8. Alice
8
Alice
Me: My coworker across the hall said I could crash in his spare room.
Lula: Then what are you waiting for?
Me: He’s a man.
Lula: Okay… creepy? Old? Smells funny? What’s wrong with him?
Me: Nothing. Will’s fine. I mean, I think he’s fine.
Lula: Ooo, how fine?
Me: That’s not what I mean, Lula.
Lula: What else can ‘fine’ mean?
Me: I think he’s nice. A little dumb, but overall nice. He was a bit skeptical of me at first. But I think he’s coming around.
Lula: Is he a murderer?
Me: I certainly hope not.
Lula: Does he have a psycho girlfriend who would murder you?
Me: Ummm…. He’s never mentioned a girlfriend. But then we haven’t talked about his personal life.
Lula: Is he a stalker? Do you get weird vibes around him?
Me: Stalker? I don’t think so. He seems perfectly normal. No weird vibes.
Lula: Is he cute?
Uhhh, yes. Very. But is that applicable here?
Lula: That pause was way too long. I need a pic.
Me: I don’t have a picture of him. Why would I have a picture of him?
Lula: Get one. Send it.
Me: Lula! Can you please focus? It’s two in the morning. I have another meeting tomorrow, and I can’t sleep. Again. Geez Louise, tile is hard. Even my quilt isn’t thick enough to cushion my backside.
Lula: Alice, what are you waiting for? Go ask the nice, hot man if you can sleep in his spare bed.
Me: I never said he was hot.
Lula: You didn’t have to.
Me: It’s two a.m.
Lula: Yep.
Lula: Get going. I promise I won’t tell Dad.
M y back hurts. My hips hurt. My head pounds.
Okay, time to make friends. Time to ask for help. I can’t yawn through another meeting. I’m already a joke to those guys as it is.
I pull my quilt up around my shoulders, grab Gerald the giraffe, and step into the hall, grateful that Will and I are the only people up here. Sure, Zoe is four floors down, but she didn’t offer me a spare bedroom. I’m not even sure she has one. I don’t. We’ve been too busy to chat since I got here.
I tap on Will’s apartment door with one knuckle. I wait but hear nothing. So, I tap again, this time with my full fist.
The pad-pad of feet sounds inside Will’s apartment. He’s coming—my heart beats a little faster. I’ve never solicited a man for a bed at two in the morning.
He opens the door, just a crack. “Alice?” he says, his eyes slit and his hair mussed.
Lula’s hot talk is messing with my brain. Sure, I’ve noticed Will Henley’s square jaw, blue eyes, and dark, coffee bean-colored hair, but I haven’t dwelled on any of that. He’s my coworker. My superior. I’ve been focused on the job and sleeping more than ten minutes at a time.
Will swings the door open wider and stands in front of me. His white T-shirt hugs his shoulders, and his flannel pants sit on his hips. I bite my lip and swallow. Will Henley is kind of hot.
Stupid Lula. This is all her fault.
“Alice,” he says—again. “Is everything okay? Do you need?—”
“Oh, right.” I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head. I should probably explain myself rather than rate Will’s shoulders on the Taylor girls’ scale of sexiness. “Sorry,” I say in a hushed tone. “I’m so sorry. It’s late. But—” My heart patters. I truly believe Will to be a decent human. He did apologize for the whole Theo-princess thing. “Are you a murderer?”
“What?” He rubs one hand over his eyes and peers at me more intently. “Am I a?—”
“A murderer. It’s a perfectly normal question,” I say.
“It’s not.” He blinks, his eyes tired, before fixing his stare on me again.
But I wait. I’m not saying a word or moving a foot until he has given the correct answer to that question.
“No, Alice, I am not a murderer.”
I lean in, just a centimeter. “A stalker?”
“Are you serious?” He scrubs his hand down the front of his face. “No. I am not a stalker.”
“And you don’t have some crazy girlfriend who will try to beat me up?”
He clears his throat and tilts his head against the door. “I’m not sure what’s happening here, but I do not have a girlfriend. At all.”
“Okay.” I breathe out an overly exhausted sigh. “I need that spare bed, Will.”
“Oh, the bed. Sure.” He looks as though he’s still trying to wake up. But he steps to the side and allows me into his apartment.
“Holy crap,” I gasp—the words are out before I can stop them. “Billy pays you well.”
His place is a lot bigger than mine, and nice. And stocked. Leather couches and wooden end tables. It’s like a page right out of Crate I have nothing to eat at my place either. I stop at the same fast food joint every day, the one that’s close to Echo Ridge apartments. In fact, I am going to take the time to go shopping today. Maybe .
I pull two speckled, odd-shaped bowls from the cupboard. They’re heavy and rimmed in copper, giving them a rustic sort of feel. An expensive rustic feel. I fill Will’s bowl up and give the rest of the banana oatmeal to myself.
I wish I had Will’s number. I’d text him that breakfast is ready. But I don’t. I’d rather his breakfast not go cold or turn to mush… so, I head down the hall, past the guest room, and straight for the only other door down this hall besides the bathroom. Will went this way last night—this must be his room.
I tap on the door, not unlike I did last night. When nothing happens, I knock a little louder.
And then, Will Henley—shirtless and wet, his dark hair dripping, and a toothbrush hanging from his mouth—opens the door.
I am face to face with abs. Abs and pecs and shoulders galore.
“You’re wet. And slick.” I reach a hand toward his stomach but stop myself before I can make contact. All control, all sanity—it’s left the building. “You don’t have a shirt. It’s gone.” I swallow. “I’ve got mine.” Words that I have neither approved nor chosen slip from my lips. And then, I cough—on nothing. There is nothing in my mouth, but suddenly I am choking.
Will pulls the toothbrush from his mouth, his dark brows knitting. With the movement, I see the edge of a black tattoo on his shoulder. I can’t make out what it is at this angle, and I’d really like to examine it.
“Are you okay?”
“Oatmeal—” I wheeze.
“Oat what?” He leans an inch my way, and a droplet of wet Will water drips from his hair onto my bare leg.
“Holy Saint Joe,” I wheeze. Pulling in a sharp breath, I hold up a finger. I give breathing my best shot. “Breakfast,” I say.
His gray-blue eyes widen. “You cooked?”
I nod and stare—right at Will’s chest. It’s like someone has taken control of my eyes. They have no other choice but to gawk at Will Henley’s body. So, I turn on my heels and speed walk back to the kitchen.
Three minutes later, Will, dressed in a navy T-shirt and pants, makes an appearance in the kitchen.
I swallow, and I’m proud to say I don’t explode into a coughing fit at his presence this time around. “I just wanted to say thanks.” Wow, that was a full and complete sentence. I’m so proud of myself.
“When you said breakfast, I thought maybe you meant bacon.” He lifts a shoulder and smiles.
“You didn’t have any,” I say. “In fact, you have almost nothing.”
“Yeah, I know—I thought maybe you had bacon.” Will breathes out a laugh. “This is great, Alice. I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in a while.”
This isn’t exactly a meal. “I don’t have anything . Not even oatmeal. If I’d had bacon, I would have brought it.” I wouldn’t have bacon—I’m a vegetarian. But still, if I’d had anything, I would have gladly shared.
“You haven’t been grocery shopping?”
I shake my head. “Nah, I’ve either been in meetings with you or at home researching.”
“You’ve been researching?”
“Well, yeah. You couldn’t tell?”
His brows scrunch. “Yeah, I guess so. It makes sense.”
“I want to do a good job. I realize I don’t know a lot about soccer, but I do know about marketing. I know tactics. I know what’s working. I can help—as long as I can research.”
Will grins and scoops another bite of oats into his spoon. He shovels it into his mouth, leans against the kitchen counter, and faces me. Somehow this man, who I’m not sure has ever cooked in this space before, fits here. “You really want to do a good job, don’t you?” he says.
“Of course.” I stir my oats, certain that if I eat in his presence while remembering what’s beneath that shirt, I’ll only choke again.
He takes another bite and his smile falters.
“Yeah, a little sugar would have gone a long way. It’s pretty bland.”
“It’s great,” he breathes out and sets his bowl on the counter. “So, you haven’t gone into town?”
“Not yet.” It’s been a week, but I’ve either stopped at that sub place that’s right by the office or I’ve called in DoorDash. My bank account is angry with me.
“We should go shopping together. I mean, I know my way around, and it sounds like we both need to stock up our refrigerators.”
I realize Will has a shirt on, and we’re not even exactly friends, but I worry I won’t be able to accept this invite without turning into a drooling teenage misfit. I swallow and breathe and remind myself that he’s just a man—a fully dressed man. And shopping with a potential friend sounds kind of great. “That would be nice. But do you have time?”
“I’ve only got marketing on my schedule today. I can probably squeeze in a trip to town.”
I press my lips together and rein back my grin. “How long do you think our meeting will go this afternoon?”
“You know,” he says, “I have a feeling we’ll get out with plenty of time to shop.”