Chapter 28 Holly #3
We both spoon generous second helpings onto our plates and somehow still manage to clean them, sopping up the last of the gravy with paneer.
While we feast, he asks me questions, none of them probing, but instead curious—about my life with Aidan, my friends, what I love about my work and about living in this city.
“The general manager is leaving,” I find myself telling him. “And some friends and co-workers have been telling me to apply.”
“Would you enjoy the work?” he asks.
Such a simple question, but I struggle to devise a simple answer.
“I’d be really good at it,” I respond, finishing my last sip of wine while Hugh stands to clear the table. “I know what it takes to run that club, and I have all the skills.”
“Of course,” he replies, setting the bowls in the sink and then opening the freezer. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s the job for you.”
“That’s what I need to work out,” I say, watching as he busies himself in the kitchen, his back turned away from me, then returns with two bowls, each filled with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, slices of mango, and a single sprig of mint.
“I’m certain of this,” he says, sitting across from me again. “The club would be fortunate to have you in charge.”
Sinking my spoon into dessert, then savoring the sweet combination of creamy ice cream and bright, bold mango, I’m struck that Hugh doesn’t for a moment question whether I’m qualified, and it’s so glorious—to be with a man who simply assumes I’m competent and capable.
When we’ve finished—a damn near perfect dessert, I decide—I follow Hugh into the small kitchen area. He pulls out two storage containers and hands them to me, and I spoon the meager leftovers into them, while he fills the sink with soapy water and begins to hand wash dishes.
I open the refrigerator, set the containers beside neatly ordered jars of yogurt, a pint of berries, and orange juice that looks to be freshly squeezed—thinking, for a moment, what it would be like to wake up in this apartment with Hugh and share a simple breakfast.
“So where will you be making your comfort foods next?” I ask, my chest tightening at the thought of him leaving. I know I don’t have the right to feel this way, since we’ve only just met, so I struggle to brighten my tone, and ask, “What grand city will you be moving to, once the Emory gig is up?”
“Copenhagen is next on the itinerary,” he says, taking a clean dishrag from the drawer and beginning to dry his hands. “But I’m so enjoying these warm Georgia nights”—he gestures toward the screened window beside us, where moonlight shines through a magnolia—“I may just have to stay awhile longer.”
The promise of his words hangs in the humid air between us.
I don’t want to ruin the moment with questions of logistics, of whether that might even be possible.
What do I know about professors and their work?
About how long a person can be officially “visiting” a university and not wear out his welcome?
I can’t imagine someone like Hugh Pridmore ever wearing out his welcome, at least not with me.
Before I can second-guess my decision, before I can think about how fleeting this all might be, I take a step to stand behind him at the sink, place a hand on his waist, and tug, so that he turns to face me.
He lets out a soft sigh, and as Coltrane’s “Lush Life” pours through the room, I put a hand on his chest and push him gently against the counter.
He lets the towel drop to the floor, wraps his arms around my waist, and pulls me in, then leans down to press a kiss against my throat.
“I’ve wanted to do this since the first moment I saw you,” he whispers into my ear, “knocking frantically against the window of my lab, with your hair up in that loose bun.”
I wrap my free hand around the back of his neck, feeling the rough stubble, just as I had imagined it. I lean away, look into his eyes. “You mean, when I interrupted your very important research with my silly little lies?”
“There’s nothing silly about you, Holly,” he says, then kisses me softly on the mouth. “And you can interrupt me anytime. But let’s be honest with each other from this point forward.” He kisses me again, so lightly that it’s almost teasing. “No more lies.”
“No more lies,” I repeat, running my hand down his chest, loving the feel of linen, rough and cool beneath my fingers.
He pulls me in closer, grazing my hips with his hands, and I kiss him hard, as the intensity rises between us. He tastes of vanilla and cumin and humid summer nights, and I suddenly know that it will be impossible to get enough of this man.
He turns us both around, lifts me onto the counter.
Then his firm hands find their way beneath my silk shirt, and I feel them hot and searching against my back.
I let my thighs part, and he steps between them.
He rises against me, and I pull him in closer, grabbing his hair into my fist. He slips the silk strap from my shoulder, leans down to run his lips along my collarbone.
My free hand finds the top button of his jeans and I tug, which produces a hum deep in his throat.
But then he releases me and steps away, fast. I watch, baffled, as he begins to pace back and forth in the small space between us.
“Since we’ve decided to be honest,” he says, his voice a low groan, “I want nothing more right now than to carry you over to that bed and have my way with you.”
Jesus, God. I want that, too.
He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. I suck in a long breath, try to calm my raging hormones. Because I have a sneaking suspicion I know what’s coming next.
“But, for better or worse, I endeavor to be a gentleman.” He continues to pace in front of me. “And it’s our first date, and I already feel a bit lechy, having brought you here, which wasn’t my intention, and—”
I slide down from the counter, touch him on the forearm, which stills his pacing.
“I get it,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant, trying not to worry about whether his hesitation is really about me, trying to remind myself that this man will be in Copenhagen soon, and that the last thing I have room in my life for is complication.
Oh, but Hugh Pridmore is a complication I so very much want to make room for.