Page 42 of Head Under Water

“Are you…loud, Opal? In bed?”

My heart plummets, jaw drops. “You did not just ask me that. It’s none of your business.”

He doesn’t say anything, just watches me. The pink is gone from his cheeks now. The heat has transferred entirely to mine.

“Were you…watching…something?” The question slips from my lips, and I’m completely unprepared for the way it feels in this room, the way my skin burns under its weight.

He’s visibly fighting a smile. “You didn’t answer my question because it’s none of my business, and now you’re asking me if I was watching porn? Really? How is that fair?”

I rest my chin in my palm, silent.

After a beat, he runs a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah. Yeah, Opal, I was. Again, I thought I was alone. You got home early, remember?” He plants both palms heavy on the island, leaning his weight toward me so he’s almost looming. “Your turn. Tell me.”

When I don’t answer right away, when I can’t summon a single word from my lips, his voice drops an octave, dragging out his next question. “Opal. How loud do you get?”

I puff out a breath. “Will.”

“Yes?” He flutters his lashes at me.

My shoulders slump. “I don’t know. Not very loud, I guess.” I rush to add, “Not like you, apparently.”

There’s another smile on his face, though this one’s different. It does something deep inside my core.

But thankfully, the torture ends there as a heavy silence envelops us.

I watch as he arranges the crusts on the island counter. He carries the pot over and places it down on a folded towel, spooning and smoothing the sauce with precision. When he’s finished, one of the pizzas has extra sauce—the perfect amount really—though he doesn’t point it out and I can’t bring myself to ask.

As he drizzles the olive oil, a bit drips on his knuckle, and he swipes it away with his lips absentmindedly, leaving behind a shimmery glaze on his skin.

His focus is almost…impressive. If he weren’t Will, I might be impressed.

“I’m a CPA, by the way,” he says, still lost in the process. It’s almost like he’s unaware he’s speaking.

“Random subject change.” I’d nearly forgotten about that conversation. “That’s not an accountant?”

He doesn’t look up. “It’s a little bit different.”

“Still not a chef.”

“Still more of a chef than you.” He sprinkles the sauce with fistfuls of mozzarella cheese before spreading the toppings on each pizza. One gets sausage and chopped green peppers, and the other one—the one with the perfect amount of sauce—he covers with pepperoni, banana peppers, and green olives.

He remembered my favorite kind of pizza.

And how much sauce I like.

I force the realizations away. We ate pizza together at least once a week for most of our lives. This isn’t revolutionary. Chill out, Opal.

“For all you know, I worked at a restaurant before I moved back. Maybe there are people in Atlanta devastated that they’ll never eat my food again.”

“No.” His response comes without hesitation. “You worked at a school, same as now. Fourth grade, but…sixth for a year, right?” He closes one eye, thinking, and when he meets my gaze moments later, there’s no need for confirmation he’s right. “You were always going to be a teacher.”

I twist my lips, trying to decide how much longer to keep fighting with him. “Fine. I’m not a chef either.”

He turns to put the pizzas in the oven but stops, looking at me. “You never even liked to cook.”

He’s not wrong.

He slips one pizza in the oven, then the other. “I’ve always sort of assumed whoever you end up with will be someone who knows his way around a kitchen. At least, I hoped so. Or else you’d starve.” He closes the oven door and adds, “Besides, I’ve met hangry Opal and I wouldn’t wish her on anyone.”