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It was five o’clock somewhere, right? Not that he really cared. As miserable as he was feeling, he didn’t need a time of day as a prerequisite to start throwing back the good stuff…the liquid eraser. But as he checked out the label on the bottle, he realized that that wasn’t what he had on hand. He had the cheap stuff, and he was reluctant to add that to the tequila he’d finished off the night before.
Fuck. Henri slumped down and let his eyes wander around the room. It was amazing how a single day and night had totally changed how he felt about this place.
He used to love the loft, could actually imagine settling down there—which was insane, but that was where he’d finally arrived in his mind when it came to this place, when it came to Chicago.
With Victor and Jimmy now out of the picture and Bailey firmly in it, Henri had allowed himself a moment where he imagined living there permanently. He’d imagined settling down, establishing roots, and even making friends. He’d even thought about going out with Priest, Julien, and Robbie, and being nervous about meeting Bailey’s family.
But as he sat there now, looking at his empty shelves, Henri realized that that had all just been a dream, a moment he might look back on one day, think about what could’ve been—but for now it was just a painful delusion that he wanted to forget about in any way possible.
Henri got to his feet, grabbed the bottle of bourbon just in case he changed his mind, and headed through to his small study. Maybe he’d feel better sleeping in there? It was, after all, the one place Bailey hadn’t set foot in.
Just as he was about to head in and try to get comfortable on the futon, Henri’s intercom buzzed. The last thing he wanted to do was deal with people. But just as he was about to ignore it and head into the study anyway, the intercom buzzed again.
Oh for fuck’s sake. With the bottle in hand, Henri marched over to his front door and picked up the receiver.
“Who is it?” he barked.
“Ask me up, Henri.”
Henri stared at the wall in front of him and could barely believe his own ears.
“Henri? Ask me up.”
Henri cradled the receiver between his ear and shoulder and pressed the button, and when the line went dead and he realized his hand was shaking, he quickly hung up.
Shit, what was Bailey doing there? He hadn’t called, hadn’t texted, hadn’t given any indication he was going to show up on Henri’s doorstep at eleven o’clock on Monday morning.
Maybe this is it? Maybe Bailey’s here to arrest me?
It wasn’t that much of a stretch. Just because Bailey had said he understood why Henri did what he did, it didn’t mean he would let it go without punishment.
Henri looked down at his crumpled sweatshirt and jeans and knew there was nothing he could do to make himself look any better—but he could get rid of the alcohol. He quickly put the bottle on his computer desk, and just as he was coming back out to the hall, there was a firm knock on his door.
Unsure if he was about to open his door to Bailey or half of Chicago PD, Henri braced himself, ready to deal with whatever fate waited for him on the other side.
BAILEY HAD NEVER been more nervous in his life as he stood in Henri’s elevator, traveling the three floors up. He’d had no idea when he got in his car this morning whether Henri would be there when he arrived. But when he heard the familiar voice through the intercom, Bailey hadn’t been able to stop his wildly beating heart.
The entire drive over there, Bailey had been trying to decide what he wanted to say. But as he stepped off the elevator and headed down the hall toward Henri’s place, he realized he still had nothing.
What he was about to do next was going to change both of their lives.
Bailey stopped outside Henri’s door and told himself for the millionth time he was doing the right thing, then he raised his hand and knocked. As he stood there and waited, he swallowed around the lump in his throat.
Henri pulled open the door. Bailey took in a deep breath, the sight of Henri standing only feet away from him almost enough to knock him on his ass. It felt like it had been months, years since he’d last seen Henri, and as Bailey soaked in the picture—the messy hair, the dark stubble and crumpled clothes—Bailey thought Henri had never looked more devastating.
Henri looked over Bailey’s shoulder and then scanned the hall, and for a second Bailey wondered what Henri was looking for—but then he understood.
“It’s just me,” Bailey said, and Henri took a step back and moved aside. As Bailey walked inside, Henri’s cologne wrapped around him, and he closed his eyes, remembering the first time they’d met. He’d run full force into this man, and Henri had been knocking him off his feet ever since.
