Page 51 of Second Chances

“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.

Mesmerized by the joy that made her eyes two enormous orbs and curved her plump lips into a smile, his fingers fell on her shoulder, where a coil of dark hair had enticed him since they’d entered the shed. Curling it around his forefinger, he lowered his voice. “For you.” Intent on not rushing anything, Henry reluctantly took a step back to the counter, plucking two cups from a cabinet. Pouring the half and half in first, he then added a spoonful of sugar to each cup, his gaze never wavering from Charlotte as she explored the shed. With faint chords from the band at the street dance filling the silent air, Charlotte went from one small barrel to the next. “If you rub the beans between your fingers, you release the oils.”

“Can I?” she turned to find Henry watching her. He nodded, so she touched the coffee beans on top, marveling at their slick texture and the subtle differences in each batch. Who was this magic man, she mused, building a structure to roast his own coffee? Surely, he must be the most modest man in existence. So diligent, so exacting, with the care he gave to his customers at the auto shop, to the time it must have taken to craft this shed, and the passion he had for creating his coffee blends. Essential oils, herbs, and spices lined the shelf above, labeled “peppermint”, “vanilla”, “cinnamon sticks”, and “orange peel”. Her eyes travelled from left to right, coming to an abrupt stop at Henry, his forearm braced on the shelf, his body leaning over hers.

Entranced by her presence here, in this space only ever occupied by him, he willed himself to take things slowly with her. “Like anything you see?” Her pink tongue darted out, and she licked the lips he had savored earlier. What would she taste like now? Henry pondered, and emboldened by the intimate space, he put his other hand on the shelf, so his arms bracketed her beautiful head. Without touching her, he lowered his head. Slowly, lightly, his lips met hers, brushing across them. Needing more of her mouth, he deepened the kiss cautiously. When Charlotte gave a breathy moan, he kissed her more firmly, but only just, until her hands gripped his shirt lapels.

Opening her mouth fully under his, she eagerly allowed him entry. Confined with Henry in the small space of his coffee shed, where his scent lingered throughout, where his size dominated hers, where his deep voice echoed, her body sang in response, and she had to have him. She felt a tug on her hair sticks, and then her hair fell onto her shoulders, tickling her collarbone. Shivering, she pulled him close. Her body flush with his, she felt him through her dress at the apex of her thighs. Henry’s large hands cupped and squeezed her bottom, lifting her to the table. Now her eyes were level with his, her hands framing his handsome face. Smoothing her palms over cheeks sprinkled with blond fuzz, she plunged her hands into his hair, bringing his face to hers. Lips, tongues, teeth met until Charlotte put a hand on his chest, whispering, “Wait.” Panting, she closed her eyes. “Henry, before…the last time we were together…I need you to know that I’m sorry for not explaining where my head was.” After a deep breath, she opened her eyes. His hands held her hips, restraint shining in the eyes studying her. “It’s just…I’ve never been with anyone but my ex, ever.” Henry smoothed a strand of hair from her glistening forehead. “I’m not…I’m not twenty anymore-”

His laughter rumbled beneath her hands. “Thank god.”

“Or any of the women you might be…used to…I just…I don’t want you to be disappointed. I’ve got stretch marks and cellulite and a belly-” His finger on her lips shushed her.

“Charlotte, you are gorgeous. Fucking phenomenal, excuse my language, and I have been under your spell from the first time I saw you, when I was sitting outside my shop. Even though you were across the street, I could tell there was something about you unlike any woman I’ve ever known. There’ve been some through the years, but nothing meaningful. I’m scared, too. Of how I feel when I’m with you, of how I feel when I’m not. Of my past getting in the way. More than anything, though, I feel something I haven’t for so long, and that’s hope.” With her hair falling all around her, Henry believed in angels, in goddesses, in magic, because she was all of the above. “If you want us to stop, say the word. I won’t do anything—” her finger on his mouth shushed him now.

“I want you, Henry.” Her hands on the back of his steamy neck, she lowered his head to hers, latching her mouth onto his. Methodically, she made her way from one snap to the next on his shirt until it gaped open. “These snaps have lived in my fantasies for months,” she confessed. Fingertips flickered across his chest, through downy hairs, following the trail until it disappeared into his waistband. “I’ve wanted you since that first day, too.” She scraped her fingernails across his stomach as she unbuckled his belt.

After nudging in between her thighs, he scooted her closer to him, while making sure she remained firmly on the table. Under the skirt of her dress, her legs pressed into either side of his hips. Needing a moment to catch his breath, to bask in the unbelievable luck of having this luscious, sensuous woman in his arms tonight, Henry lifted his lips from Charlotte’s very intoxicating mouth, touching his forehead to hers. With her chest rising and falling rapidly, Henry noticed a spot at the base of her throat where a bead of moisture stood and, intrigued, he slicked a thumb over her shoulder before dipping his head to taste her. At the same time, his other hand slowly descended on Charlotte’s knee, just where the hem of her dress stopped, and, compelled to discover if her thighs were as soft as her shoulders, he inched his fingers under her dress. Groaning into her neck as they found silky skin, the discovery made it impossible to keep his hand still, so it drifted higher until it could go no further. “Charlotte.” His breath hot in her ear, he cradled the back of her head with one hand, and he had no choice but to stroke her once, twice, three times until she chanted his name into his ear.

“Henry…Henry…Henry, I’m not…” Charlotte rambled incoherently. Having thrown her head back once his hand caressed her leg, the motion gave Henry increased access to her body, and she welcomed his conquering fingers. She was gone, drifting, her soul escaping, until his lips lowered above her breasts, and the fingers of his other hand unzipped her dress. Charlotte leaned back, curling her fingers into his shoulders—shoulders not bulky from lifting weights, but strong from tightening bolts and moving heavy bags of coffee. “I need you,” she implored, “Henry, please.” Then he was there with her, and what she experienced exceeded everything she thought was possible.

Almost Thirty-Seven Years Ago

As much as Melanie had done her damnedest to fit in for the past three years, she couldn’t find a place for herself with Henry’s family. Could she help it if everyone was jealous of her? That her tastes were more sophisticated than theirs? Take, for instance, dinner tonight, when Henry’s mom served something called coke awe van? What kind of name was that? And why was the chicken…purple?

“Chicken shouldn’t look like that,” she complained to Henry while surrounded by a tableful of Livingstons. What was with this family, always having dinner together? Growing up in Florida, she ate with her mama and sister, like, maybe once a week.

“It’s good, Melanie. Just try it. It’s one of my favorites!” Everything was her husband’s favorite, and that was part of her problem living back in his hometown. Even though his plans had busted apart, he seemed content to be here. Maybe he just hadn’t cared as much about his dreams as she had about hers? If she couldn’t convince him that Clover Lake was too small for them, he’d never leave.