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Open blue sky soars above us and massive pillars of concrete surround us, stretching upward. Chains with links bigger than my head are coiled in piles, and there are stacks of wood and massive metal things like strange Legos.
I stroll to the far side, near a squared-off column. There’s a brightly spray-painted scribble on the concrete surface. Not from the 1970s, but new. Everything up here is new. Raw.
I toe the orange scribble like it’s more fascinating than the royal babies of England, but really I need to be apart from him, because I’m reeling from the goodness of his arm on my shoulder. The forbiddenness of ever falling for him. Of thinking he’s falling for me.
He comes up next to me.
I act like the operation of tracing the squiggle with my toe is of urgent importance. “Somebody went Jackson Pollack with the spray paint up here.”
“That’s actually a message. It’s there to show the electricians the alarm conduit placement.”
“How can you even read it?” I ask.
He kneels next to me, and his dark suit jacket stretches over his thick, solid arms as he points to different parts. “This is orientation. Right here is just a measurement. The fact that it’s orange means any kind of telecom, but this’ll be an alarm, of course.”
Of course, I think. Such a construction nerd.
I stand, biting back the urge to run my hands over his shoulders, to get in on the tautness of fine fabric over solid man muscles.
He twists and looks up at me, chin stubble glinting in the light. My heart is in my throat.
I force my gaze back to the scribbles. “The colors tell you?”
“Just like you see down on the street.”
“You’re all secretly communicating with each other?”
He stands. “Yellow’s natural gas. Red’s electric. Blue is water.”
His nearness affects me like a drug. My eyes fall to his lips, and I shiver.
“You cold?”
I’m not, but he’s taking off his jacket and putting it over my shoulders now, cocooning my arms, and I like it very much. I like how warm and soft it is. I like how he adjusts it so precisely, like he cares greatly for my comfort.
I tell myself the idea he cares about me is an illusion. Wishful, magical, ridiculous thinking.
Ancient people thought the stars formed pictures of archers and bears and gigantic spoons, but can we be honest for a moment? They’re just stars. They don’t form pictures, no matter how many stupid diagrams you make. Like the stupidest dot-to-dot puzzles ever.
That’s what I’m doing with Henry’s affection. Making pictures that aren’t there. Elaborate diagrams of him wanting me. But it feels so real.
He holds the lapels of the jacket snugly shut, his breath gusting warm on my forehead. “I’m so glad you could see this.”
His tender gaze sizzles over my skin. Like he’s really looking at me. And then he smiles.
His eyes sparkle. Uneven dimples appear. It’s his Henry smile. The real Henry smile.
I reach my hands out from my coat cocoon and grab his soft, warm shirtfront, pulling him to me.
I kiss him.
Boom. He deepens the kiss. My kiss was soft, but his is rough and wild. With his other hand, he cradles my cheek, fingertips trembling with energy where they touch my skin.
“Vicky,” he rumbles. He walks me backward into a massive concrete pillar.
My hard hat falls down over my eyes.
“No, no, no,” he rasps, yanking it clear off my head and tossing it over his shoulder.
