“But they’re so long.”
“They’re meant to go above your calves. I hate when my socks ride down.”
“But . . .”
“Just put them on,” he says, his voice hitting a note of impatience. “I am too tired to argue with you about yourfeet, Minami. Please. Just put on the socks so we can leave before I fall asleep on this landing. I’d offer you my shoes, but I’m sure they’re too big for you.”
“What size do you wear?” I ask out of curiosity.
“Eleven. European forty-five.”
I snicker. “You’ve got that right. I wear a five and a half.”
We descend another flight, the rhythmicthud-thudof Theo’s suitcase on the concrete steps echoing through the narrow space. Twelve more floors to go.
He finally breaks the silence between us. “When we finally make it outside, the first place I’m stopping is Burger Chalet.” He clears his throat. “You’re, uh... welcome to tag along. If you’d like. Even if you won’t accept my apology, I’d like to try and clear the air between us.”
I stop in my tracks. Theo Riverton is inviting me to breakfast? And at a greasy fast-food chain? “No thank you. I’ll manage,” I say in a clipped tone.
“Are you sure? You’d be missing out on their famous Alpine Tower.”
I wrinkle my nose. The Alpine Tower is Burger Chalet’s legendary menu monstrosity—three patties, double bacon, four fried eggs, and enough cheese to cause an immediate medical emergency. This man is a world-class engineer, and probably a graduate from one of the finest institutions in the UK, and he wantsthat?“You’re actually getting the Alpine Tower? For breakfast? Not something morenormallike, I don’t know, the Summit Sandwich?”
I mentally cross my fingers and hope that’s one of the fast-food chain’s regular offerings. I’ve never stepped foot inside a Burger Chalet. Everything I know about the place comes from TV.
He glances over his shoulder, catching the hesitation in my voice. “You’ve never been, have you?”
How is he reading me this accurately? “That’s not?—”
“—a denial,” he finishes. “Or else you’d know the Summit Sandwich was a seasonal offering two years ago.”
Darn it. “Fine, I admit it. I’ve never been. I just don’t find greasy food all that appealing.”
“It’s not Michelin-star cuisine, I’ll give you that,” he says. “But it’s a high-quality takeaway place. Especially when you’d like something edible, budget-friendly, and fast.”
I focus on the steps. One, two, three, and another landing. The socks are definitely an improvement over being barefoot, but they’re still turning my feet into saunas. I really hope these were clean before he handed them over, or I’ll have to have a very awkward conversation with a dermatologist later.
The stairwell feels endless, and it seems as if the temperature has jumped ten degrees. Which is funny because hot air rises, and we’re headed downstairs.
Theo must feel it, too, because he pauses to remove his vest, undo the top two buttons of his shirt, and roll up his sleeves. “Is that a tattoo?” I ask, catching the flash of some ink on his forearm.
“Need to know.”
“Oh come on,” I huff, leaning against the railing. “I won’t tell a soul.”
Neatly folding his discarded garment, he places it inside his bag, then finally looks to me. “Yes.”
I open my mouth to ask a follow-up, but he beats me to it. “And no—that is quite literally all you’re getting.” He tugs his left sleeve back down, sealing the mystery away.
We continue our descent.
“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” Theo says as we reach the ninth floor. “Don’t tell me you’re winded already.”
“I’m not,” I say, though my lungs burn. “It’s just that descending this many stairs isn’t exactly my idea of fun.”
“Try hauling this bag,” he counters. “Then you might have a proper reason to moan.”
“That’s your fault for packing too much,” I counter as the stairwell lights flicker, then plunge us into total, suffocating darkness.
