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Hans is in loose-fitting sweatpants and a tight-fitting T-shirt. Jesus Christ. I want to put a steaming mug into his hands and stick him in a nineties coffee commercial.
Then I notice the exhausted look on his face. “Are you okay?”
He nods, and I watch as his narrowed eyes lower to my empty hands.
I bite my lip.
All the other times I’ve knocked on his door, it’s because I’ve brought him food. Now that he actually answers, I have nothing to offer.
Is he hungry? Is that why he actually answered the door?
Ohmygod, stop it. I don’t need to offer him anything. I’m here because the man stole my book.
“I would like my book back,” I say in what feels like a very mature tone.
Hans shakes his head.
Umm…
I hadn’t really considered him not agreeing.
“No, you won’t give it back?” I clarify.
He just holds my gaze.
“You can’t just keep it.” I lift my hands, fingers spread, in awhat givesgesture. “It… was expensive,” I blurt out. Even if I shouldn’t need a reason. Because it’s mine.
Instead of replying, Hans steps back from the door, giving me my first view into his house. And I have to press my lips together to keep from smiling. Because from here, I can see that my guesses were correct.
The front door opens into the living room, like mine does. And off to my right is a little hall that must lead to the bedrooms. Right ahead of me is a doorway that must lead to a basement, and to the left is the kitchen, then the entrance to the garage.
Hans is stalking off to the right, toward the bedrooms, hopefully to get my book. But he didn’t ask me to follow, so I’ll just stand here and wait.
It’s a little dated. Not much in here but the usual furniture. Basically, a typicalsingle dudesetup.
Except above the couch, mounted to the wall, is a… sword.
Huh.
I glance around at the rest of the room.
A remote and a glass of water on the coffee table. A standing lamp next to the couch. A TV, bigger than mine, in the corner of the room, angled to the couch. Nothing expensive looking, but the pieces look sturdy and well kept.
I don’t require wealth from the hot man who kisses me like he wants to own me.
Hans reappears from the short hall, holding his wallet.
“What are you doing?”
Hans pulls a wad of cash out of the folded leather, and it looks like a bunch of hundreds. “How much?”
His voice snaps me out of my daze. It’s scratchy and quiet.
He sounds awful.
“Oh geez, are you sick?” I press my hands against my chest, suddenly feeling bad for bothering him.
Hans lifts his chin.
