Chapter 21
Story
“Beers: tick, pizzas: one spicy pepperoni—excellent, one pineapple—wrong. Tick.”
I’m mid-inhale, breathing in the delicious aroma of cheese, herbs, and carbs courtesy of Tony’s, the best pizza place in Valentine Nook, but it morphs into a squeal when Hendricks digs his finger deep into my ribs.
“Watch it. Don’t diss my pineapple.”
I glance down at his choice, which hasn’t changed since he first discovered it ten years ago, wondering if I can force my mind to change. I like pineapple. Even pineapple with cheese. But hot pineapple, with tomato sauce? Nope. Bleugh.
“Who knows, maybe today’s the day I’ll finally get you to try it.”
“I’d rather make out with Miles,” I shoot back, and immediately the air stills.
Hendricks’s laugh is tight as he tries to brush off the visual or whatever it is I’ve put in his mind. Our history of him and Miles swapping places doesn’t have the best memories.
“I pray hard that day never ever happens.”
“It won’t if I have anything to do with it. And thank God I can tell the difference between you, eh?” I slap a hand against his chest.
“It’s a gift I’m thankful for every day,” he drawls, and only the sound of my stomach rumbling loud enough to set off an avalanche moves us out of the last weirdly awkward thirty seconds.
Hendricks’s brows disappear into the curls flopping onto his forehead. “Okay, impatience. We can eat.”
Gathering up the pizza boxes and a couple of beers, we take them through to the living room, where he places them on the sofa. Before then, though, I take in the room, the two candles he’s lit, the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table, the blankets piled up on one side.
Because he and Miles have only lived in this cottage for a couple of months, this is the first time I’ve been here.
Now that Miles is playing polo professionally, his mother let them move into it, probably more to save her own sanity from the revolving door of women than anything else.
I can’t imagine the duchess being too happy about arriving at breakfast only to be greeted by a different girl every day.
I’ve always wondered what Hendricks would be like living on his own, because during term time in London he’s at their family place, staffed twenty-four seven.
It’s a stark contrast to the boys who live off campus at my university.
I wonder daily how they haven’t brought back dysentery or the bubonic plague based on the state of their accommodation.
But this? I’m liking what I see, especially when my eyes drop on a framed photo of the two of us, lying on a picnic blanket trying to shield our eyes from the sun.
It was taken on the hill at Honeysuckle Lane last summer, we’d sat there all day, me with a book to read, him with a book to revise from—Vets 101—or something.
We barely spoke except to say things like “pass the crisps” or “want another drink?” It was quiet and perfect, and one of my favorite days of the year.
“Aw, look at us. Hen, you’re such a cutie—”
He glances up, confused, until he sees what I’m looking at. “Yeah, I know.”
Placing it back on the coffee table, I slide next to him. “I have to be honest, I thought this place was going to be such a mess.”
He doesn’t even bother to look offended or pretend to. He just shrugs and grins. “Miles is away.”
It’s believable, it really is. Except I know that Hendricks is equally as messy, so I stand there and wait.
“Okay, fine, the housekeeper was here today. But”—he holds a finger up—“with only me around to mess it up, it takes a little longer to get messy. And I have very little time to do anything right now except revise.”
“Literally the only twenty-one-year-old I know with a housekeeper.”
“Hey, I’m not turning down the offer just because I’m young. That’s ageist.”
I hold my hands out, weighing options. “Ageist and lazy. Who’s to know?”
“Not all of us are neat freaks.” Hendricks takes on a stern expression, or what he thinks is stern. “Do you want to watch your choice of movie or not? Because I’m good with Die Hard.”
“What movie are we watching?”
“I thought you wanted that new Netflix romcom?” He says it with such disdain, but it’s all show. The last time we watched a movie that I picked, he cried like a baby and blamed it on allergies.
“For that”—I smile over at him—“I’ll let you have a slice of my pepperoni.”
“Planned to anyway.” He winks, grabs the one I have in my hand, and takes an enormous bite.
We eat and talk, eat and talk. We go over the exams he’s got between now and the end of the term.
I tell him about the teaching English abroad program I applied for and haven’t heard back from.
As the pizza boxes empty and get put to one side, we become a tangle of legs under the blanket.
I lean into his side only to slide into the spot he creates when he lifts his arm, and I swear I feel his lips brushing my hair as he takes a deep breath.
Popcorn balances precariously between us, and when Hendricks moves to reach the remote, I have to grab it before it spills.
“Ouch, you’re on my hair.” I wince when he sits back.
Releasing the end of my ponytail from where it was trapped, he curls it around his fingers, flicking the ends between his fingertips. “It’s so long now.”
“I know, I’m trying to see how long I can get it.”
“Think you’ll be able to sit on it?”
“We’ll have to see.”
He nods, satisfied, and picks up the remote. “Let’s start this thing, shall we? I want to see how love develops when you’re stuck in the middle of the rainforest . . .” He smirks, reading the synopsis. “Not very practical, is it? Bugs, bug spray. All the creepy-crawlies—”
“Stop ruining it already and start the movie.”
He presses play, we get through the familiar bong of the Netflix logo, and then it stops.
“What are you doing?”
He shifts his body around, hands gripping my thighs so I don’t move away from him. He stares at me long enough that I’m about to ask if he’s having an aneurysm. “I miss you, Stor. I’ve missed us.”
Miss you. It’s words we say to each other all the time, and they’re the truth. We mean it when we say it to each other. But this feels different. This time, they feel heavier, more resolute.
“I miss you too.” My head drops to the side. “What’s going on?”
“It feels like there’s always been something coming up lately that’s kept us apart.
We haven’t spent more than a day together all year.
I’ve been away, you’ve been away, exams, boyfriends .
. .” He nudges me with a grin. It’s teasing but not.
He has no proof that I’ve had a boyfriend, because I’ve never told him. He’s fishing.
I’ve known Hendricks a long time, and the tic under his eye is his tell. A loaded question disguised by the casual, breezy tone.
I know he won’t ask, just as I won’t ask him, because we don’t talk about other people. If we pretend they don’t exist, then they don’t.
But he wants to know if I’m single.
The ugly truth, the one I only admit to myself in the dark of the night, is that any boyfriend I’ve had has only been fleeting, casual.
Because deep in my soul, I’ve been waiting for Hendricks, and as harsh as it might sound, even if I wasn’t single, I would end things in a heartbeat if it meant we finally got our chance.
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” I volunteer. “Haven’t in a long time.”
His head bobs, his mouth rolls, and his brain ticks. In that order. “Oh yeah? No Pelling hanging around lately?”
I sigh, frustrated. How does he not know it’s only ever been him for me? Sam Pelling has never and will never hold a candle to the guy in front of me. My best friend. The only boy I’ve loved for as long as I can remember.
“Hendricks, c’mon.” I shift around, scooching onto my knees, changing the subject. “How long’s it been since we did this?”
“A couple of months, maybe. It was Easter, after Miles and I got back from skiing? We spent the weekend in the farmyard with the new calves.”
I shrug, even though I absolutely know that it was then.
“My point is, we’ve barely seen each other.
I know we talk every day, but it’s going to be summer break soon.
” I hold my hand out to him. “Let’s make a deal right now that we spend as much time as possible together this summer.
Waterfall, fields . . .” I wink. “Rolling down the hill on Honeysuckle Lane—”
Quick as lightning, his fingers reach out. This time, he digs right into the spot he knows will have me crying, laughing, and waving a white flag of defeat within seconds. “I’m not rolling down that fucking hill.”
“Okay . . . okay . . . stop. No hill. But the rest?”
He settles back, grin wide on his face, dimples on show as he pulls my legs across his lap again. “The rest we can do. Still got that blue bikini for the waterfall?”
My internal temperature kicks up a few degrees. “I’m sure I can dig it out of a drawer somewhere.”
I hold my hand back out. “Let’s make this our summer, deal?”
He takes my hand and shakes it. “Deal. Nothing’s getting in our way.”