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I reach up and touch his jaw without thinking. I regret it the second I do, but I feel trapped—committed, really—to forging ahead, because snatching my hand back will make this even more of a thing. “How long does it take for you to grow a scruff?”
I run my finger lightly along the sharp angle of his jaw, like I’m the scruff inspector.Why am I being such a weirdo?!I just have to act like this is no big deal, so I make sure my face wears the same expression as when I’m trying to measure the perfect lumber cut for a customer.
He reaches up and takes my hand, pulling it down, but softly, turning it over to study my palm. I’m self-conscious about them; I wear gloves when I work, but they still show calluses. He runs the pad of his thumb over them, a touch lighter than a breeze, but it tickles my whole body the way it does when a soft wind catches the long tendrils at the nape of my neck.
I slide my hand from his and tuck it in my back pocket, casually, like that’s what I meant to do with it all along.
He looks at me like he’s forgotten what we’re talking about.
“Scruff?” I remind him.
He rubs his hand along his smooth jaw. “Probably five days, give or take.”
“About as long as it takes my leg hair.” And then I have to fight hard not to squeeze my eyes shut because why did I just say that? No one—especially not my neighbor—needs to know how long it takes to grow my leg hair.
His face now looks like he’s switched from anthropologist to biologist, and I’m a bug under his microscope. A weird bug.
I forge ahead. “Do you do a university Christmas party?”
“By college, yes.”
“And when?”
“After grades are due, so the Friday before Christmas.”
“Okay, so you need to start working on your scruff about two weeks before that. I’ll tell you when it’s the right length and then you just maintain it from there.”
“I . . .what?”
“You have to start making some changes now, gradual ones that she’ll notice. Is this party formal or casual?”
“Business dressy, I think.” He looks uncertain. “Is that a type of dress code? I was planning on my nicest slacks and Oxford.”
This guy. Who even calls button-down shirts Oxfords anymore? Henry Hill, PhD, apparently. “You will definitely not be wearing those. Your assignment in the next two weeks is to buy a pair of gray trousers, not chinos, in a medium to light shade, and a black button-down shirt.” I run my gaze over him, imagining the body I glimpsed in his running clothes freed from the bondage of frumpiness. Or I do until my cheeks grow warm at the picture in my mind’s eye.
This is getting ridiculous.
I retreat down the stairs, then add over my shoulder, “I’ll also need to investigate your shoe situation before then.”
“You’re very strange,” he calls after me.
I give him a thumbs up because . . . I don’t know why. Because I agree, and I don’t want to slow down long enough to acknowledge that he’s right.Thumbs up, yes, I’m a total weirdo. At least right now.
And then I speed walk across my yard and make my escape.
Chapter Nineteen
Henry
IwalkovertoMulberry Street and scan the house numbers until I find the Winters residence halfway down. The driveway is full, so it’s for the best I live close enough to walk.
I didn’t see Paige at all yesterday; the only evidence she was even home was the house lights flipping on after 8:00. She’s been keeping the Christmas lights off, whether to avoid fuse problems or for other reasons, I’m not sure.
That’s a relief. I may have come to find the Redmonds less annoying—kind of enjoy them, even—but I still hate their gaudy yard. It truly doesn’t fit on Orchard, and the less I have to live next to the neon North Pole, the happier I’ll be, even if today is the last day of aesthetic peace and quiet.
I walk to the front door. There are only seven adults and Evie, but I can hear the hum of conversation, punctuated by high laughs and . . . was that a grunt? I haven’t even knocked, and this is already a much different Thanksgiving than I normally share with my parents.
They’d invited me to join them as usual for their country club Thanksgiving feast, but even before Mrs. Winters had invited me over, I’d already turned my parents down. That’s partially why I’d driven up a couple of weekends ago: to spend time with them so they wouldn’t mind me skipping Thanksgiving.
