His laugh sounded nervous—he was so out of practice. And this conversation felt off, like he’d accidentally put his shoes on the wrong feet. “Actually,” he got the bartender’s attention with a wave, “I think I’m going to call it a night.”
She frowned. “So early? You look like you could use a little fun.”
He turned and faced her. “I’m really tired.” He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out the tickets to the dance, and then nodded to the end of the bar where a lonely-looking guy sat, nursing a drink. “Ask that guy. He looks like he could use some company.”
Gin tossed a dismissive glance toward Lonely Man, then looked Will up and down. “Mmm, that’s not a fair trade.”
Will was beginning to get annoyed. He found himself not caring in the slightest if this woman liked him or not.
Strange.
He slipped his arm from her grasp and didn’t smile. “That’s as good as it’s gonna get, I’m afraid.”
The pouty lip was out again. He couldn’t imagine Lauren ever fake-pouting to try and manipulate someone. But then, Lauren was a grown-up. She’d been a grown-up since she was eleven years old.
Maybe that’s why he liked her. She didn’t try to be someone she wasn’t. These little games other women played were completely foreign to her.
It was one of the things he admired most.
He set the tickets on the bar and loosened his tie as he walked toward the elevator. At the ding of the twelfth floor, he got out and stopped in front of Lauren’s door. He stood there for at least two straight minutes, wondering if he should knock. She probably wanted to be alone—he knew migraines could be brutal, but he couldn’t deny that he wanted her to let him in so he could take care of her.
It had been less than a week, but he hadn’t felt this way before. Lauren had always been a sort of mystery to him, even when they were younger, but he’d never acted on that curiosity out of respect for Spencer—but now that he was an adult, now that he’d figured out who he was and what he wanted （and didn’t want, “Gin like the drink”） out of a relationship, he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Before he lost his nerve, he knocked on the door lightly, waiting for any sign of life on the other side. When none came, he opened his own door and slipped inside, then listened at the door adjoining their two rooms. Only silence.
He flipped on the television, undressed, and tried to sleep. When he couldn’t, he pulled out his phone, and held it, wondering what he could text that would make her feel any better. He didn’t feel witty, so he just texted a heart.
After another half-hour of waiting for a reply, Will finally put his phone up and forced his eyes closed.
The next morning, Will found Lauren packed and ready to go, sitting in the coffee shop, working on her computer—very large cup of coffee at her side.
He rolled his own suitcase toward her and sat down. She didn’t look up.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Great.” Still no eye contact. “Did you have fun at the ball?”
He situated his suitcase between his chair and the window. “Oh, I gave the tickets away.”
Her eyes darted to his, then back to her screen.
“No point going alone.”
Her scoff was so soft he almost missed it. “I’m sure you could’ve found company.”
“Not company worth having,” he said.
Her shoulders lowered ever so slightly, but still, she avoided his eyes.
“What are you working on?” He watched as she continued pecking away on the keyboard.
“I was just hired as the head set decorator on a new show.” Her tone was clipped, matter-of-fact. “So, I’m getting a head start on brainstorming. I don’t want to fall any farther behind than I already am taking so much time off.”
“Wait.” He reached over and closed her laptop. “Head set decorator? I thought you were an assistant.”
She pressed her lips together and leveled his gaze. “I was. And now I’m not.”
“Lauren, that’s amazing.” He frowned. “This is a good thing, right?”
“It’s a great thing.” She started packing her computer in its case. “It’s just a lot more responsibility, and I want to get it right.” Beside her computer, he saw now, was her sketch pad—and on it, a rendering of a room that looked professionally drawn.
He was beginning to see why she was confident in her work—she was really, really good at what she did.