“You’re Will?” Her dark hair was cut straight, arranged with a careful precision. She was standing at my front door already looking bored, her gaze wandering up and down my body. “Nancy’s husband?”
I remembered to smile. “Err, yeah, and you must be–”
“Erica Cheung,” she spoke the syllables like thrusts of a knife. Unprompted, she stepped inside and scanned the foyer, her frown spreading.
I was proud of my house, my wife and I had worked hard to save up and were finally living somewhere nice. It was why Nancy had wanted to host this dinner for her team at work, with everyone who’d already arrived making the socially required displays of admiration at their boss’s new digs. But Erica’s critical regard swept over our crown molding with hidden lighting and imported furniture and mixed earth textures, betraying no sign of being impressed.
Finally her eyes landed back on mine, and she said, “Where do I put my coat?”
“Oh yes,” I said, happy to break from the awkwardness, “Right this way.”
Her high heels clacked on the polished hardwood as I directed her to the large foyer closet.