I winced. She wasn't wrong. I went back to the lemon tray, adjusting a wedge that didn't need adjusting.
"He's a professional athlete, and he probably eats at specific times for specific reasons. He wouldn't say no to grilled cheese."
"You made grilled cheese as a training meal?"
"I made grilled cheese because it was late and someone was in my kitchen and that's what you do—"
"You made him soup and a grilled cheese, and now you're prepping citrus for Friday on a Tuesday." She picked the bottle back up. "Being gone on this guy is a good look on you. It's better than you pretending you're not."
The shift caught up fast. A table in the back wanted to split a check six ways, and the guy on the end kept changing his mind about what he'd ordered. I sorted it, moved on, and by the time I'd handled the next three tickets, I'd almost stopped thinking about Pratt.
Nora was counting the drawer when I dropped my apron on a hook. She didn't look up. "You're going to do something about it," she said.
"Goodnight, Nora."
"That's a yes."
I pushed through the back door into the frigid January night.
***
I'd slept until noon, a win by recent standards. I brewed coffee to wake up and checked my phone. I regretted that immediately. It had more about what my brother was doing in Boston than I wanted to know.
I needed to return a library book three weeks overdue. It wasDevil in the White City, and I'd checked it out from the Harold Washington Library on a very sincere afternoon in December.
I'd been meaning to finish it ever since. I'd gotten far enough to know it wasn't about the architecture.
I grabbed my coat, picked up the book, and opened my door.
Pratt's door was open. The gap wasn't wide, maybe eight inches. I saw the clean edge of his kitchen counter.
I stopped. Leaning slightly to the left, I saw Pratt, still in practice gear. On the far wall, the lamp was still in its box, flush against the baseboard.
"Are you and that lamp in a long-term standoff?" I called through the gap.
Pratt turned. "I haven't needed it yet," he said.
"That is the least convincing thing anyone has ever said in a room with one dark corner."
He looked at the corner. The corner was objectively dark. There was no arguing with the corner.
Pratt approached the door and opened it wider. "You own tools?"
I blinked. "That sounded so much dirtier than either of us meant it to."
There was almost a smile. Pratt's face didn't do straightforward smiles, or if it did, I hadn't seen one yet. He pulled the door completely open and stepped to the side.
That was the invitation.
I returned to my condo and grabbed a screwdriver from the kitchen drawer. I dropped the library book on my counter.
Pratt had already opened the box. He'd folded the top flaps back and removed the hardware bag. He was sorting the contents on the floor in a row.
"I'm organizing the components." He crouched beside the hardware. "It reduces assembly time."
I joined him and knelt by the other side of the box. The lamp was still mostly in the packing foam. It had a brushed brass base, a straight stem, and a linen shade, perfect for making the corner feel warm and lived-in.
"Your door," I said. "Were you airing the place out, or is there a reason a man with a very organized counter leaves an eight-inch gap for anyone to walk through?"
