“That must have been nice.”
“It was nice,” I said, “but being home for the holidays is better.”
He nodded, and I realized I had no idea where home was for him.
“Where did you grow up?” I asked, bringing my cup to my lips.
“On a farm in Iowa.”
“Really?” For some reason, it made me smile, picturing him as an Iowa farm boy.
He looked amused. “Does that surprise you?”
“Kind of. And I don’t know why it should—you’re still kind of a farmer.”
“Oh, I’m definitely still a farmer.”
“Is your family still in Iowa?”
He sipped his coffee before answering. “No. My brothers are spread around the country—one in Indianapolis, one in Fargo, one in Seattle—and my parents are both gone. I’ve got some cousins there, but I don’t see them too often.”
“Does the farm where you grew up still exist?”
“It does, but my dad sold it, and it was incorporated into a large-scale operation.”
“Why’d he sell it? I mean, why not give it to you?”
“I was still in college at the time, and I wasn’t really interested in farming corn and soybeans anyway. Actually, I wasn’t interested in farming at all. I thought I’d major in biology and go on to medical school.”
Intrigued, I tilted my head. “What made you change your mind about medical school?”
“I took a viticulture class at Cornell and fell in love with it, much to my mother’s dismay. I think she’d quite looked forward to bragging about her doctor son.”
I grinned. “Any regrets?”
“None. What I do still involves a lot of science, and I much prefer wine to people. Well, most people.”
“Me too. Sometimes I wonder if I was more tolerant of jerks when I was younger, or if there are simply more jerks around now.” I sighed. “Or maybe I just attract them.”
Henry smiled kindly. “I don’t know about that.”
“I’m telling you, Henry, I can’t name one single person in my life—that I’m not related to—who supported me like I’d have supported a friend in my situation. And I trusted them. I thought they cared about me. I must be the world’s worst judge of character.” I shook my head. “Well, duh. Look who I married.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Henry said quietly, the logs on the fire snapping softly. “You see the good in people. That’s a nice quality.”
“I guess. I feel so stupid, though.” I set my mug on the end table and wrapped my arms around my knees. “Everyone knew Brett was cheating on me—even I knew it. But we all pretended we didn’t.”
“Why?”
“My so-called friends claim they didn’t want to upset me. And why did I pretend?” I felt my throat catch and hoped I wouldn’t embarrass myself by crying in front of Henry. I didn’t even know why I was telling him this stuff, but something about the warmth of the fire, the late hour, and the silent house seemed to invite confession. “I guess I was scared. I didn’t want him to leave me. I didn’t want to be single with two kids at thirty-seven. I didn’t want my kids to grow up in a broken home. So I pretended to be happy.”
“That had to be really hard.”
“It was.” I hesitated before asking the next question, but some gut instinct told me to ask it. Maybe he wanted to confess too. “Did you pretend to be happy?”
Henry stared into his cup without saying anything. For a second, I was scared my gut had been off and it was too personal a question for him to answer. He’d told me last night he was a private person, hadn’t he?
I backtracked. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry into—”
“I’m not good at pretending,” he said, interrupting me. “With me, what you see is what you get, and I won’t lie. Maybe that was my problem.”
I rested my chin on my knees. “How so?”
He tilted his coffee this way and that. “We couldn’t have kids, and she wouldn’t adopt. I wasn’t going to tell her that was okay with me. I was angry at her for that. I wanted a family. We argued, and I’m sure I said things I shouldn’t have.”
“I’m sorry.” I thought about telling him I understood because I’d faced infertility too, but decided against it. This wasn’t about me.
He shrugged. “There were other issues too.”
“Of course. Any marriage has its problems.”
“But not being able to have kids really changed us, and it fractured the relationship beyond repair.”
“Did you try counseling?” I asked.
He nodded slowly. “We did. But I think it was too late by then.”
“Brett refused to try counseling, although I’m not sure it would have helped us either. His girlfriend was already pregnant—not that I knew it then.”
Henry’s jaw dropped, then he pressed his lips together and shook his head. “You deserve a lot better, Sylvia.”
We were both silent for a moment.
“How long were you married?” I asked.
“Ten years.”
“Do you miss her?”
Exhaling, he sat back, staring into the fireplace. “I don’t know. I don’t miss the fights or the tension. I guess I miss some things about being married, but I sure as hell wouldn’t go back to the marriage I had, not the one I had in the end, anyway.”
“Same,” I said. “There are things I miss too, but I don’t miss him. It’s more like I miss the life I thought I had, if that makes any sense. Or the life I thought I would have. But can you miss something you never had in the first place?”
“I think you can.” He looked down at his coffee again. “I know I do.”
My throat tightened up. What was the right thing to say here? I didn’t like it when people said, Oh, you’re still young and beautiful, you’ll meet someone else, because to me it was dismissive and insensitive, so I didn’t want to say it to Henry. But I didn’t want him to give up on his dreams of fatherhood either. He’d be such a great dad. “Have you thought about adopting a child on your own?”
“No. I don’t even know if a single man can adopt, and I don’t really want to be a single parent anyway.” He looked up, his expression contrite. “Sorry—I know you’re in that position right now.”
“Not by choice, believe me. So I understand.” I took a breath. “Sometimes I want to kick myself for feeling so complacent. I thought I had everything figured out, you know? I mean, by the time you get to this age, aren’t you supposed to? And now . . . here I am starting over again.”
Henry studied me for a moment. “I think it’s really brave, what you’re doing.”
“Thanks, but I don’t feel brave. I just feel . . . broken.”
“You’re not broken, Sylvia.” His voice was firm.
“No?”
He slowly shook his head. “No.”
My heart skipped a beat. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to thank him for listening to me and talking openly about himself. I wanted him to set his coffee cup down, move closer to me, put his hands in my hair.
Was he thinking about it too?
“I should go,” he said, rising to his feet.
Reluctantly unfolding my legs, I stood up too. “Here, I’ll take your cup.”
He handed it to me, and our fingers touched, sending a hot little current buzzing up my arm, which then shot directly between my legs. Immediately—and I swear to God, I have never done this before—I looked at his crotch. His crotch! What the hell was wrong with me?
Quickly I turned around and headed for the kitchen.
“Thanks again for inviting me,” he said, following behind.
“Thanks for coming.” I set our cups in the sink, nervous to turn around and face him because he’d see how flushed I was. Had he seen me looking at his zipper? I tried to make my voice sound normal. “You’ll be here tomorrow night, right?”
“I was planning on it.”
“Good.” Forcing a smile, I turned around and hoped my face wasn’t
as red as it felt. “Let me get your coat.” I had to pass him in order to reach the front hall, but I was careful not to brush against him. I wasn’t sure I could handle it.
From the closet, I pulled his wool peacoat from a hanger and while he put it on, I took out the Carhartt I’d borrowed earlier. “Thanks for lending this to me.”
“No problem.” He buttoned his coat. “Don’t let me catch you outside without a coat again. You’re not in California anymore.”
I laughed nervously. “No.”
He pulled his gloves from his pocket and slipped them on, then he took the Carhartt from me, folding it over one arm. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
For a moment, we just stood there in the darkened hallway. Facing each other. Nearly chest to chest. The house was silent, but my heart was pounding like a jackhammer. I held my breath. Kiss me, I thought heedlessly. I don’t care if I’m ready or not, I just want to be kissed by you tonight. Held by you. Desired by you.
“Mom?” called a voice from the top of the stairs.
Henry and I sprang apart, although we hadn’t even been touching.
I moved to the landing and peered up at Whitney, who looked like a ghost in her white nightgown in the dark. “I’ll be up in a minute, Whit. Everything okay?”
“Yes. I just need some water.”
“I’ll bring you a glass. Go back to bed.”
She disappeared down the hallway, and I turned around to find Henry pulling open the front door.
“Goodnight,” he said, without looking back.
“Night.” I stayed put on the landing.
Only once he’d pulled the door shut behind him could I breathe again. After making sure the door was locked, I leaned back against it.
Holy shit.
Holy. Shit.
If Whitney hadn’t interrupted, would something have happened between Henry and me? Would we have kissed? Would we still be standing here in the dark, wrapped in an embrace?
I closed my eyes and imagined it. Chills swept over my skin. I placed a hand over my heart and felt it thumping hard. What would it be like to feel his beating against it?
Then I forced myself to stop being ridiculous, go get my daughter some water, and put myself to bed. It was late, and I was acting like a delusional teenager, not a responsible mother of two.
I could not have a crush on Henry. I could not kiss Henry. I shouldn’t even allow myself to fantasize about it.
But I did.
All. Night. Long.
Six
Henry
I got out of bed early Tuesday morning and went right to the gym, thankful as hell it was open for a few hours on Christmas Eve.
I needed to let off some steam.
And not the angry kind of steam I was used to letting off during a workout, not the kind that made me want to punch things and kick things and make my muscles suffer to take my mind off a deeper kind of pain—no. This was something else entirely.
This steam was tension. This steam was need. This steam was born of an attraction to Sylvia so fierce I could feel it in my bones. All day yesterday at work and all throughout a second sleepless night, I’d thought of nothing but her and the chance I’d blown to touch her the night before. Kiss her. Take her in my arms and make her feel good again. Make her forget that her asshole ex ever existed, even if it was just for a little while. Make her feel brave and beautiful and sexy—all the things I saw when I looked at her.
But did she want me to?
There were moments when I was pretty sure she did—I could see it in her eyes, sense it in her body language. But then it was almost like she caught herself thinking something naughty and shut it down.
And maybe it was just wishful thinking on my part. Maybe she was just being nice, staying up late with me, talking to me, trusting me with her feelings. After all, she was still pretty messed up over her divorce. She flat out told me she felt broken. Even if she didn’t appear at all that way to me, what kind of monster would I be if I took advantage of that?
In any other situation, I’d have made a move last night at the door. If she were anyone else. If the circumstances were different. Maybe even if it were a year from now, when our wounds weren’t still so raw.
Because I didn’t fully trust my motives either—sure, Sylvia was funny and sweet, she was a great listener, and I loved making her laugh, but I wasn’t up all night imagining jokes I could tell her.
I was up thinking about all the things I wanted to do to her.
Delicious things.
Dirty things.
Things that a woman like Sylvia—classy and refined Sylvia—had probably never even imagined.
Was I just too hard up for sex to see straight? Maybe this whole thing was one-sided, and I’d earn myself a great big kick in the nuts if I tried something with her.
But I could think of nothing I’d like more for Christmas than to make her come while she screamed my name.
I moaned as I pulled my truck into a parking space at the gym, my cock rock hard in my pants. Now I’d have to sit here until it went away, and who knew how long that would take?
I forced myself to think of unsexy things. Mold on the vines. Insects. Hormone tracking devices measuring peak fertile days. When I was positive I could walk in without embarrassing myself, I got out of the truck.
I needed to fucking sweat.
* * *
“Henry! You made it!”
Later that evening, Daphne Sawyer kissed my cheek and took my coat. Her husband shook my hand, clapping me on the back. “I hope the drive wasn’t too bad.”
“Not too bad. Looks great in here.” The lobby of the inn looked like an old Hollywood Christmas movie set—fire blazing in the huge stone fireplace, a massive evergreen in the corner decked out with so many lights and ornaments you could hardly see the branches, a hundred or so well-dressed people sitting in groups on the lobby couches and chairs, or standing in clusters near the tree, all holding a drink of some sort or balancing a plate of food on one hand.
“Thank you, darling.” Daphne patted my lapel. “You look wonderful. Go get yourself a drink. Bar’s open.”
I was heading in that direction when I spotted Sylvia.
My knees went weak. She wore a deep red strapless dress that clung to her curves like an apple skin. The front of her hair was pulled back off her face, and the rest fell in loose waves around her shoulders. Her lips were painted to match her dress. Normally, I didn’t like a lot of makeup, but I couldn’t take my eyes off her mouth from across the room. God, the things I wanted to do to that mouth.
Whiskey. Whiskey would help.
Since the party was already in full swing, I was able to slip through the crowd without her seeing me. But along the way, I was stopped several times by party guests I hadn’t seen since last year. Almost all of them asked me where Renee was, and their awkward I’m sorrys—or worse, the dead silences—when I told them we were now divorced were nearly enough to make me regret coming. Finally, I made it to the bar, where I ordered a High West Double Rye, neat. I was planning to take my drink and hide out in a dark corner for a while when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Hey, you.”
I turned around, feeling like the wind had been knocked out of me. She looked like an angel—albeit one who might be tempted to do bad things with those ruby lips. “Hey,” I said, my voice cracking. I cleared my throat.
Sylvia smiled seductively, her eyes traveling over my suit and tie. “You look fantastic.”
“Thanks. So do you.” But fantastic wasn’t even close to how delectable she looked—I wanted to lick her like a candy cane—but I tried to tamp down the thought. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Sure. I’d love a glass of wine. Maybe the sparkling white?”
“You got it.” I ordered it for her, and when it arrived, she picked it up and tapped her glass against mine. “Merry Christmas, Henry.”
“Merry Christmas.” I took a sip of whiskey
and watched her lift the wine to those sexy red lips. My dick stirred, fully prepared to deck her halls.
“So many people out there,” she said, setting her glass down on the bar and sliding onto a stool.
“Yeah.” I could smell her perfume. Jasmine. Almond. Cocoa. I nearly drooled. There were times having a sensitive nose didn’t make life easy.
“I didn’t even see you come in. My mom told me you were in here. Are you hiding out?”
“Kind of.”
She toyed with the edge of a cocktail napkin. “Are people asking about Renee?”
I nodded and took another drink. “What about you? People asking about Brett?”
“Yes.” She sighed. “But we were expecting it, right?”
“Right. How are the kids doing?”
“Pretty good, although they tried to call their dad earlier, and he didn’t answer and never returned their call. I think they were bummed about that.”
I drank again. It wasn’t fair that a fucking asshole like that got to have kids when he didn’t deserve them. And they were great kids too. Polite and friendly and good-natured, especially considering what they’d been through. It was a testament to Sylvia’s parenting that they were so well-adjusted.
“Anyway,” she went on, waving a hand in the air, “I don’t want to talk about that. But I did want to tell you that I had such a nice time last night, and I hope I didn’t talk your ear off.”
“Not at all.” I studied her hands for a moment, imagining those pale, graceful fingers wrapped around my cock.
“It’s been so long since I’ve had a heart-to-heart with a friend.”
Knock it off, asshole. She’s talking to you. She’s calling you her friend.
I forced myself to look her in the eye. “Same here.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I might have gone a little overboard with the sharing.”
“If you did, I did.”
She shook her head. “You didn’t at all. I was glad you told me those things. I mean, I’m so sorry you went through them, but I’m grateful you trusted me enough to talk about them. It made me feel less alone, like I’m not the only one still making mistakes and tripping on the path to wherever it is I’m going.”
Unbreakable Page 6