Practice Makes Perfect: A Novel

Alight tap sounds against my window. At first I think it’s a bug trying to get in, but then it happens again and again, growing a little louder each time. I go to the window and peek through the curtains, and then smother a scream with my hand. There’s a man outside my window. But then I register the blue-gray eyes and the dark brows and the tattooed hand as he raises a finger to his lips. It’s William Griffin.

Why is he outside my window at ten o’clock at night? Even worse, I’m all snug in my banana-print pajamas. He can’t see me like this. It doesn’t seem like I have a choice, though.

Quietly I unlatch the window and raise it. The sound of crickets, the feel of the humid summer night, and the dangerous smile aimed at me all combine to make sure this becomes the strongest core memory of my life.

“Hi,” Will says in little more than a whisper. “Can I come in?” He asks this like he’s standing at my front door—perfectly normal. Allow me to take your hat and coat, sir.

“Um, yeah, of course, come on in.” I step back and watch in awe as he easily drops a leg over the windowsill, folds his tall frame, and ducks his head under the window. He maneuvers the rest of his body through until he’s here, standing in my room with me.

“I remember that being easier when I was sixteen.”

My eyes widen. “You snuck through windows when you were sixteen?”

“You didn’t?” And then his eyes drop to my PJs and his grin widens, confirming the answer to that question for him. “You have bananas all over your pajamas.”

I clear my throat lightly and regret all of my life choices. “Uh, yeah. Well, I wasn’t expecting company, so I got ready for bed as usual.”

A small smile touches his mouth, and then my breath catches when he reaches out and pinches the hem of my sleeve between the fingers of his butterfly hand. “Your usual being banana-printed sleepwear?” He doesn’t say it in a mean way. More as a curiosity than anything.

“My full name is Annabell. So my siblings call me Anna-banana. I have an entire drawer full of banana-themed PJs.” And underwear. “It’s basically the only kind of sleepwear I own. Is that pathetic? Should I burn them all?”

I’ve always loved my banana PJs. I generally like who I am as a whole, but standing here in front of Dark and Mysterious Mr. Tattoo has me feeling the need to defend myself. To question whether this is a strange way to live as an adult woman or not.

Will is looking down at me as if stuck in a daze as he rubs his thumb back and forth delicately over the fabric of my sleeve. Every so often his thumb brushes my wrist, and I feel like the physical manifestation of static electricity.

“Anna-banana,” says Will quietly. He couldn’t help trying out my nickname at least once. His eyes pop up to me, and I see something compellingly honest in them. “Promise me, no matter what you decide to change about yourself, this will not be one of them.”

I let out a sigh of relief and then laugh before I realize his solemn expression. He’s dead serious. Not laughing in the least. He wants me to promise I’ll never stop wearing these bananas. Will a contract be drawn up next?

“Okay, I’ll keep them.” Oddly, something in me relaxes and settles in a way I normally can’t around other people. And then I ask, “What are you doing here? And…how did you know this was my room?”

Will releases the hem of my shirt and steps back. “I didn’t,” he says with a crooked grin. “Every other room in the house was dark, though, so I thought I’d try my luck with this one first. It was a gamble.”

“What would you have done if this was Emily or Maddie’s room?”

He shrugs. “Pretended to be drunk and lost.”

I laugh. “You really gave this some thought.”

“Always be prepared—that’s my motto.”

“And by yours you mean the Boy Scout motto.”

“Is that where I’ve heard it?” He makes a skeptical thinking noise before turning away to make himself at home in my room. He’s not shy about it, strolling around like he owns the place. Maybe this is the bodyguard side of him that’s used to sweeping locations and inspecting every inch before letting Amelia enter. Oddly, there’s something sort of fun about watching him as he lazily peruses everything inside these four walls.

“Your room is pretty,” he says softly. My knees go weak because the word pretty coming out of his mouth feels like the most enticing juxtaposition. It’s achingly tender and innocent—which forcefully combats his worldly and dangerous appearance.

Chills dance down my arms, and I blame it on the night. The darkness and the quiet are what’s responsible for the intimacy right now. For the charge in the air and the way I can’t seem to get a full breath. For the heat swirling low in my stomach that absolutely has no business being here. It’s not Will making any of this happen, it’s just science. Or biology. Or…physics. Basically any other subject besides Will!

I’m mesmerized watching him smell the bouquet of flowers on my side table, run his fingers over the plush blanket on the end of my bed, pick up the trinkets on my dresser to examine them closely before setting them back down gently. He’s so tactile. I imagine he touches and feels his way through life, whereas I usually keep my hands right where they are now—safely tucked behind me, alone in the corner of the room.

But then Will picks up the framed photo on my dresser—the last picture ever taken of my entire family before my parents died—and my feet move in his direction. He stares down at it and I know what he’s seeing: three happy kids lined up in front of two beaming parents; and me, only three years old, on my mom’s hip and smiling up at her instead of the camera.

“That’s the last photo that was taken.”

Will looks down at me over his shoulder and his gaze holds mine. “I’m sorry, Annie.”

I shrug. “It was a long time ago.”

“But I’m sure it still hurts.”

I breathe in—trying to push away the sudden rush of emotions his words rip from me. I don’t want to cry in front of him. Actually, I don’t cry in front of anyone. So I blink, and blink some more until the threat is gone. “Sometimes.”

He sets the frame down and looks at me. I’m scared he’s going to ask if I’m okay, which I really hope he doesn’t because I will absolutely cry. I’m usually the one who provides comfort in my family—which is, honestly, fine because it’s a role I chose when I was very young and my siblings were all falling apart and I didn’t quite understand why. They knew my parents better than I did—so it became my self-appointed job to lessen their pain. I could hug them. I could make them feel better. I could make sure that I never did anything to add to their worry. And then that, in turn, made me feel better. But a side effect of being the one who listens and comforts is that people rarely offer to listen or comfort me. I’ve been living this way for so long now that I’m not sure I’d be any good at expressing myself even if I were asked to.

Just when I think Will is going to make me talk through my feelings, he lightly grasps my bicep, pulling me into his chest. And that’s it. No prodding questions. He wraps his big arms around me and holds me here in my room until my body melts against his. It feels so good to be held by him. To breathe him in and feel his heart beating against my chest. Too good.

And then he presses his lips to my forehead and my entire heart wrenches.

“What are you doing here, Will?” I ask when I can’t take the sweetness of this anymore. It’s too confusing.

He releases me. “I’m going out of town for a few days with Amelia for work.” I’m surprised at how disappointed I feel by this news. Which is ridiculous. Absolutely absurd.

He continues, “And I realized I don’t have your phone number.”

“Oh.”

“And I thought I should have it…”

“You did?”

He nods, still watching me. “In case…you have any tutor-related questions.”

“Right.” I give a firm nod. Makes sense. Perfect sense. “Where’s your phone? I’ll put my number in it.”

He fishes it from the back pocket of his jeans and hands it to me. Something about holding Will’s phone just feels so…personal. More personal than anything he’s ever let me see before. His lock screen is a photo of a mountaintop view, and his background is a photo of an ocean. They’re obviously pictures he’s taken on his adventures—and suddenly I’m overcome with desire to know everything about these trips. To see him standing there in those places and witness the smile on his face when he reached his final destination. Maybe even go with him on one.

Instead, I create a new contact and type my number in and quickly hand his phone back. He frowns lightly at the contact name and deletes Annie Walker and replaces it with Annabell. We’re not even going to acknowledge the obscene surge of butterflies that rushes through my stomach when he does.

In an attempt to make myself feel normal and not buzzing with physical awareness, I walk back toward the window and open it again. “Okay, well now that you have my number, feel free to…” my words trail off when I turn around and find Will toeing off his shoes and sitting on my bed “…stay.”

Will leans up against my headboard, shoes kicked off, long legs stretched out, and one ankle crossed over the other. Will is in my bed.

In. My. Bed!

“Is that all right? If I stay?” he says with the confidence of a man who already knows the answer.

I would love to surprise him and kick him out. No, you may not stay! Out you go!

Yeah, not happening. I want him here more than I’ve wanted anything before.

“Of course. But…why?”

He came here for my phone number, and he got it. Task accomplished. He should be on his way.

Will smiles at me—bemused. “To hang out with you.”

“I repeat, why?”

“Because you’re fun to hang out with.”

I have to press my lips together and divert my gaze, so I pull out the chair from my desk and sit so that he doesn’t see the way my soul beams from that response.

“Are you going to stay all the way over there?” he asks.

I look up into his playful sparking eyes. “It’s not way over here. You make it sound like I need a map.”

“Annie.” His tone is gently inquisitive. “Is something wrong?”

I blink and shake my head. Nope. I’m great. Everything is great, I should say. My head isn’t spinning at all. My heart isn’t hammering and my palms aren’t sweating. This is totally normal. Will and I are just hanging out. With no purpose. No specific practice. Just…two friends in a tiny room together for fun.

“It’s making you nervous that I’m on your bed, isn’t it?”

I grimace because I really need for him to stop doing that—reading my mind so easily. “It’s not that—” I cut myself off before I attempt to lie and realize he’ll know. He’ll see right through me immediately, as he always does. “All right. Yes, I guess it’s freaking me out a little.” I gesture between us. “I’m not good at all of this, remember?”

“All of this?”

“Yeah…the socializing. Friendship. Secret late-night meetings.” I pause and then add quietly. “Men in my bed.”

“Right. Well, lucky for you, there’s only one man in your bed tonight. The others won’t be here until tomorrow.” We both grin. “Seriously. It’s just me. No need to be nervous. But if you want me to leave, I will. I never want to make you uncomfortable.”

I think about this for a minute, exploring how I would feel if he left now. I picture myself watching him go and then lying awake the whole night wondering what would have happened if I’d let him stay. I feel the disappointment so acutely it’s like it already happened. “Don’t go.”

The weight of those words hangs in the air between us and they don’t settle. They stir up questions and implications like a storm.

This time, I have the pleasure of watching Will squirm. Or the closest he’s likely ever going to get to squirming. He swallows, lightly clears his throat, and then turns his eyes away—searching. Most unfortunately, they land on the book that I left open on my bed. He picks it up and to my horror, starts reading it right there in front of me. Unacceptable. Because I happen to know what was written about on the page I was reading when he arrived: the couple’s first kiss. And that may sound sweet, but that’s only if you’ve never read a historical romance before.

I knew this kiss was coming, and I wanted to be comfy and cozy in bed before I read it, so I set the book down and got up to get changed and brush my teeth. And now Will is reading it…before me. What if it’s really steamy? What if there is dirty talk? Oh my gosh, what if there is other stuff?

I need to think of a discreet way to distract him. Something really casual and easy so that he sets the book down but isn’t suspicious.

“Stop reading!” I blurt.

Super. Really discreet.

Will’s eyes flick to me, and then a grin that I’ve come to know all too well spreads on his face. His fingers clutch the cover a little harder. “Why, Annabell? Something wrong with me reading this book?” His eyebrows lift.

“Wilton, put the book down.”

His expression says it: not a chance.

And then—the jerk—cuts his eyes to the page and begins reading. Aloud. “A growl sounded from the back of Captain Cutler’s throat as he stared down at Lady Eloise’s full, erotic mouth…”

Without thinking, I leap onto the bed. “Oh my gosh, stop reading!” I try to yell in a whisper at Will, who then hops off the other side of the bed.

Laughing at his own words, he continues. “If he didn’t take her then and there, he was sure he was going to die,” Will reads while racing around the front of my bed to evade me. He raises the book above his head. “So dramatic, this captain. I mean I know the feeling, but I’ve never thought I’d die from an erection before.”

“Oh my gosh! Don’t say erection!”

“Boner then?” he supplies—knowing full well that word is not better—while doing a spin move to get around me and lower the book to continue reading. “Her breasts heaved above the bodice of her gown, and Captain Cutler knew she wanted him too.” He pauses again, long enough for me to ram into him like a linebacker and lay him out flat on his back on the mattress. He laughs harder, eyes sparkling dangerously, and extends the book above his head as far as he can as I crawl over him to grab it. “I see lots of consent red flags in our dear captain. A man should never assume a woman wants him.”

“He’s a pirate! He’s used to pillaging and murdering! I’m not sure that consent is on his radar!”

“And that makes it okay?” he asks, still laughing at my attempts to get the book.

“No—definitely not. In real life I’d be horrified. But this is a book. And books are…different.” That last word comes out like a grunt as I manage to latch onto the book and valiantly rip it from his hand. I hold it over my head—breathing like I just finished a triathlon. I smile victoriously. “You lose!”

And then we both realize I’m straddling him.