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“She noticed the scruff.”
She’d have to be dead not to.
“And I’ve been distracted, so I ignored her on accident, but it worked the way you said it would. Suddenly, she’s talking to me more. Asking me more questions. Taking it past chitchat.”
That twenty-first centurytart.
No, no, I lecture myself silently.Men aren’t scarce resources, and we don’t fight other women for them.
I still kind of hate her.
I stare at Henry as he talks, and the super senses keep firing. He smells so good. How did I not notice? And why had I ever thought he was average-looking? Shame on me for being so easily fooled by his V-neck sweaters. Henry is dead sexy and it’skillingme.
“Paige?” He’s looking at me strangely, and I make a split-second decision that I may live to regret, but I cannot, will not, talk myself out of it.
“Sounds like it’s going well.” I’d meant to strategize with him on his outfit for the faculty party, the next phase of his glow up. Then I was going to help him figure out how to ask her out for a date after he showed up looking like a snack.
But I throw all of that out the window in favor of a new plan. An insane plan. A plan I can’t talk myself out of.
Maybe it’s because it’s the end of a long day and I’ve given myself ideas with my slip of the tongue earlier. Maybe it’s because his shampoo or something smells amazing. Maybe it’s the memory of his warm body framing mine yesterday.
Maybe it’s that damn scruff.
Whatever it is, I can’t resist the pull of my Very Bad Idea.
I rest my arm on the back of the sofa and lean forward slightly. “Are you nervous?” I ask softly.
He gives me a startled look. “N-nervous? About what?”
“About all of this working. You’ve got to be ready.”
“For?”
“Anything.” I flutter my hand in a careless way. “Sudden changes in conversation. Or she could have strong ideas about where she’d like to go for your date. Are you ready to go with the flow?”
“Yes.” But he says it like he’s in a slight daze.
Or under a spell. My spell.
I scoot forward several inches. “Good. Because there are all kinds of possibilities. You need to be in the moment, flexible.”
He nods. “I can do that.”
“Can you, Henry? What if, for example . . .” I trail off, pretending to think.
“What if what?” His throat sounds a touch dry.
My long-buried wild and restless instincts take over, the ones that fling caution to the wind like a leaf in the December gusts that stir the yards along Orchard.
“What if it goes really well? Great conversation. Great dinner. Great vibe. And you get to the end of the night. You’ll walk her to her door like a gentleman, I assume?”
“Of course.”
“So?”
He raises his eyebrows, looking both confused and . . .
Spellbound.
