My eyes widen. “You snuck through windows when you were sixteen?”
“You didn’t?” And then his eyes drop to my PJs and his grin widens, confirming the answer to that question for him. “You have bananas all over your pajamas.”
I clear my throat lightly and regret all of my life choices. “Uh, yeah. Well, I wasn’t expecting company, so I got ready for bed as usual.”
A small smile touches his mouth, and then my breath catches when he reaches out and pinches the hem of my sleeve between the fingers of his butterfly hand. “Your usual being banana-printed sleepwear?” He doesn’t say it in a mean way. More as a curiosity than anything.
“My full name is Annabell. So my siblings call me Anna-banana. I have an entire drawer full of banana-themed PJs.” And underwear. “It’s basically the only kind of sleepwear I own. Is that pathetic? Should I burn them all?”
I’ve always loved my banana PJs. I generally like who I am as a whole, but standing here in front of Dark and Mysterious Mr. Tattoo has me feeling the need to defend myself. To question whether this is a strange way to live as an adult woman or not.
Will is looking down at me as if stuck in a daze as he rubs his thumb back and forth delicately over the fabric of my sleeve. Every so often his thumb brushes my wrist, and I feel like the physical manifestation of static electricity.
“Anna-banana,” says Will quietly. He couldn’t help trying out my nickname at least once. His eyes pop up to me, and I see something compellingly honest in them. “Promise me, no matter what you decide to change about yourself, this will not be one of them.”
I let out a sigh of relief and then laugh before I realize his solemn expression. He’s dead serious. Not laughing in the least. He wants me to promise I’ll never stop wearing these bananas. Will a contract be drawn up next?
“Okay, I’ll keep them.” Oddly, something in me relaxes and settles in a way I normally can’t around other people. And then I ask, “What are you doing here? And…how did you know this was my room?”
Will releases the hem of my shirt and steps back. “I didn’t,” he says with a crooked grin. “Every other room in the house was dark, though, so I thought I’d try my luck with this one first. It was a gamble.”
“What would you have done if this was Emily or Maddie’s room?”
He shrugs. “Pretended to be drunk and lost.”
I laugh. “You really gave this some thought.”
“Always be prepared—that’s my motto.”
“And by yours you mean the Boy Scout motto.”
“Is that where I’ve heard it?” He makes a skeptical thinking noise before turning away to make himself at home in my room. He’s not shy about it, strolling around like he owns the place. Maybe this is the bodyguard side of him that’s used to sweeping locations and inspecting every inch before letting Amelia enter. Oddly, there’s something sort of fun about watching him as he lazily peruses everything inside these four walls.
“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.”