Chapter 7
Seven
The stairwell smells faintly of dust and warm metal, and the air hangs heavy. Without the ventilation system, it’s thick and humid. My blouse is already sticking to my spine.
The faster I get outside, the faster I can escape Theo’s gravitational field. He starts down without waiting for me. I follow. But with every descending step, the same thought presses against me. Fifteen. Flights. Of. This.
Our footsteps echo in the concrete shaft. The only other sound is the grunt Theo lets out whenever he adjusts his grip on his luggage. The thing looks like it’s about to split open at the seams.
On the third flight, my mind is so preoccupied that I don’t realize Theo has stopped and I bump right into him. My hand shoots out to steady myself against his arm. It’s surprisingly firm. “Sorry,” I mutter, dropping it immediately. Heat sears my cheeks.
“Careful,” he says, slightly out of breath. He straightens, rolling his shoulders. I register, against my will, how broad they are. Adding to my list of things I find irritating about Theo Riverton is how well built his body is.
The silence stretches out just long enough to be awkward. I clear my throat. “You know, you could leave your bag here and come back for it tomorrow. No need to haul it down fifteen floors,” I say nodding toward it.
“No.” His answer is immediate, too sharp. He drags in a few slow breaths. “It was a gift from my grandmother. And even if it weren’t, I’d never leave it behind. Somebody might steal my stuff.”
I blink. That seems unexpectedly paranoid. “Besides your clothes,” I say carefully, “what do you even have in there worth stealing? You could just take your tablet and phone with you.”
“That’s need-to-know,” he mutters. “If I told you, how would I know you wouldn’t steal it?”
I roll my eyes. “I wouldn’t. And aren’t there cameras in every corner of this building? If you left your bag and it did disappear, it wouldn’t be hard to figure out who took it.”
His mouth quirks, the closest thing to amusement I’ve ever seen from him. “There are cameras. But the power’s off, so they’re conveniently useless.”
I huff out a laugh despite myself. “Well, I still wouldn’t. If I really wanted something, I’d just put it on a credit card and deal with it later. Back home, we respect other people’s things. It’s kind of a cultural baseline.”
“And where is that again?”
“Home is Tokyo.”
He appraises me. “Huh. I’ve always assumed you were American. Your English is perfect. I’ve never noticed any trace of an accent.”
I swallow the flicker of nerves and keep my tone light. “It’s there if you know what to look for. I’m crap at pronouncing words with the letters R or L, like radio and letter.” As I say the words, radio comes out like “la-gee-oh” and letter as “reh-ter.” “See? I rest my case.”
Theo shrugs. “I still don’t see, or in this case hear, much of a difference. I guess it’s because I’m used to all the regional accents we have back in the UK. How long have you studied English?”
“Since I was five. My parents wanted my sister and me to be able to speak it fluently. But most kids don’t start learning it until they’re eight or nine.”
“I wish I’d been introduced to a foreign language when I was that young,” he mutters, nearly tripping over a step. “I might’ve actually retained something besides ‘where is the library’ and ‘the cat is on the table.’”
I stop walking, leaning against the stairwell railing. My feet have had enough. I’m good at walking in heels, if I do say so myself, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy them. My toes are cramped, my heels feel raw, and my calf muscles are screaming in a language only pain understands.
At this point, I’m beyond caring what Theo thinks. I slip my shoes off my feet and wiggle my toes. “Much better.”
A few steps ahead of me, Theo stops. He turns slowly, his gaze traveling from my face down to my feet.
“You don’t have to wait for me,” I say, feeling the cool concrete against my soles.
He ignores my dismissive tone. “What are you doing?”
“Walking?” I shoot back.
“Without shoes?”
“That’s the plan.”
His facial muscles twitch. “With . . . naked feet.”
I snort. Most people would say barefoot. I wonder what the use of the word naked says about his personality. Does he find skin scandalous? I’ll ponder it later.
“I gave up wearing pantyhose and no-show socks after week one,” I explain, stepping onto the next landing. “Florida is too hot and humid for all those layers.”
“No,” he says.
“No, what?”
“No.” He shakes his head. The exhaustion in his eyes is replaced by a brief spark of panicked authority. “You are not walking down the rest of the stairs with nothing on your feet. It’s filthy. There could be nails, rogue staples, snakes, or . . . who knows what else is lurking here.”
“It is Florida. And I wouldn’t be surprised if there were some snakes, giant spiders”—I shiver—“or maybe even a bat around here, but I’m still not putting these back on until we get to the bottom. If my feet are pitch-black by the time we get there, I’ll accept the consequences.”
Muttering something that sounds suspiciously like a British curse word, Theo yanks the zipper of his suitcase open. He rifles through his neatly packed belongings with a frantic energy. “Here.” He thrusts a pair of long black socks into my hands. “At least put these on.”
I unfurl them. “These look like leg warmers. Do you have a secret hobby like professional Jazzercise?”
“They are not leg warmers,” he snaps, rubbing his temples. “They’re men’s dress socks. High-quality pima cotton.”
“But they’re so long.”
“They’re meant to go above your calves. I hate when my socks ride down.”
“But . . .”
“Just put them on,” he says, his voice hitting a note of impatience. “I am too tired to argue with you about your feet, Minami. Please. Just put on the socks so we can leave before I fall asleep on this landing. I’d offer you my shoes, but I’m sure they’re too big for you.”
“What size do you wear?” I ask out of curiosity.
“Eleven. European forty-five.”
I snicker. “You’ve got that right. I wear a five and a half.”
We descend another flight, the rhythmic thud-thud of Theo’s suitcase on the concrete steps echoing through the narrow space. Twelve more floors to go.
He finally breaks the silence between us. “When we finally make it outside, the first place I’m stopping is Burger Chalet.” He clears his throat. “You’re, uh . . . welcome to tag along. If you’d like. Even if you won’t accept my apology, I’d like to try and clear the air between us.”
I stop in my tracks. Theo Riverton is inviting me to breakfast? And at a greasy fast-food chain? “No thank you. I’ll manage,” I say in a clipped tone.
“Are you sure? You’d be missing out on their famous Alpine Tower.”
I wrinkle my nose. The Alpine Tower is Burger Chalet’s legendary menu monstrosity—three patties, double bacon, four fried eggs, and enough cheese to cause an immediate medical emergency.
This man is a world-class engineer, and probably a graduate from one of the finest institutions in the UK, and he wants that?
“You’re actually getting the Alpine Tower?
For breakfast? Not something more normal like, I don’t know, the Summit Sandwich? ”
I mentally cross my fingers and hope that’s one of the fast-food chain’s regular offerings. I’ve never stepped foot inside a Burger Chalet. Everything I know about the place comes from TV.
He glances over his shoulder, catching the hesitation in my voice. “You’ve never been, have you?”
How is he reading me this accurately? “That’s not—”
“—a denial,” he finishes. “Or else you’d know the Summit Sandwich was a seasonal offering two years ago.”
Darn it. “Fine, I admit it. I’ve never been. I just don’t find greasy food all that appealing.”
“It’s not Michelin-star cuisine, I’ll give you that,” he says. “But it’s a high-quality takeaway place. Especially when you’d like something edible, budget-friendly, and fast.”
I focus on the steps. One, two, three, and another landing.
The socks are definitely an improvement over being barefoot, but they’re still turning my feet into saunas.
I really hope these were clean before he handed them over, or I’ll have to have a very awkward conversation with a dermatologist later.
The stairwell feels endless, and it seems as if the temperature has jumped ten degrees. Which is funny because hot air rises, and we’re headed downstairs.
Theo must feel it, too, because he pauses to remove his vest, undo the top two buttons of his shirt, and roll up his sleeves. “Is that a tattoo?” I ask, catching the flash of some ink on his forearm.
“Need to know.”
“Oh come on,” I huff, leaning against the railing. “I won’t tell a soul.”
Neatly folding his discarded garment, he places it inside his bag, then finally looks to me. “Yes.”
I open my mouth to ask a follow-up, but he beats me to it. “And no—that is quite literally all you’re getting.” He tugs his left sleeve back down, sealing the mystery away.
We continue our descent.
“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” Theo says as we reach the ninth floor. “Don’t tell me you’re winded already.”
“I’m not,” I say, though my lungs burn. “It’s just that descending this many stairs isn’t exactly my idea of fun.”
“Try hauling this bag,” he counters. “Then you might have a proper reason to moan.”
“That’s your fault for packing too much,” I counter as the stairwell lights flicker, then plunge us into total, suffocating darkness.
The air shifts. I feel a change in pressure and trapped heat that doesn’t belong, but my body reacts before my brain does.
My chest tightens. The faint smell of warm metal turns sharp and wrong in my nose.
My pulse stutters and my hand shoots for the railing.
I fumble for my phone, fingers clumsy, searching for the flashlight app I suddenly can’t seem to find.
“Not a fan of the dark?” Theo’s voice is dry.