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Last night’s sleep was restless, my mind toiling as I drifted in and out of consciousness, my insecurities feeding on baseless worries and my dreams painting terrible scenes—of Henry’ssmoking hot teacherand the mother of his child invading our lives.
Of Henry rethinking his future with me.
“They’re still in Philadelphia.” He disappears into the closet, and I hear the towel flop to the floor. My blood stirs with a mental image of Henry’s perfect naked form.
Now is not the time for those thoughts. I pull myself up to a sitting position, searching for the will to get out of bed. “How did Violet get here from Philly?”
“Train, I imagine. Unless she stole a car. With that kid’s attitude, I wouldn’t be shocked.” A moment later, Henry emerges with pants on.
I admire his torso as he tugs a black sweater over his head. “What are you going to do?”
“There’s only one thing to do. Talk to Audrey.”
The version of Henry I know well is back—calm, take charge, unruffled. “And you’re sure Violet is yours?” I ask, though I already know the answer to that. I saw it in her face.
“Yes, she’s mine. My father insisted on a paternity test as part of the contract. He probably gave them my toothbrush as a sample.”
“Of course he did.” If William wanted the test and didn’t want Henry to know, then the test would run and Henry wouldn’t be the wiser.
“It doesn’t matter what my father did or didn’t do in the past. He’s gone and I’m here, and I have a child I now know about. I can’t ignore that, even if I might want to.” Henry collects his wallet and watch from the dresser. “I’ll be back later.”
“Wait, you’re goingnow?” I check the bedside clock. It’s a quarter to ten on a Sunday morning.
“It’ll be noon by the time I get there.”
“Right.” Of course, he wouldn’t waste time. This is Henry, after all. But a twinge of worry pricks me. Henry is running out the door to meet the mother of his child, his horny teenage conquest.
And he’s doing it without me.
No, he’s not.
“Give me fifteen minutes to get ready.”
His jaw tenses. “I think it’s best if—”
“I’m coming with you, Henry. Don’t you dare try to tell me otherwise.” I force as much confidence in my voice as I can muster, sliding out of bed.
He tracks my body—clad in a tank top and panties—as I stroll past him into the closet.
But he doesn’t argue.
In fact, from the corner of my eye, I think I catch a smile.
* * *
My face blanchesas I read the email. “Zaheera is recommending a first batch run offive thousandsoaps for mid-November.”
“It’s a small start,” Henry says, his focus on the business section of the newspaper.
“Asmallstart?” I gape at him. “I haven’t sold that many bars in all my years of making soap, combined.”
“And I’m sure you’ll be sold out in under a day. They would have run the numbers. They know what they’re doing. Trust them.”
“I do. Of course I do. This marketing campaign they’re going out with is insane.” I flip through the presentation deck, filled with taglines and graphics, and Farm Girl Soap product reviews they’ve collected from Margo and her high-society friends, as well as a list of influencers they’re targeting.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Nothing. I’m nervous.” What if everyone is wrong? What if they think too highly of my product? Of me?
