Chapter 9 Henry #2
Morbid, Henry. I coughed. “No, not a torture device,” I said, mustering a smile that I hoped didn’t reflect my creepy thoughts.
“It’s a plane. You use it to shave off thin slices of wood to shape something.
” Once again, I wondered how it had ended up on the bookshelf.
“I’m not sure why it’s there instead of my workshop, to be honest. Maybe I carried it in absentmindedly one day. ”
He rested the flat of the plane against his palm and his forearm twitched as if he was going to move it forward. I jerked toward him and grabbed his arm, stopping the movement. “It’s sharp,” I warned, gently prying the plane out of his hand. “You don’t want to do that.”
He colored delicately. “Oops, sorry. Got curious. Probably the plushies are safer, huh?”
I nodded my agreement. “I mean, you survived my cat, I wouldn’t want you to cut off a finger on a tool that shouldn’t even be where it is and break your streak.” I put the plane back on the shelf with a mental note to return it to my workshop next time I went out there.
We looked at each other for a long, awkward moment, and then Jamison reached for one of my books, an inlay design manual.
“This is…” he began, flipping through the pages.
“No, you know what, I’ve got nothing.” He slipped the book back into its place.
“I can’t even fake something intelligent to say about that one. Too complicated.”
I couldn’t blame him. It was a pretty detailed manual. I sometimes pulled it out when I couldn’t sleep. Flipping through the pages and eyeing the intricate designs was sure to make my eyes cross and then close. “Don’t blame you,” I agreed. “It’s not exactly approachable reading.”
He spun away from the bookshelf, startling both me and Curie, who leapt to her feet and waved her tail as if catching her balance to bolt. “Where’d you put the vodka?”
I blinked at him dumbly for a second. “The what? Oh.” I gestured toward the kitchen island, which we could see clearly across the open-plan cabin space. “On the counter.”
Curie, apparently deciding her alarm had been unnecessary, wandered over to the couch, hopped onto the back, and settled down to lick her butt fur as Jamison made his way to the kitchen. He seized the bottle of vodka. “I’ve decided I need that stiff drink we talked about.”
Heh. Stiff.
“So,” he went on, unaware of my juvenile brain inwardly snickering, “what mixers do you have?”
I gave that a moment’s thought. “Um, there’s orange juice in the fridge, and I have some cans of soda in the pantry.
I don’t think I have any cold ones, though.
I forgot to switch the twelve-pack when I ran out a couple of days ago.
But there should be Coke and Sprite.” I took a moment to run through my mental list of what was in stock in my kitchen.
“I think there might be some apple juice in the back of the fridge, but for all I know it’s fermented itself since the last time I had a glass of it. ”
“Do you have any grenadine?” he asked eagerly.
I blinked. Grenadine? That was the hot pink syrup, right?
“Um, if I do it’ll be in the last top cabinet on the right, with the rest of my alcohol.
” I had a couple bottles of nice bourbon that I drank occasionally, and probably some vodka of my own, because who didn’t keep a bit of that on hand.
If I had cocktail mixers, I’d have put them with the rest. Though when I’d have ever bought grenadine, I didn’t know.
He walked to the cabinet I indicated, opened it, and started sorting through its contents.
He exclaimed over the bourbon - “Fancy!” - and scoffed at my choice of vodka, which was apparently “cheap as hell”, then pulled out a bottle of sweetened lime juice, a small bottle of bitters - why in the world did I even have that?
- and, yes, a bright red bottle of grenadine.
“Yesss,” he hissed. “We’re having Dirty Shirleys. ”
Dirty…what? I blinked at him owlishly and he grinned. “Do I even want to know what you’re about to feed me?” I asked cautiously. “And why do I suspect it doesn’t go with onion dip?”
He winced. “Yeah, it really doesn’t go with onion dip. But it should be fine with the carrots plain if we want to keep munching. Or if you have chips or something, that’s even better. Glasses?” he asked. “Spoon? Oh, and ice if the soda’s not cold.”
I motioned to the cabinet I kept my drinking glasses in and opened my cutlery drawer to extract a long-handled iced tea spoon. “Here.” I set it on the counter in front of him, then filled a plastic cup with ice from my freezer.
He pulled two tall glasses out of the cabinet and set them on the counter, then ducked into my pantry, which was the size of a walk-in closet.
Yes, I was proud of it. Yes, I’d made the shelving.
I heard him muttering and the sounds of my belongings being shuffled, and then he emerged with two cans of Sprite in his hands.
He set them next to the glasses, then grabbed the vodka and the grenadine. “Two Dirty Shirleys, coming up.”
I watched as he dropped in some ice cubes, glugged a shot of vodka into each glass, filled them the rest of the way with Sprite, and then tipped some grenadine onto the top. The spoon rattled against the sides of each glass as he stirred the mixture.
Suddenly, it clicked in my brain. “Did you just make us alcoholic Shirley Temples?”
He grinned. “Sure did. Thus the ‘dirty’ part of Dirty Shirley.” He presented me with a glass. “Drink up. We’re going to get tipsy and then you’re going to teach me to braid.”
I almost groaned. “You remembered that? I kinda hoped…”
“That I’d forget being offered the opportunity to play with your hair?” He snorted. “Please. As if.” He waved a hand at my head. “Those luscious locks are begging for my hands. I didn’t get the chance to play with it enough when we, you know.”
I took a sip from my glass, surprised to find it neither burny nor cloyingly sweet despite the combination of sugared soda and sugared syrup. It tasted…sort of like cherry, though there was a little bit of an aftertaste from the vodka. “Huh,” I couldn’t help saying. “This isn’t bad.”
A grin took over his face, lighting up his expression from within. “It’s one of my favorites because it’s simple and tastes good without being a fruity mess.” He took a sip from his own glass and smacked his lips. “Damn, I’m good.”
We drank in companionable silence for a minute before I remembered what he’d said about snacks to go with our drinks.
I put my glass down and went to rummage in the pantry, where I unearthed a bag of plain potato chips and one of pretzel sticks that were only slightly stale.
I opened both bags and set them on the counter between us.
“So, I gotta say,” I ventured after we’d each taken a handful of snacks, “tipsy is probably not the best way to learn to braid.”
He smirked. “But I bet it’s the funnest. You’re lucky I’m not threatening to do your makeup, too.”
Makeup? I blinked. “You wear makeup?”
“Sometimes. Eyeliner and mascara, mostly.” His eyes narrowed. “You got a problem with that?”
That was actually kinda hot. I pictured him with darkly-lined eyes and my dick twitched.
I shook my head emphatically and crossed my legs where I stood.
“Nope. I’ve just never seen you with makeup on.
I don’t think,” I added after a moment, realizing that I wasn’t positive I’d be able to tell there was makeup if there was no colored eyeshadow or lipstick involved.
He took a sip of his drink and rolled the liquid around his mouth before swallowing.
“You’ve only seen me in person a handful of times.
I know, it feels like more,” he said before I could reply.
“I think because things are so big when we do meet. But that first night we were both wasted, and then I didn’t put anything on to go out to lunch because it was a spur of the moment thing, and then today was just meh. ”
Had we really only met three times, counting today?
I felt like I’d known this man for ages.
But then, we did text pretty regularly. “We should meet more often,” I blurted before I could stop myself, then cringed.
We weren’t even friends. Wait, were we? I mean, we were hanging out - had hung out - for no reason other than to see each other.
Surely that indicated friendship, even if we were tied together initially with anxiety.
Jamison was oblivious to my worry. His face split into a huge grin. “We should,” he agreed. “And not only so I can play with your hair. Though obviously that’s a large part of it.” He reached over and tickled the end of my ponytail with his fingertips. “Seriously, you have pretty hair.”
I snorted. “It’s a disaster. There’s a reason I always have it in a ponytail or a braid. It gets…poofy.”
He cocked his head to the side, studying me. “So why keep it long?”
“I…don’t really know,” I confessed. “Partly it’s habit.
I’ve always had long hair. Partly I like being able to do different things with it when I get the urge.
And guys have told me it’s hot -” I gestured meaningfully at him as if to demonstrate “- so I figure it doesn’t hurt.
” Self-conscious now, I focused on my glass as I took a big sip of my Dirty Shirley. Gulp.
He ate a few more chips, openly considering me. He lifted his hand as if to touch my hair again, then pulled it back. “Let’s go sit down.”
Blinking at the sudden change of subject, I picked up my glass and obediently led him to the couch. Curie, sprawled across the back of the furniture, reached down and batted at my shoulder as I sat. I lifted a hand and stroked the back of her paw with one finger.
“Aww,” Jamison cooed, plopping down next to me and almost knocking Curie’s legs out of place before he caught his weight. “Sweet girl.” He leaned forward to put the bags of snacks on the coffee table, then looked up at me through his lashes. “Sweet owner, too.”
I felt myself flushing. Compliments tended to confound me at the best of times, let alone when they came from someone I’d had the hottest sex of my life with but was now in anxiety limbo with while being unsure if we were even friends. “Uh,” I stammered. “Thanks. She is a sweetie.”
His look made it clear that he’d caught my deflection but was letting it slide.
We each took another sip of our drinks in silence.
I would swear I could feel the vodka hitting my system as I drank.
My muscles were starting to relax just that little bit that I sometimes needed in social situations.
“So…” I ventured. “Negative. For both of us.”
He offered me a smile. “Fuck yeah.”
“Only one more test. And that’s just to be sure.”
A nod. “Fuck yeah to that too.” He raised his glass in a toast, tapping it to mine even though I didn’t move mine. “To coming through this with no injuries and a new friend.”
A warm sensation crept through me, different from the feel of a blush. This was just internal warmth at being referred to as a friend by someone I was really coming to like. “To new friends and good health,” I managed, then took a drink.
“So.” He settled back against the couch. “I’m giving you two choices for what we do when we finish our drinks. Well, three.”
I blinked. “Okay?”
“First, you can teach me to braid your hair.”
“Okay.”
“Second, you can give me a tour of your workshop.”
I shook my head. “No workshop with alcohol on board. That’s one of my rules after I learned my lesson in my 20s the hard way.”
He glanced down at my hand where it held my glass. “Well, you still have all your fingers…”
I snorted. “Barely, believe me. No workshop with alcohol,” I reiterated.
“Ok, fair enough.” He nodded briskly. “Choice number three is we have another drink and then you teach me to braid. I’m assuming it’ll become more fun the more drunk we are.”
“More frustrating, maybe,” I countered. “More tangled. Probably not more fun. You kinda need some level of dexterity to pull it off.”
“I,” he shot back, waggling the fingers of his free hand at me, “am nothing if not dextrous. I am the soul of coordination. I am a musician of the body.”
I ate a chip and rolled my eyes. “Ok, maestro. I choose option number…hm.” It was true that braiding after two or three drinks was going to be more of a challenge than braiding after only one.
On the other hand, it would loosen me up and if I was going to let Jamison put his hands all over me, it would probably pay to be relaxed.
Maybe I could even keep from getting hard at his fingers in my hair if I was drunk enough. “Option three.”
“Ooh, living dangerously,” he teased. “Go on, finish your drink.” He put a finger under the bottom of my glass, tipping it up to my mouth. “I’ve got braiding to do.”