11. Henry
I huddleclose to Gia under the guise of keeping warm as we walk the few blocks to the bed and breakfast. In truth, I just like being close to her. Which…is a weird thing to admit to myself. I’m not used to feeling this way about someone, especially someone I’ve only met once before. It’s a lot, but I figure I should take Betty and Hank’s advice and see where it takes me.
When I offered to walk her, I didn’t have an ulterior motive.
Okay, that’s not true.
I didn’t want our time together to be cut short. Not that a two-hour long conversation and dinner is necessarily short, but still. Talking to her was just as easy as it was that night we met. She listens, and she cares about what I have to say.
Not for the first time, I try to think of another time when that was the case with a woman I either slept with or was trying to sleep with.
As we come up to the Victorian-esque building where she’s staying, she stops short at the wrought-iron gate that borders the yard.
“You’ve got one of the garden suites again?” I ask, although it’s obvious as she swings the little gate open.
“Same one,” she replies with a smile. I watch her cheeks go from a slight pink from the wind to a darker shade.
Oh, she’s thinking about it.
I can’t invite myself in. She just got here today. It sounds like she’ll be in town for a bit, so it’s not like tonight will be my only shot with her. Even so, the thought of walking away without so much as a kiss has my skin itching and my chest pulling tight.
I don’t have the right to a kiss or anything more, but I’m feeling desperate for it, regardless. Desperate for anything. Hell, I’d take a hug.
But I’m not going to be that guy.
You are that guy. Why drop the act for her?
The question is a head scratcher, and I consciously take a small step back to create some kind of distance between us.
“I should probably—” I start, but she blurts out a question before I can finish.
“Do you want to come in?” The moment the question leaves her mouth, she sucks her bottom lip between her teeth, worrying it.
“Uh…” My heart pounds. I’m a little surprised at the offer, but I’m not stupid enough to turn it down. It’s not like I’ve got somewhere better to be. And because I’m always prepared, I’ve got my backpack with anything I could possibly need. Diabetes-related stuff, like juice boxes in case my blood sugar drops; the essentials. “Yeah, I would actually.”
I smile when she does and follow after her through the gate and up to her private entrance. She pulls a keycard from her bag and swipes it, causing a distinct click to sound. She looks over her shoulder at me with her hand on the doorknob before turning it in and letting us into her room.
Once we’re inside, I shut the door behind me and relish the warmth. She sheds her coat, throwing it over the back of the desk chair, and toes off her shoes, leaving them in disarray on the floor.
I follow suit, laying my jacket neatly over hers and setting my backpack on the ground. I set my shoes down, again neatly, and rearrange hers like mine. I know it’s not for me to do, but it makes me feel better and doesn’t cost me anything.
When I turn, she’s looking at me with a funny expression.
“Are you a neat freak?”
The question is so direct and spot on that I laugh out loud.
“And if I am?” I ask with a small grin and an odd worry in my chest.
“I’d say that I’m probably the worst person for you to be around.” She gestures to her room, which I’ve already taken in.
Even though she just flew in today, the room looks…lived in. Once again, her suitcase is splayed open, with her things bursting out of it. This time around, she has more stuff, so her less than tidy tendencies are a lot more noticeable.
“You, uh, just got in today, right?”
Apparently, my question amuses her because she grins and lets out a light laugh. “I did.”
“Do you usually unpack? Use the drawers or anything?” I don’t even know why I ask, maybe because my skin feels itchy for a completely different reason now. The urge to offer to help unpack and organize grips me in a way that’s difficult to ignore.
“Does it bother you that my stuff is like this?” Her eyes narrow slightly, but she’s still smiling, and I get the sense that she can see the answer to her question plainly on my face.
“I asked you first.”
“Sometimes I do. I’ll probably get around to it since I’ll be here for a bit.” She smirks. “Answer mine now.”
Heaving a sigh, I swipe my hand through my hair to give myself something to do that’s not touching her stuff. “It’s not how I would do things, but it’s not really my business how you live, Gia.”
It’s the truth. If I go out of town or stay in a hotel, I usually unpack right away, so I know where everything is. Then I store my luggage in a closet or something. And as much as I’d like to see this room organized, it’s her room. She can live how she wants.
God, even the thought makes me cringe.
“Henry.” She approaches me slowly, still smiling. Once she reaches me, she places a hand on my arm. “Would it make you feel better if I picked up?”
Her offer is laughable, but I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t say yes. “Honestly? Yeah. It’s a little chaotic in here.”
“If I remember correctly, you’re the youngest of what? Five? How are you not used to chaos?” She seems to notice that her hand is still on my arm, and she pulls it away, shaking it out like I burned her.
“Ah, the chaos was what gave me the neurosis. The moment I had my own place, I kept things neat and tidy. Not that growing up with the chaos was bad, and my parents did the best they could, but it’s not for me.” I shrug and curse myself for missing the warmth of Gia’s hand pressed against me. “I like the order.”
“What’s the plan for when you have kids?” The question clearly came out before she gave it much thought. Her mouth drops open, and she sputters, all the while shaking her head. “I’m sorry. That’s none of my business. I shouldn’t assume you want kids at all. Don’t answer that.”
“No, it’s fine. I’m not sure. My siblings will probably get to that point long before I do, so I haven’t really thought about how I’ll wrangle kids and maintain some semblance of order while doing it.”
“That makes sense. I’ve already got a fair number of little nieces and nephews, so I’m comfortable in the chaos.”
“I thought you were an only child?”
“Lots of cousins. They more than make up for not having siblings.” She hums happily. “I come from a very large, very Italian family. We all grew up in or around Boston, and everyone’s pretty much stuck around. We’re really close.”
“Wow, that sounds really nice.” My thoughts stray for a moment, to my brother Grant who moved away, to my oldest brother Art who went off traveling. Part of me thinks that having everyone back in Ever Lake for good would be nice, too. Not that I’ll hold my breath, especially when it comes to Grant.
“So, do you want to help me put my stuff away?”
“I don’t want to intrude or overstep. Or overstay my welcome.” That’s a lie. I’d overstay my welcome any day when it comes to her, but that’s not the right thing to do.
“I’d love the help, honestly. And if it makes you more comfortable here, then I’m more than happy to clean up my stuff.” She rolls the large suitcase over to the long bench next to the desk and places it on top. “Also, just for your peace of mind, I don’t always live like this. I pick up my space when the mood strikes.” She sends me a saucy smile over her shoulder.
“When does the mood usually strike?” Folding my arms across my chest, I watch as she starts pulling clothes out and piling them next to the suitcase.
“Not as often as you’d like, I’m sure,” she answers and immediately dissolves into laughter. This whole situation is so bizarre and nice and comfortable that I can’t help but join in.
It takes a solid half hour, but we manage to unpack and put away all of Gia’s things in an orderly fashion. At least as orderly as I can manage. I finish up ironing a pair of slacks for her while she watches me from the bed.
“Hey, when’s your birthday?” I ask casually, wondering if she’ll be in town to celebrate. “I remember you mentioning it was coming up, but that was back in October.”
“It was in December, actually.”
“Oh, nice, well, happy belated birthday.”
“Thank you. You know, you really didn’t have to iron and steam my things,” she tells me again.
She’s lying on her stomach on the bed, chin propped up in the palms of her hands and feet swinging behind her head. She looks amused but content all the same.
“I don’t mind.” Sliding the iron over the pants one last time, I make sure there are no obvious creases before hanging them up in her closet. Then I return to the ironing board and unplug the iron, leaving it to cool. I’ll put the ironing board away later.
“What else do you do?”
“Hmm?” I turn toward her, taking a few steps to the bed before stopping to look for a place to sit.
“You can join me on the bed,” she offers so casually that I make my way to her and climb onto the bed without a word of question.
It’s as comfortable as I remember, and I make a mental note to ask Roxy, the owner of the bed and breakfast, what kind of mattress it is. Gia turns so she’s on her side, facing me, and I maneuver my body so I’m mirroring her.
“What was your question?” I rest my head on my arm and try not to let the memories of the last time we were in this bed overshadow my time with her now.
But it’s hard. No, not hard. Let’s not think about hard things. No need for anything hard right now.
Jesus, get it together, Henry.
“I asked what else you do. You iron, so I’m assuming that means you do laundry, and it’s clear that you clean. You keep your apartment tidy, you said.”
“You say it like this is some kind of novel idea. I do do laundry, but doesn’t everyone? It’s a basic thing.”
Eyebrows raised, she starts to say something, then stops, shakes her head, and laughs. “I hate to break the news, but I’ve dated plenty of guys, and have plenty of guy cousins, who barely know how to turn a washer or dryer on.”
Now it’s my turn to be confused. “Were they never taught?”
“Oh no, they were. I’ve asked. As far as I can tell, they just didn’t care to actually learn.”
“What do they do?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, they clearly have to wash their clothes, so what do they do to get them clean?”
“Oh, well, some of my cousins still take their laundry home, and my aunts will do it for them. Or they have girlfriends who do. One of my exes dry-cleaned everything because he couldn’t be bothered even though he had a top-of-the-line washer and dryer in his apartment.”
“That’s—dry cleaning is stupid expensive.” I’m sure my face does something funny as I try to do the mental math to calculate what kind of bill that would be for me. I do laundry a lot with the line of work I’m in. So much so that at a certain point, I insisted on paying for the water at my apartment. It took some convincing, and the house had to be metered by the company so Hank and Betty could make sure that I was paying my portion and they were paying theirs, but I made sure of it.
My exasperation pulls a smile from her. “It is. He could afford it.”
I balk at the casual way she just said that she’s used to dating men with “fuck you” money. More money than I’ll probably ever see in my life.
“Better him than me.”
“I’m impressed, honestly. Maybe it shouldn’t be surprising, but you seem so much more mature than any guy I’ve been with or my cousins. Well, not all of them, but enough. And you’re younger than me. It’s just…refreshing.” Her comment sounds honest, and it fills me with a warm, comforting feeling.
I like that she sees me that way. “Well, thanks, I appreciate that. I absolutely do not speak for all men, but there are some of us out here who aren’t certified man babies.”
The comment makes her laugh. “So, what else? Do you cook? Save puppies?”
“I can cook. Nothing fancy, but I get by. I bake too.”
“Wha—what do you bake?” Her wide eyes and deeply creased forehead have me seriously wondering what kind of guys she’s used to out in Boston. Are they all just roaming around, not knowing how to live?
“I bake all kinds of stuff. I’ve been on a big croissant kick lately. My mom was always baking when we were kids, and I was her little shadow, so I picked up a lot. She’s an amazing cook, but I always gravitated to sweets. Probably because I couldn’t have as many as I wanted.”
“Diabetes?”
“Yeah, I was diagnosed pretty young, at five. My mom didn’t let my siblings go nuts with pastries or sweets either, now that I think about it. I guess it just felt like it since I had to pay so much more attention.”
“That makes sense. I’ll readily admit that I am a mediocre chef at best and a downright awful baker.”
“If I were trying to pick you up, I might say something like ‘you’re sweet enough on your own.’”
Matching my grin, she shifts slightly, bringing her body closer to mine. “Are you not trying to pick me up?”
There’s a subtle but obvious shift in the atmosphere around us at her question. The air thickens to the point that it’s almost hard to breathe. It’s suddenly too warm and yet my body strains to move closer, to be closer to her.
“Do you want me to be trying, Gia?”
The question is for me, mostly, because why would she even ask that if she didn’t want me to? Why even entertain it? But again, with her, I need explicit confirmation before I do anything else.
So I wait. And for a moment she doesn’t say anything, but I watch as her lips curl into a smile that promises sin and passion and everything else I could possibly crave with her.
And fuck if I don’t smile back the exact same way.