Trace of Innocence | Sweet and Sour (Book 4)

Chapter 38

(No Control | Holding Me Ransom - 38 - Just Like How It Used To Be)

I push open the front door of the building and let it shut behind me with a bang as I begin to ascend the steps to Jess's flat. My heart is hammering, and I adjust my bag on my shoulder, wiping first one hand and then the other on the leg of my jeans.

I reach her door, take a deep breath, and knock softly. Fuck, I didn't spray any deodorant in the car! I completely forgot, and I've just stepped off a twelve hour flight. I take a discreet sniff of my armpit, and am relieved to discover I don't smell. 

I jump as the door opens in front of me, and rearrange my features into what I hope resembles a relaxed, nonchalant expression. My insides are dancing.

She's wearing a long vest top and a pair of black leggings and her hair is soft and wavy as it cascades over her shoulders and down her back. She literally takes my breath away, without even trying. How can she be so effortlessly perfect? If my heart was pounding before, it was nothing compared to what it's doing now. It feels like it's about to jump out of my chest.

Her eyes are on the floor, and she flicks them slowly up my body before meeting my gaze.

"Hi," she says, casually. 

"Hey," I reply, and my voice sounds like it's only just broken. 

I discreetly clear my throat as she moves aside to let me in, and as she shuts the door behind me she says, "Planning on staying a while?"

I turn around and she nods her head at the bag on my shoulder. She's teasing me, judging by the grin on her face, and I can't help grinning back.

"If you'll have me," I quip.

As I walk down the hallway the smell of homecooking hits me, and I pause, hesitating between the lounge and the kitchen. In our previous life, I would have plonked myself down in the kitchen and made some sexist joke about her having my dinner on the table, but the boundaries are a little unclear now, and I don't know what to do. I'm fucking starving, though.

Thankfully she seems to sense my uncertainty, but indicates towards the lounge. "Go on through. Do you want a cup of tea or anything?"

"Yeah, tea would be great, thanks," I accept, followed by, "What's cooking?"

I can't even waste the energy being embarrassed by my lack of restraint. It smells amazing, and my stomach is quietly growling in anticipation. I hope she can't hear it.

"It's lasagne," she's saying. "I wasn't sure if you'd be hungry, or if you'd want to get off home, or..." She looks embarrassed, and my heart soars.

"Is it for me?" I ask hopefully.

"Well, yeah, if you want it," she says shyly.

"I'm starving," I confess.

"OK, well, it'll be ready in about fifteen minutes," she says, exhaling. "Why don't you, um, take your boots off and make yourself comfortable, or something."

"Would you mind if I get changed?" I ask awkwardly. "I'm feeling a bit gross. It was a long flight."

"Do you want a shower?" she offers, with a hint of hesitation.

I hesitate too. There is nothing I would like more than a hot shower, and to change into the pair of joggers that I know are in my holdall. But what if she's only saying this because she feels she has to?

"You've got plenty of time before dinner," she adds, as though she has read my mind. "I can turn the oven down. Take your time."

"If you're sure you don't mind...?" I begin. "I don't want it to be weird or anything."