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“Okay. Try it out.”
While I’ve been lost in a haze of lust, Will finished building the couch. He glances at me expectantly and almost catches me checking him out. I avert my eyes to the instructions just in time.
I get to my feet and stretch, ignoring his growing smirk as I hobble over to the brand-new couch. My feet fell asleep a while ago. And, yeah, I’m tipsy. Drinking as a distraction from how damn gorgeous he is wasn’t my best idea.
“You’re drunk,” he comments, realizing the same.
“Mmhmm.” I tumble onto the couch and sink into the soft cushions, pulling my knees up into my chest and wrapping my arms around them. “It’s comfy.”
“You gonna help with the bookcase or nap?”
I roll onto my side so I’m facing him. “I’m helping. I’m offering moral support.”
Will snorts. “Nap. Got it.”
I watch as he unboxes the wood for the bookcase. “Do you even have any books?”
“Nope.” He pops the P.
“Why did you get a bookcase, then?”
“You said it would look good in here.”
“So, you listened to my opinion on that, but not the bed frame?”
He got the black metal one I hadn’t liked. The one that appears charred. Better than him sleeping on the floor, I guess.
“The saleslady said it’s one of their bestsellers.”
Of course Lina said that. A woman I hated on sight for no other reason than she was looking at Will the same way I shouldn’t have been. He’s smirking, making me think he noticed the way she was checking him out too. It was hard not to notice. But he didn’t flirt back with her, which I found interesting. I shouldn’t have noticed, let alone been relieved about it.
“You excited for the game tomorrow?” I ask, yawning as he pages through the instructions for the bookcase.
“I’m ready,” he replies, which isn’t really what I was wondering. “You?”
“Ready? Yeah. Excited? No.”
He half smiles, focused on ripping open another bag of bolts.
“But I don’t hate it as much as I thought I would,” I tell him. “The whole sports photography thing.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s more exciting than I was expecting.”
“Sounds like you enjoyed a soccer game, Sophia.”
He sounds so American, between his stubborn insistence on calling the sport soccer and the way his accent alters the sound of my name. But I don’t hate it. I kinda love it.
Just like I enjoyed watching football because I like watching him play. It’s impossible to miss how much he loves it, that passion bleeding out in every play.
“I’ve gotten a few good photos of you,” I tell him. “You could send them to your family or something, if you wanted to.”
Yep, I’m drunk.
Drunk and fishing. Ever since he made that comment about his family not supporting his playing when we were out, buying all of this stuff, I’ve wondered about his relationship with them. How he’s so charming and magnetic and alone, it seems like.
“Sure, send them to me,” he says.
