Page 25 of Hats off to Love

So not invited.

So bossy.

Ugh.

Moving into my living room, I give it a once-over. I pick up a few things that are lying around and load the dishes that were in the sink into the dishwasher. I’m not sure why any of this matters, but for some reason it does, and as I’m wrapping up, the buzzer rings for the downstairs door.

With a deep, resigned sigh, I hit the button to let him up, and because he’s not a small guy, I can hear every step he takes coming up the stairs.

Then there’s a pause as he stands outside my door.

What is he doing?

Tiptoeing over, I peek through the eyehole and see him standing there with one hand wrapped around a bag and the other on his hip. He’s looking down, I’m not sure at what, but as his spine straightens, it’s as if his brick walls, which keep him so stiff, are falling into place one at a time. He runs his hand through his hair then roughly knocks, which causes me to jump.

Taking a deep breath, I open the door, and we both stare at each other. I’m wearing a pair of athletic shorts and a tank top. He’s wearing a Kentucky Wildcats T-shirt and jeans. He looks so casual I feel like I’m looking at someone completely different.

Without a word, I open the door a little wider, and he tentatively steps inside while taking a slow, long look around.

It was bad enough to have Stokes perusing my shop, but to have him in my apartment somehow just feels wrong. Maybe it’s because, aside from the day I moved in, I haven’t had any guy here in my space.

This apartment is pretty standard. The living room and kitchen is one large space, and then there are two bedrooms. The master has its own bathroom, and there is another in the hallway. It doesn’t have much character, pretty basic except for the outer wall being brick just like downstairs and the vaulted ceiling.

He clears his throat. “This reminds me of your apartment in the city.”

“It should,” I say, closing the door behind him. “I’m the same person with the same furniture.”

He levels me with a flat look before walking past me and into the kitchen. Of course I follow, and he’s barely opened the takeout bag when I catch a whiff of curry. He brought Thai food, which I never said to him was my favorite, and I can’t help but wonder if he somehow already knew this. He at least knew he was playing it safe by bringing something he knows I like.

“Would you like a beer? Water? Wine?” I ask him, reminding myself to take the high road and be polite.

“A beer would be great,” he says, looking at me over the kitchen table. “Thank you.”

Thank you. Looks like he’s going to be on his best behavior too.

I grab two beers from my refrigerator along with two plates and silverware then make my way to the table. If someone had told me Stokes Whitlock would be in my apartment tonight, I would have laughed them right out of town, bet the bank, and declared them mental. Yet here he is, and somehow the space feels smaller.

He sits down at the table then looks around the apartment again.

“I like it. It looks like you.”

Is that meant to be a compliment or an insult? One can never tell with him.

“And what do I look like?” I ask, feeling somewhat defensive. It’s not meant to be a test, but I am curious if he’ll be kind or not.

His gaze falls to me as I start unloading the to-go boxes, and I can feel the heat climbing up into my cheeks. If he notices, he doesn’t let on. I’d hate for him to get the wrong idea and think his opinion of me matters when it doesn’t. It stopped mattering a long time ago.

“Colorful. Comfortable. Familiar.”

So he went with kind. Smart boy. We both know he’s here because he wants me to be his fake girlfriend, and he’s bright enough to know he can catch more flies with honey than vinegar.

Sitting down across from him, I empty half of one container onto my plate and then reach for the other.

“I wasn’t sure what you like. I remembered the panang from lunch, so hopefully these will work,” he says, grabbing the box I just had and scooping out the rest.

“Everything from there works. No matter what you get, you can’t go wrong,” I tell him, and one corner of his mouth lifts.

He’s pleased to know I like what he brought.