AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Maybe. But I am not the one who sat me right in Henry’s lap, his muscular thighs around me, his hard chest against my back, his soft breath riffling my hair while he listened.
I definitely didn’t imagine all that.
What does it mean? That’s what I don’t know.
I’m afraid I know what Iwantit to mean.
I want it to mean that I’m a bright part of Henry’s day. That it’s not my imagination when I sense him checking me out when I’m walking away. That his touches were about comfort but also about wanting.
In so many ways, Henry might as well be as old as Ebenezer Scrooge himself. His stodgy wardrobe. His formal vocabulary. His old man documentary habits.
But his new, dark scruff gives his staid, preppy look a sexy edge that makes him seem his actual age and not forty-something. Dad vibes? Gone.
Sitting there, talking, I was hyperaware of how wholly he concentrates on things—in this case, me. His intense stare as he listened made me feel like he was taking in every part of me, seeing me as a whole, inside and out.
I don’t know how I missed what a good listener he is too. I think of professors as blowhards. People who like to hear themselves talk. That’s not Henry. Maybe it’s his field that makes him such an engaged observer, but he seems far more interested in everyone around him than he does in hearing his own opinions.
It’s slightly addictive.
I realize as only a recovering addict can thatHenryis addictive. His smell. The broad line of his shoulders. The lean lines of his body. I would give up every Christmas present for the next five years to see that man in a pair of shorts just once.
Or not. It might cause me to spontaneously combust.
This has to be because I’m man-starved. How else could this come out of nowhere?
Except . . . it hasn’t. Not really. These observations have been building on each other for weeks as I see new facets of him. It was just the surprise of his touch that’s forced it into hyperfocus.
IlikeHenry Hill as aperson.
IwantHenry Hill as aman.
Oh, this is bad.
He and I don’t make sense. We’re too different. And what happens when we inevitably break up?Eviegets hurt. Henry needs to continue to be a benign and kindly presence in her life, just like he’s been almost from the beginning.
Besides, I could be reading him totally wrong. Henry may feel nothing toward me but friendly affection. He’s obviously still growing his beard for Leigh the Office Goddess or whatever she is.
I stress about this all the way through a viewing of the Jim CarreyGrinch, a movie I usually love to dissect for the way its set would work far better as a theater piece than a movie. I barely even notice.
Evie insists on putting the finishing touches on her next gift for Henry, the Christmas coloring page that she chose specifically because it had no Santa or reindeer in it, since I told her those things made him sad. Instead, she’s colored a woodland scene of evergreens, but decorated each with a different theme, adding butterflies to one, cats to another. It’s color chaos and so Evie.
She sleeps well and seems practically her usual self in the morning, cheerfully clambering up to Henry’s porch to leave her picture, then chattering beside me as she holds my hand on the short walk to school. There’s no skipping; that’s the only sign that she’s still a touch fatigued.
I drop her off and head straight for the store. Luckily, I’d employed an old theater trick for the window display when I set it up; the backdrop is two-sided. On one, the black and white drawing. On the other, the full color version. It’s segmented into twelve-inch panels so I can flip each one around, which I do as soon as the street is clear of pedestrians, so I don’t ruin the illusion.
From inside the store, the back of the set has a false cover, a cheerful green and red sign encouraging shoppers to “Let Handy’s Help Your Holiday!” with simple line paintings of items we carry.
The customer flow is normal for a Monday, but it feels more hectic than usual because I have three days of back office work to catch up on. I leave tired and not quite caught up, but it feels better than missing another day of work.
Bill came in after lunch to work until closing, and our vibe is slightly off, but I can’t put my finger on it. He acts the same as usual, but a couple of times I catch him studying me with a puzzled, even slightly sad expression before he moves on with whatever he’s doing.
All in all, I’m glad to fetch an extra-tired Evie from daycare and take our short walk home.
We’re turning up our walkway when she perks up slightly. “I’ll turn on the lights.”
I squeeze her hand and clear my throat, not sure I’ve found the right way to approach this, but I can’t avoid it anymore. “Evie, about the lights—”
“Hello, Evie.”
