Practice Makes Perfect (When in Rome, #2)(49)
“Your room is pretty,” he says softly. My knees go weak because the word pretty coming out of his mouth feels like the most enticing juxtaposition. It’s achingly tender and innocent—which forcefully combats his worldly and dangerous appearance.
Chills dance down my arms, and I blame it on the night. The darkness and the quiet are what’s responsible for the intimacy right now. For the charge in the air and the way I can’t seem to get a full breath. For the heat swirling low in my stomach that absolutely has no business being here. It’s not Will making any of this happen, it’s just science. Or biology. Or…physics. Basically any other subject besides Will!
I’m mesmerized watching him smell the bouquet of flowers on my side table, run his fingers over the plush blanket on the end of my bed, pick up the trinkets on my dresser to examine them closely before setting them back down gently. He’s so tactile. I imagine he touches and feels his way through life, whereas I usually keep my hands right where they are now—safely tucked behind me, alone in the corner of the room.
But then Will picks up the framed photo on my dresser—the last picture ever taken of my entire family before my parents died—and my feet move in his direction. He stares down at it and I know what he’s seeing: three happy kids lined up in front of two beaming parents; and me, only three years old, on my mom’s hip and smiling up at her instead of the camera.
“That’s the last photo that was taken.”
Will looks down at me over his shoulder and his gaze holds mine. “I’m sorry, Annie.”
I shrug. “It was a long time ago.”
“But I’m sure it still hurts.”
I breathe in—trying to push away the sudden rush of emotions his words rip from me. I don’t want to cry in front of him. Actually, I don’t cry in front of anyone. So I blink, and blink some more until the threat is gone. “Sometimes.”
He sets the frame down and looks at me. I’m scared he’s going to ask if I’m okay, which I really hope he doesn’t because I will absolutely cry. I’m usually the one who provides comfort in my family—which is, honestly, fine because it’s a role I chose when I was very young and my siblings were all falling apart and I didn’t quite understand why. They knew my parents better than I did—so it became my self-appointed job to lessen their pain. I could hug them. I could make them feel better. I could make sure that I never did anything to add to their worry. And then that, in turn, made me feel better. But a side effect of being the one who listens and comforts is that people rarely offer to listen or comfort me. I’ve been living this way for so long now that I’m not sure I’d be any good at expressing myself even if I were asked to.
Just when I think Will is going to make me talk through my feelings, he lightly grasps my bicep, pulling me into his chest. And that’s it. No prodding questions. He wraps his big arms around me and holds me here in my room until my body melts against his. It feels so good to be held by him. To breathe him in and feel his heart beating against my chest. Too good.
And then he presses his lips to my forehead and my entire heart wrenches.
“What are you doing here, Will?” I ask when I can’t take the sweetness of this anymore. It’s too confusing.
He releases me. “I’m going out of town for a few days with Amelia for work.” I’m surprised at how disappointed I feel by this news. Which is ridiculous. Absolutely absurd.
He continues, “And I realized I don’t have your phone number.”
“Oh.”
“And I thought I should have it…”
“You did?”
He nods, still watching me. “In case…you have any tutor-related questions.”
“Right.” I give a firm nod. Makes sense. Perfect sense. “Where’s your phone? I’ll put my number in it.”
He fishes it from the back pocket of his jeans and hands it to me. Something about holding Will’s phone just feels so…personal. More personal than anything he’s ever let me see before. His lock screen is a photo of a mountaintop view, and his background is a photo of an ocean. They’re obviously pictures he’s taken on his adventures—and suddenly I’m overcome with desire to know everything about these trips. To see him standing there in those places and witness the smile on his face when he reached his final destination. Maybe even go with him on one.
Instead, I create a new contact and type my number in and quickly hand his phone back. He frowns lightly at the contact name and deletes Annie Walker and replaces it with Annabell. We’re not even going to acknowledge the obscene surge of butterflies that rushes through my stomach when he does.
In an attempt to make myself feel normal and not buzzing with physical awareness, I walk back toward the window and open it again. “Okay, well now that you have my number, feel free to…” my words trail off when I turn around and find Will toeing off his shoes and sitting on my bed “…stay.”
Will leans up against my headboard, shoes kicked off, long legs stretched out, and one ankle crossed over the other. Will is in my bed.
In. My. Bed!
“Is that all right? If I stay?” he says with the confidence of a man who already knows the answer.
I would love to surprise him and kick him out. No, you may not stay! Out you go!
Yeah, not happening. I want him here more than I’ve wanted anything before.