Page 47 of Ewan

He doesn’t participate in my conversation but seems interested in his surroundings when I push the door open, and we enter the small hallway with wooden floors, a wall table, and a tiny area where I usually hang my coat on a hanger and put my bag on a rack.

I’m doing all that now, and he watches me in silence as I run a hand over my skirt and smile tensely.

“What a night, huh?” I say, and it strikes me that I talk like I’m in school, or when I converse with my coworkers.

It’s been so long since I’ve talked to anyone other than my coworkers.

I keep my heels on, only because it makes me feel more confident, especially since he doesn’t take off his winter jacket.

My eyes move smoothly over his clothes.

He wears good quality fabrics and, from the look of them, designer clothes.

“How do you like your coffee?” I ask, spinning around and talking to him on my way to the kitchen.

His boots move closer and he stops at the edge of the round kitchen rug.

I glance over my shoulder.

“You can come in. It cleans easily,” I share, and I’m sure he has no idea what I’m talking about.

I turn the coffee machine on, and soon after, a smell of dark roast coffee infuses the air.

“Your coffee? How do you like it?” I ask again, turning to him.

He peels his eyes away from the few knick knacks I have on the kitchen table, and I swiftly collect them and slide them into a drawer.

“I’m doing all sorts of activities with the little ones, like games and stuff. And sometimes I need to learn how to play those games,” I say, and his eyes come straight to me.

It dawns on me that he has moved his eyes around the house like a detective looking for clues and trying to understand the story of this place.

“Black, please. Not strong,” he says.

“Oh. So, normal coffee.”

“Just put some extra water in it. I will be fine.”

He watches me extract two mugs from the cupboard and fill them with hot coffee. I dilute his with cold water from the fridge and put sugar in mine.

“Here,” I say, and he takes it from my hand.

“Can I have the water, too?”

“Yes. Sure.”

I give him the bottle of water.

He takes a sip of coffee before emptying the water bootle. I take it from him.

“Do you want another one?”

“No. I’m good.”

I’m near the garbage bin, tossing the bottle in when his clothes rustle again, and I flick my eyes in his direction.

He opens his jacket and my eyes dip to his broad chest. He wears a slim fit, black T-shirt under his jacket, and tattoos climb up the side of his neck, highlighting his eyes even more.

I never thought he’d look like that.

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