Page 16 of Forced Arrangement

Fuck.

I can feel myself getting hard just thinking about it, which is unfortunate because the Audi is pulling up at her building. I can only imagine the look on her face if I were to show up on her doorstep with a raging hard-on. I run my tongue across my teeth and try not to commit an act of indecency on the proper, posh streets of London.

But it isn't just the absurd physical attraction I feel for her. That I could deal with easily. No, it was everything else that drew me to her. It was all her complexities and contradictions.

Her vulnerability was wrapped up in cement and gravel, forming an impenetrable wall I wanted to breach. It was the way she looked at me, like she was daring me to break down those walls, but at the same time, so clearly desperate to keep them up.

We pull up in front of her building, the car coming to a smooth stop. I glance at the driver, nodding once before stepping out into the misty air. The dampness settles on my coat, but I barely notice as I cross the sidewalk to the entrance of her building.

We agreed to meet here by two, but she isn’t on her doorstep like I expected her to be. And so, I press the doorbell. The door flies open with a vengeance and then she’s there, staring at me, her face pale but no less beautiful.

The last time Sophia was in my presence, she’d been wrapped up in beautiful black clothes, her hair tied in a knot at the back of her head, conservative makeup, no jewelry. She’d been a picture of elegance and collection. Someone had clearly made a switch when I wasn’t looking, however, because the woman standing in front of me was the embodiment of chaos.

Her hair is unbound and all over the place in a half-frizzy mess. It looks like it had once upon a time been a ponytail, but the elastic band is hanging off the ends of her hair by literal strands. She’s wearing shorts, very short shorts. I can't stop myself from looking down at her tan thighs.

Even if there was a gun trained on my head, I don’t think I could have prevented myself from staring. The tank top she has on does nothing to hide the hard points of her nipples and…shit, they are definitely not helping the situation.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

I blink and turn to look behind me. Perhaps someone else had sprouted out of the bushes, and she’s talking to them.

“Picking you up.”

“We agreed to meet at two.”

I pull out my phone from my pocket and show it to her. It’s two minutes past two.

“Shit. Sorry, oh gosh, I…was packing and I got carried away with sorting out my mother’s belongings and…you probably don't care about any of that.”

I just stand there staring at her, literally unable to form words.

“I suppose I should invite you in.” She steps aside, and I enter the flat.

Sophia’s flat is a study in contradictions. The space is neat—almost too neat—with minimal furniture and few personal touches. It’s clear that she lives with just the essentials on hand—as if she can pack up and leave at a moment’s notice. Yet, there are signs of recent chaos, traces of a life with more depth than you can see at first glance.

A small stack of boxes sits in the corner, half-filled with what look like her mother’s belongings: old photo albums, worn books, and delicate trinkets that seem out of place in an otherwise unadorned room.

The kitchen table is cluttered with papers and a half-empty mug of tea, signs of a woman trying to sort through memories she isn’t ready to leave behind.

A well-worn sofa, the only piece of furniture that seems lived in, faces a window where a single plant struggles for sunlight. The scent of lavender lingers in the air, a small touch of warmth in a space that feels more like a temporary shelter than a home.

“I just have to grab a few more things and we can be on our way. Drink?”

“Water, thank you.”

She opens her fridge and bends to retrieve a bottle of water, giving me a full view of her ass.

“How long have you lived here?” I ask because it’s not what I had expected. I expected numerous boxes with treasures and memories, not a few cardboard boxes with pans and old broken things in them.

“Four years, give or take. Why? Not glamorous enough for you?” she says sharply.

I keep my eyes trained on her as I gulp the water down and I see her throat bob as she watches me. Her eyes go languid, losing some of their trained hardness, and I see goosebumps rise on her exposed skin. Good.

“Not glamorous enough for anybody, especially not my fiancé.”

“Putting in the practice for New York, are you?”

I decide that her voice really is my addiction. I love the tinge of an English accent, coupled with her Italian vowels. It makes me feel light-headed.

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