13. Franki
thirteen
Henry greets me with a kiss on the cheek the moment Gabriel and I walk in the door of Bronwyn and Dean’s house. “Hello, Franki.”
I fight the urge to close my eyes, bask in the comfort of him, and breathe in his scent. Henry is my friend, and I’ll be moving out of his place soon, anyway. Getting attached like this is a bad idea.
Leaning slightly on my cane for support after stiffening up on the drive here, I narrow my eyes in an attempt to look stern. “Who surprises someone with a party in their own house?”
Before Gabriel and I arrived, Janessa teased Bronwyn in our group chat about everyone unexpectedly walking in on Dean dining out on Bronwyn in the family room. Apparently, no one actually saw anything, but I still feel horrible for both of them.
“Don’t worry, I made extra staff accommodations,” Henry says.
“I wouldn’t have come if I’d known their housewarming party was you ambushing them,” I say.
“I’m glad you’re here.” Henry beams with a blinding smile so unlike his typical reserved expression that I blink and forget my train of thought entirely. Dazzled and barely able to string words together, I gaze back at him with stars in my eyes.
Henry leans toward me conspiratorially. “Be glad you and Gabriel are a couple of hours behind the rest of the crew.”
Still befuddled by Henry’s beautiful smile, I nod as if thirty seconds ago I wasn’t giving him heck for setting up this party in the first place.
Henry’s attention skips to Gabriel. “I’ll show her where she’s sleeping.”
When Henry reaches for my luggage and attempts to tug it out of Gabriel’s grip, his brother doesn’t let go. The muscles in Henry’s forearm flex beneath a light dusting of hair and his eyes narrow.
“I can guess which room she’s staying in.” Gabriel smirks.
“I’m headed in that direction, anyway,” Henry says, voice impatient.
“Of course you are.” Gabriel winks.
Henry sighs. “Could you act your age?”
“I could, but this role reversal is irresistible. Do you need any advice? Any words of wisdom? I’m here for you, Henry.” Gabriel starts out sounding sincere, but he ruins the effect by snickering at the end.
I swivel my head back and forth like I’m watching a tennis match before I finally venture, “Henry?”
At the sound of his name on my lips, Henry doesn’t just glance my way. He turns his entire body toward me, his heated gaze roving over me. Cataloging me. My eyes, my hair, my face, my neck, my shoulders. I’m afraid to put a name to that look for fear of giving myself unwarranted hope. It’s what I’d done at the wedding reception, after all, and hours later he’d dashed my confidence against the rocks of his horrible proposal.
When I don’t say anything, Henry asks gently, “Are you okay? Is there anything you need?”
I shake my head. “You’re find. I mean . . . we’re find—fine. I amfine.” Heat crawls up my neck.
Henry nods his own head repetitively, never breaking eye contact.
“Henry,” Gabriel murmurs, “Get some rizz.”
A ghost of a smile hides in the corners of Henry’s eyes. “I’ll show you to your room.”
Gabriel releases my suitcase. “I’ll see you in a bit, Frank.”
As Gabriel walks away, Henry guides me up the stairs, then down the hall. “Why is he calling you Frank?”
I shrug. “It’s left over from when we were kids. Who knows why it started, but I like it better than ‘sweet Francesca.’”
“Who called you ‘sweet Francesca’?” Henry asks with a note in his voice that, if he were anyone else, I’d call jealousy.
“Nobody important.”
Henry opens a door second from the left at the end of the corridor and ushers me inside the quaint, farmhouse-style bedroom with the brass bed frame and the pretty quilt and braided rug. I lean my cane against the bed and remove my jacket, taking in the homey feel. This house may be newly renovated, but Bronwyn kept a lot of its original character. The room boasts four doors, counting the entry. I assume one is an en suite bathroom and one a closet, but I don’t know what the third could be.
After depositing my suitcase on top of an antique dresser, Henry strides across the room and opens the first door. “Bathroom.”
He indicates the next with a sweep of his arm. “Closet.”
Finally, he points to the last one. “My room. If you need anything at all, feel free to come find me. My door is always open.”
Oh. Oh, this is . . . A jolt of excitement goes through me before I talk myself down from it. I’m sure he means if I need fresh towels or an extra blanket or something that I shouldn’t bother Bronwyn about—
I don’t even see him cross the floor back to me, but suddenly Henry is inches away, lifting my hand to his chest.
“Whatever you need, Franki. Come to me.”
I blink up at him like an owl, my breath catching as his meaning becomes inescapable. Henry is flirting with me. Heart thundering wildly, I lift my free hand and lightly touch my fingertips to his lower lip. “You’re saying . . . if I need towels . . .?”
He quirks a casual eyebrow, but his chest lifts as he sucks in air like fireplace bellows as he speaks against my fingers. “Come to me.”
“I see. And, if my pillow is lumpy?”
He leans closer, his voice so much hoarser than usual. “Come to me.”
“What if . . . I’m cold?”
“I’ll be devastated,” he says quietly, his breath warming my skin, “if you don’t come to me.”
His head dips closer. I close my eyes as the clean scent of him floods my senses. His lips are soft against my fingertips, and his heart pounds beneath the palm of my other hand, the crisp cotton of his shirt warm where we’re touching.
If he were taking my pulse, he’d know my own heart is pounding, too, with a beat so loud that it thunders in my ears.
As if he senses the direction of my thoughts, he circles my throat, his thumb on one side and the calloused pads of fingertips on the other, gently skating over my carotid. He doesn’t exert the slightest pressure, but the world halts its rotation in response, throwing me headlong into something I can’t brace for. I was going seventy miles an hour on the highway, and someone slammed on the brakes. I’m in the passenger seat without so much as a seatbelt to halt my trajectory.
I open my eyes, and his blue gaze arrests mine, searching. Searching.
He reaches up a hand and removes his glasses, tossing them onto my suitcase. Then he runs his left hand through my hair until he’s cradling my head. He’s anchoring me. One hand collaring me, the other moving my head where he wants it.
He must feel me swallow beneath his palm because he frowns in response. “Am I making you nervous?”
“Yes. Am I making you nervous?”
“Fuck yes,” he says fervently.
Then I kiss Henry McRae.