Page 27 of The Revenge Game
He turns, and he’s wearing glasses, which throws me for a second.
But my eyes fly to his hair, which is cut in clean lines that accentuate the shape of his face.
It’s definitely Drew.
Drew, the cute, funny new IT guy who was my savior at work yesterday, who had a drink with me last night, his nose doing this adorable scrunching thing every time he found something amusing.
The guy who has slid into my mind at odd points today, making me smile when I remember his deadpan delivery about British food.
“Uh…hi,” he says.
I look at the bags of shopping he’s carrying and spot milk and bread, along with a whole lot of microwave meals.
“You live here too?” I’m fairly sure I fail to hide the delight in my voice.
Drew shuffles his grocery bags into one hand so he can push his dark-rimmed glasses back up his nose. “Um…yeah. I’ve just moved into Flat 28b.”
“That’s my floor. I’m Flat 26a. We’re almost neighbors.”
I’m grinning broadly at him, and the corners of his mouth tweak up in a hesitant smile.
“I guess I should be almost neighborly and invite you over for a drink to welcome you to the building.”
He stares at me for a few seconds, his eyes behind his glasses blinking rapidly.
His hesitation provides a gap for me to second-guess my motives.
What am I doing?
What about Drew makes me want to get to know him better? I’m used to my instinct to push people away, but something about Drew makes me forget all my carefully constructed rules about keeping people at arm’s length.
And he’s a colleague of mine, a fellow American who is new to the country, and buying him one beer last night definitely hasn’t repaid him for how he saved my ass yesterday.
I’m just being friendly. Neighborly. A good colleague. All those safe words that don’t explain why my heart speeds up when he pushes his glasses up his nose again.
“I want to show you this great comedy clip about the differences between Americans and the British,” I say. “It’ll make you laugh, I promise.”
He continues to look doubtful. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised about his hesitation. I mean, the guy does think my search history involves conversations with my refrigerator and an unhealthy obsession with hand sanitizer. He probably thinks I’m one step away from wearing a tinfoil hat.
“Okay.” His agreement seems to surprise him, along with me.
“Great. Uh…does around five suit you?”
“Sure.”
He still seems uncertain, but as he moves toward the stairs, I fall into step beside him.
“Can I help you carry one of those bags?”
“No, I’m okay, thanks.”
We walk up the stairs in step with each other. My heartbeat is doing double-time for reasons that have nothing to do with physical exertion.
Drew keeps his eyes fixed ahead, like the faded carpet patterns hold some fascinating secret, while I try not to be obvious about stealing glances at his profile.
“See you at five,” I say when I reach my apartment door.
“See you then.”
