26. Henry and Charlotte
Cold blasted from the air-conditioner as Henry locked the door behind them, quieting the strains of the Coldwater Creek Band serenading them from Main Street.
Butterflies awakened in Charlotte’s stomach when he turned to her, his face bathed by the moonlight filtering in from the windows.
Drawing a deep breath, Charlotte gazed around her in awe. “Where are we?”
From Flower Power, with her hand clasped tightly in his, Henry had led them to the auto shop, but they didn’t go in; instead, they followed the stone path surrounding it to the back.
Passing by the lilac bushes he’d planted the year after purchasing the shop, he paused just briefly before they crossed the yard.
Rarely had anyone but him been inside, and his hand shook unlocking the door to the sanctuary he sought away from the shop.
After turning the lights on low, he explained, “My coffee shed, or, as the guys in the shop call it, my java hut. I roast the beans over there.” He pointed to the south corner.
He held his breath, watching her expression, needing her to understand the significance of this place, where he drew a line between his life as a mechanic and his passion for coffee, spending time in the shed either before or after shop hours.
On the off chance someone dropped by, he welcomed them, but they respected the quiet solace he sought when he was roasting his beans.
Astonished, Charlotte gave a slight laugh.
“I think you’re downplaying the word ‘shed’, Henry.
This is the size of the garage at my house.
” Tucked into the back of the property, she had wondered where he was taking them when they left the dance, left Main Street with their blood thickened with need for each other.
Now here they were, alone, no one else around for the entire city block, since the shop building was the only business on the block.
Surrounded by trees at the property line, she’d never noticed this structure from the street.
The interior resembled a wood cabin, with cast-iron pans hanging along the walls, suspended from hooks in the ceiling. “What are those?”
“Antique coffee roasters that people, mostly my siblings, have picked up at flea markets or auctions.” Keeping his eyes on her, he tried to gauge her reaction.
Did she think he was obsessed, as so many had when he had begun shutting himself away to roast coffee beans?
Everyone had already thought that he’d spent too much time alone after Josh went to New York and that he didn’t need an activity that isolated him even more.
“I only use those for small batches when I’m experimenting with flavors. The one I mainly use is over there.”
In the faint light, a copper roaster gleamed to her left.
As with everything she was coming to understand about Henry, his coffee shed was meticulous, and she spied a loveseat along the far wall under a large window which framed trees swaying in the light breeze.
Canisters of coffee beans lined a counter to her right, and above that hung a rack with small jars.
At the end of the counter stood a farmhouse sink situated below another large window lending a view of the yard and shop.
From this vantage point, she discerned that the shop actually comprised two separate buildings that had been joined at some point.
The actual auto garage was one building, and Henry’s office was the other, with, to her amazement, another floor above it, set back from the front.
“I didn’t realize you had a floor above your office, Henry. ”
“Oh, yeah, few people do. I’ve thought about renting it out, but it’s not that big.
I just use it as storage for some paperwork from the shop and other stuff that got put up there after Josh and I moved here.
” Henry hadn’t been up on the second floor in years.
When Cait was looking for an office in town, he had considered cleaning the space out so she could use it, but hadn’t been ready to face some items he might find, particularly any that maybe still belonged to his ex-wife.
Ugh, he thought. Melanie. She’d texted him again, before he’d gone to the dance, this time claiming whatever she had to tell him was “urgent”.
Just as his thumbs had hovered over the keyboard on his phone, an incoming call showed Melanie’s number flashing on the screen.
At that point, he silenced his phone and headed to the dance.
Pushing his ex out of his mind, he offered, “Would you like something to drink? Water? Or I might have some pop,” he offered, pointing to a small fridge under the counter next to the sink.
Why was he offering beverages when all he wanted was to swoop her back into his arms?
Frustrated with himself, he rolled up his shirt sleeves, hoping to cool down.
Tongue-tied, with nerves preventing her from answering, she willed him to take her in his arms again.
Part of her hotly anticipated his body against hers, but part of her was terrified that he would touch her in the ways she craved.
How would she compare to the other women he’d been with, positive that even if he hadn’t “dated”, that didn’t mean he’d lived a life of celibacy?
He was a man with whom women could connect and trust. She couldn’t have been the only one lit aflame under the stare of a fierce desire he had to have released over the years.
Was that what this could be, just a release for both of them?
Or could it be something more? Was either of them ready for that?
Was she? Did she need whatever was between them to have a label?
Would they be lovers? Friends? Could Henry, with his quiet intensity and tender heart, be a friends-with-benefits kind of man?
Could she be that kind of woman? Shivering under the weight of her thoughts, she folded her arms in front of her.
His own throat dried as her creamy skin caught the rays of the moon cascading in from the windows.
“Are you cold? I can turn the air conditioner down.” Because the beans needed to keep cool, he kept the temperature in the shed between sixty-five and seventy during the warmer months.
One of her hair sticks shifted, causing her knot of shining brown locks to tilt slightly, and his body responded immediately.
“No, sorry, it feels nice in here. It’s so hot out.” Charlotte hesitated. “Maybe…what about…your coffee?” As he widened his eyes in surprise, her heart skipped a beat. “To drink, I mean.” Or two.
“You want me to brew some coffee?” Breathing in deeply, the rich aroma of coffee beans permeating the air calmed his fidgeting nerves, as he hoped.
“Why not? It seems appropriate here in your java hut. I can experience your magic firsthand.” Unintentionally, her voice deepened, and Henry’s ocean eyes promised to swallow her whole.
And heaven help her, she was ready. “I’ve never known anyone who roasts their own beans.
I’ve been so intrigued by that since you told me. Remember?”
He did, perfectly; it was the second time she had been in his shop.
She’d been wearing a pair of jeans and one of those cardigans, a rich, forest green color that complemented her earthy eyes.
“You thought it smelled better in my office than it did at Mr. Beans.” Her smile made his knees weak, while her dimples could convince him to do anything for her.
Filling a pot with water, he poured it into the coffee machine next to the sink.
“So tell me about this place. Is it one of those pre-built sheds I see at the hardware store?”
“I built it,” he told her, with more pride than the declaration probably deserved.
“Excuse me…what?” Her eyes glinted behind her glasses.
“After Josh went off to college, I was looking for a way to fill my spare time. I’d always loved coffee, but if it’s too roasted, I get heartburn.” He shook his head. “I know—ridiculous, right?”
“Not at all. I feel the same. It’s why I love Mr. Beans so much.”
“So at the state fair that year, there was a coffee booth from Belle Fourche roasting their own beans, and the coffee was smooth, milder than I’d ever had.
No side effects for me at all. Went back the next day and asked them about it.
She told me that by roasting your own beans, you control the quality.
A passion was born.” He reached down into a small fridge under the counter for a carton of half and half, setting it next to the coffeemaker.
“Can I let you in on a secret?” Henry leaned his hip against the table in the center of the room, where he sorted through shipments or took inventory of his coffee supplies on his laptop.
“I supply the flavored coffee for Mr. Beans.”
“No way! You mean now I can come straight to the source if I need anything?”
Blue eyes stared into brown ones, and without a doubt, hoped she would come to him for anything. “You already inspired one of my flavors. I’m brewing it now.” It had been almost two full years since her suggestion. Would she remember? Recognize the flavor?
Sniffing the air, she squealed with delight. “S’mores?” At his nod, she asked, “You made S’mores coffee? For me?” Stunned, Charlotte wasn’t sure how to respond. Of course she hadn’t forgotten suggesting the flavor to him on her second visit to his shop, but she’d never expected him to remember.