Page 88 of Perfect Fit
Will nods at my Revenant outfit—dusty-blue trousers and a wrinkled white blouse—before his focus travels to my loafers. “Tell me you brought some tennis shoes.”
“How else would I take the hotel’s six thirty HIIT class tomorrow morning?”
Will groans. “This.Thisis the worst thing about you.”
“Is it a turnoff?”
“Not nearly enough of one,” he growls.
We pile into an elevator. It’s a quick ride. He stares at me with a surly expression from one wall. I stare back at him from the other, considering my outfit choices. On our floor, I drag my feet one in front of the other until we come to our hotel room doors.
“Can I have my suitcase now?”
Will wheels it toward me, pushing down the handle snugly.
“Thank you.”
“Welcome. So, are you coming?”
I hesitate. “Yes,” I declare before I can overthink it.
Will smiles. “We’re going to have fun today.”
“Why does that sound like a threat?”
“Because toyou,it is one.”
“You think I feel threatened by the prospect of having fun?”
“I think,” he says, voice going deeper, “you feel threatened by the prospect of having fun withme.”
“That’s not true.”
Will’s hand comes up to the wall, and his face drops closer to mine. That’s when I know he’s trapped me. Just before he says, with temptation in his voice, “Prove it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I change into a black tennis skirt and matching tank top, slip my feet into a pair of New Balance tennis shoes, and toss my hair up in a high ponytail. As promised, Will is waiting for me in the hallway, now in a bright yellow Predators T-shirt and a navy baseball cap.
“We could not look more American,” I say.
“WeareAmerican.”
“The locals are going to hate us.”
“Josephine Davis.” Will grabs me by the shoulders and points me in the direction of the elevators. I hate how natural it feels to go where he wants, to settle under his grip. “For once in your life, stop worrying what strangers think of you.”
I manage it almost the entire time. When we waltz across the Plaza de Armas, past fountains and manicured trees. When we gaze up at the white stone of the Basilica Cathedral, El Misti visible in the background.
“It’s made of volcanic rock,” Will muses, rubbing a hand thoughtfully over one archway of the old colonial building.
“How do you know that?” I ask.
“I like architecture.” His head tilts up, toward one of the two towers that guard the church. “I was looking forward to seeing this place.”
We meander next through the Monasterio de Santa Catalina. Also made of volcanic rock, according to Will, though these structures are pink instead of white—which prompts a whole explanation on the composition of stone I only halfway pay attention to. I’m more focused on the way Will’s face lights up when he talks about it. What something is made of. When it was built. Who designed it. Why it matters.
Will doesn’t justlikearchitecture. He’s a dork for it.
