Page 40 of Head Under Water

Just as I collapse on the bed, though, I hear his voice through the thin wall that separates our rooms.

He didn’t go out either.

Without thinking, I rise from the mattress and cross toward the sound. My heart races behind my ribs like a wild animal. I lift my hand to knock on the wall, to let him know I’m here.

Just before my knuckles connect with the drywall, I hear another voice. A laugh.

And my heart sinks.

There’s a woman in Will’s room, and from the sounds of it, they’re getting to know each other very well.

Of course they are. Because that’s who Will is. And whatever I was feeling because of yesterday, is all on me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

PRESENT DAY

You hungry? I’m making pizza. His sort-of invitation repeats in my head.

Will disappears from the doorway without waiting for an answer, and I stand to follow him, moving into the kitchen.

I’m curious, I admit it. It’ll only piss me off, but maybe it’s better if I know who she is. Maybe they’re serious.

Instead, I find the kitchen empty except for Will.

Already, he has the island lined with ingredients. Pizza dough, shredded mozzarella cheese, pepperoni, banana peppers, green olives, green peppers, sausage.

On the stove, a small pot of homemade tomato sauce simmers, filling the air with the rich, heavy scent of garlic and oregano. My stomach growls again.

My eyes scan the empty hall, his closed bedroom door. Maybe he’s planning to go back for round two. Maybe they just need to refuel.

“Looking for someone?” Will’s voice interrupts my thoughts.

My cheeks heat. “Nope.” I walk around the island, preparing to help, but he stops me with a hand held up. “What?”

He makes a look like, yeah, okay, and shakes his head. “I’ve got this.”

“I can help,” I offer, tying my hair back into a low ponytail. “You bought the ingredients. I should at least do something.”

“Yeah, normally I’d agree, but…” He pauses, his blue eyes going soft, as if he’s not focusing on anything at all.

His gaze follows the line of my neck, then bounces back to my face.

“I’ve seen you cook, remember?” He looks away.

I scowl. “I think I can manage a pizza, Will.”

He shakes his head, shooing me back with a flick of his wrist. “You go sit on that side of the island and watch a professional work.”

“A professional? That’s a stretch.” I stand my ground, moving in front of him, fully prepared to argue. The walkway between the island and the counter is narrow. When I step forward, there’s nowhere for him to go without brushing against me.

His hand flexes out to the side in my periphery. He doesn’t move otherwise.

Neither do I.

He’s so infuriating.

“You’re an accountant, not a chef.”