hand still on the doorframe. The front of his hair has separated into two slightly distinct sections.
“Thanks for the past hour. Seriously. I was — yeah. Thank you.”
I murmur, “You’re welcome.”
He nods once, turns, and walks toward the stairs. I watch him go. Maybe he wants to avoid me just as much as I want to avoid him.
The elevator takes seventeen seconds.
Outside, the light has gone gold. I cross the south lawn with my bag on one shoulder and my hands in the pockets of the jacket I’ve been carrying around all day.
Lists are how I manage. I’ve made a list out of every difficult day of my life since I was nine years old. It’s my coping mechanism, and one that has become second nature. But I can’t write this down. I don’t want it to see the light of day.
First, Benson is not dumb. He asked questions in the right order, picked up everything at full speed, made one careless format error on the final problem, and corrected himself. He’s not a jerk. He was respectful. He did not roll his eyes once or complain. That’s rare. Maybe I’ll give it a few more weeks before I make a list. A big one is that he smelled good. And he said my name in the hallway to tell me thank you.
I cross Birchwood at the light. The Vietnamese place on the corner of Main is open and the smell of the broth they’ve been simmering since 3 a.m. is in the air, the way it is in our apartment by 6 p.m. with all the windows closed.
I climb the stairs.
When I enter my apartment, Gianna is on the couch. Gray sweats, the long-sleeve Wolves shirt she stole from the equipment cage. Mixing bowl of popcorn in her lap. Her laptop is open on the coffee table playing a baking show.
She pauses it the second I walk in. “Well?”
I drop my bag, take off my jacket, and hang it on the hook on the wall. “It was fine.”
“Fine like fine, or fine like you’re not telling me something.”
I look at her concerned face. She’s worried like hell. I answer nonchalantly, “Fine like fine.”
She squints at me over the popcorn bowl.
“How was he?”
“He was good.” My voice is a little too high. “He’s smart.”
“I told you he was smart.”
I smile. “You did, and I’m confirming that you’re right.”
“I’m always right.”
I sit down on the other end of the couch and pull the throw blanket over my legs. The apartment is cold.
“Was he a douche?”
