Asa cleared his throat. “I knew,” he said. “That you’d traded with Marcus. It’s okay.”
She sat back in her seat, tucking her hair behind her ears like she was bracing for something. Then she went to undo her seat belt, before seeming to realize that she’d already unbuckled. “Sorry, I— Thanks for driving me home. I’m just going to—”
She’d opened the door and exited the car before he could stop her. He still had her keys, a fact that she must’ve realized by the time she reached the front door of her second-floor apartment. He climbed the stairs after her, taking them two at a time.
“I think you’re going to need these,” he said, handing the keys to her. He stood back, watching as it took a few tries for her to get the right key inserted in the lock in the right direction. She gave him a sheepish look over her shoulder, then hesitated in the open doorway.
“Do you want to come in?”
He followed her into the apartment, glancing around as she switched on a couple lights. It appeared to be fairly standard, with a small common area, a narrow galley kitchen, and a hallway where he could see into the bathroom. He knew that she kept her office at Cold World neat and nondescript—at least until their decorating contest had spruced it up a little—but he was still surprised to find her apartment much the same way. There was a blue sofa, small enough to be more of a loveseat, with a scuffed coffee table in front of it. No TV, but the open laptop on the coffee table suggested that maybe Lauren watched on that instead. The tiny offshoot of the common area next to the kitchen was just large enough to house a table and two chairs.
“How long have you lived here?” he asked.
The place had evidence of being lived in—mail on the kitchen counter, flip-flops by the door, an empty bowl in the sink—but there were no pictures on the walls or any other personal touches. He was surprised when Lauren said she’d moved in two years before, and his face must’ve shown it because she glanced around as if seeing the place with new eyes.
“I never saw any point in decorating,” she said, dropping her keys on the counter but missing by a few inches. She frowned at them down on the floor, as though she didn’t understand how they’d gotten there. “I’d have to fill in any holes in the walls when I moved out, anyway. This place isn’t permanent.”
He was fortunate to have a pretty decent landlord, all things considered, but he knew that property management for larger complexes like this one weren’t always as lenient. He couldn’t blame her for not wanting to leave any marks. On the other hand, tonight had been her third holiday party at Cold World, and still she’d talked about moving on depending on how things went with the proposals to Dolores. She’d referred to whatever they were doing as casual sex. He wondered what it took to get Lauren to see something as permanent.
“So what’s your plan, then?” he asked.
“For the apartment?”
He shrugged, trying not to look like her answers mattered as much as they did. “For the future. Go back to school to be an accountant? Buy a house you can decorate? Get married, have a family?”
She shook her head slowly. “It’s better not to make plans. Things never go the way you want them to.”
She was the one with the color-coordinated file folders, the organized task lists. If anyone had a solid five-year plan, he would’ve bet that it would be her. But he remembered what she’d said earlier, about how nothing that night had gone the way she’d hoped it would. He’d assumed she meant her date with Daniel and hadn’t wanted to push for any more details. But now she looked so dejected, all he cared about was finding a way to get the light back into her eyes.
“Sometimes that’s half the fun,” he said, and she snorted her disbelief. “No, hear me out. I’d planned to get that snow machine rigged up the night I stayed at Cold World, right? If I’d been able to do it fast enough, maybe we never would’ve gotten locked in. Or if I’d listened to you about the outlet, maybe it would’ve worked and I would’ve been tinkering with it instead of having dinner with you or playing our random number generator game.”
“So what, it’s like fate or something?”
“Not fate,” he said. “Just proof that sometimes it’s not the way you plan it, it’s how you make it happen.”
Her lips parted, like she was going to say something, but then in two steps she was in front of him, her hand at the back of his neck, her fingers curling in his hair as she pulled him to her for a kiss. Her lips tasted sweet, and maybe it was the slight hint of rum punch that made him feel immediately dizzy. Or maybe it was just the intoxication of touching her, of feeling the slide of her tongue against his mouth. For a second he kissed her back—he couldn’t help himself—but he pulled away before it could go any deeper.