Page 8 of We'll Meet Again
Billie sucked in her bottom lip to keep back the annoyed sigh threatening to escape. Narrowing her eyes at Ethan, she got to her feet. It wasn’t his fault, but she hated him for it anyway. He could put on airs about being a sweet hometown boy all he wanted. She knew better. They were all the same in this industry. And if he wasn’t already, he would be coaxed by the Tonys of this world into the same arrogance, the same entitlement, the same boorishness they all eventually adopted.
“Let’s go, then,” she said, practically through gritted teeth.
She marched out of the room without even bothering to check he was following.
Chapter 3
Ethanscrambledtogatherhis things, and then had to jog to catch up with Billie. Something about her was throwing him off. Sure, she was beautiful, with that perfect, oval shaped face, stunning blue eyes, and the most kissable pink lips he’d ever seen, but that wasn’t what was tripping him up. The second he laid eyes on her, he felt like he’d met her before. It was impossible, of course, since he had never been to London, but recognition was there. Deep in his gut. Like when you’re watching a movie and you swear you’ve seen one of the actors in another film, but you just can’t place it.
He also couldn’t figure out what he had done to upset her. But it stood to reason that her frustration didn’t lie with him at all, rather with her boss and his dismissive treatment of her. Ethan was already wishing he had said something more, but he understood that could’ve made it worse. After all, he was new here. He didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot with anyone.
She stopped so suddenly, he nearly collided with her. Reflexes built from hours of football training thankfully prevented that. The desk must have been hers, as she was stuffing her notebook into the side drawer before slamming it shut, the pens clattering around inside. Then she snatched the coat off the back of the chair, shoved her arms through the sleeves, and whipped around to face him again.
Their eyes met. Properly. For the first time. He tried to think of anyone with more perfect blue eyes than this woman in front of him, but couldn’t. They were so light, they were almost gray. And frigid like a glacier. They might have been even prettier if it weren’t for the seething rage that danced behind the irises. And yet, he kind of admired it. He could have stared at them all day.
He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, we didn’t get a chance to be introduced in there,” he said, and held out his hand. “I’m Ethan Knight, it’s nice to meet you.”
Those eyes bounced between his hand and his face, but ultimately, she decided to shake his hand. When they touched, something stirred in his stomach. He felt the absurd desire to apologize for something more, even if he didn’t know what. And when she released his hand, he hesitated to let go. But where was that coming from? He’d never felt so drawn to a stranger.
“Billie Axton,” she replied coolly, noticeably not returning the niceties. “Where is it you live then?”
He was so distracted by the curve of her lips, it took him a moment to respond.
“Oh, uh, yeah,” he sputtered, and dug into his pocket. He’d written his new address down just in case he didn’t have his phone, and the folded piece of paper was right where he’d left it. He held it out to her and she snatched it from him to open it up. “Here it is. I’m afraid I’m not real familiar with -”
“No fucking way,” she muttered.
“What?” he asked, heart fluttering with panic.
“This is -” She stopped short and pinched the bridge of her nose. “This is the building across from mine.”
“Oh, well, howdy, neighbor,” he said.
His attempt to lighten the mood was met with a frosty look. But how was it possible that someone so angry looked so pretty at the same time? God, he needed to get a grip.
“Why would you move here?” she demanded.
Given she had just been witness to his reason for relocation, he was a little stumped by the question. “To…play in the Premier Lea-”
“No, this neighborhood,” she clarified, and waved the piece of paper in front of him for emphasis. “Footballers don’t live here, they make too much money.”
He certainly was not going to unpack the impostor syndrome he had worked on with his therapist to this woman he didn’t know. Even if he felt like he did. He fully recognized he could afford a much nicer flat than what he’d chosen - his real estate agent frequently pointed it out - but he never felt comfortable in those places. Even his condo back in Charlotte, a modest two bedroom, felt like way too much.
“I like to live within my means,” he said with a shrug. “It’s just me, after all, I don’t need a big ol’ mansion with a bunch of empty rooms.”
She blinked a couple times, her frown beginning to fade, but she quickly reinstated it. “Right. Let’s go.”
She turned on her heel and strode away, leaving the smell of her hair in her wake. Where had he smelled that before? It was floral and sweet, with a hint of…vanilla, maybe? But he didn’t usually notice the way people smelled (besides Betty, of course). How could he remember something he had never experienced? Shaking his head to clear it, he followed her again.
He shuddered against the chilly air outside, but it was nothing compared to the cold shoulder coming from Billie. A dozen questions popped into his head that he wanted to ask her about herself, but he held them in. She was clearly not in the mood; her demeanor was like a stray cat’s. She would have to come to him. If he came on too strong, she would run from him and find somewhere else to get her metaphorical canned tuna. Not that he saw himself as some sort of nourishment, but he did want to know her better.
Still in silence, they reached his building, and they got his keys from the leasing office. The girl behind the desk - Emily, her name tag read - welcomed him warmly, not only to his new home, but to England as well.
“We’re quite excited to have you,” she said. “We’ve needed a strong striker for ages.”
“I hope I don’t let you down, Emily,” he said. “Appreciate you.”
She blinked, but smiled as she handed him the keys. “You’re welcome.”