by June Gray
“You’re really going to take me to watch you beat up on other people?”
“No,” he said with a grin. “You get to do some beating up of your own.”
With a resigned sigh, I walked into my room to get changed. Henry moved to the doorway and just leaned against the jamb with his arms crossed over his chest. “A-hem, I’d like to change,” I said.
“Go on. I’ll wait,” he said.
“I’ll Krav Maga all over your butt if you don’t get out,” I muttered, pushing him out of the room and locking the door. “I might just start beating up people right here.”
He chuckled on the other side of the door as I undressed. “I’ve seen you naked before, remember?” he asked. “I’ve seen your breasts fit snugly in the palm of my hands. I’ve seen that ass of yours turn red when I spank it.”
My face burned at his words. I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror and turned around to look at my butt, curious what shade of red he was talking about.
“And I’ve seen your inner thighs, when I run my tongue along the smooth skin all the way up to . . .” His words thinned out. He cleared his throat.
I pressed my head against the door, aching to hear more. But he said nothing. “Henry?” I asked.
“Get dressed, Elsie,” he said with a strained voice. “Or I’m going to break this door down and we’ll never make it to class.”
* * *
We made it to class on time. The drive over had been tension-filled, and I might have caught Henry adjusting his pants a few times but he didn’t breathe another word about naked body parts. He seemed to understand that I needed my space and he actually tried to respect my boundaries. Tried being the operative word as the man still took advantage of his uncanny ability to turn me on.
Henry had notified his instructor earlier that he would be bringing a guest along and they accommodated me by explaining the principles of the fighting style, then performed some basic maneuvers, moving at half speed for my sake. I practiced some elbow and knee strikes with Henry but I called it quits after a while, feeling guilty that I was keeping him from real training.
I sat on the sidelines, content to watch Henry and the others doing their thing. My eyes were fixed on him as he worked with a partner on punching combos, amazed at his fluidity and speed. He looked in his element as he punched and elbowed the hand pads, all the while bouncing on his toes. As they changed sides, he looked over to me and flashed a wide grin that I automatically returned.
After the class he took me back to his place, which was a one-story redbrick house with two bedrooms and a one-car garage. He parked the car in the driveway and entered the house through the garage, past the Harley, a lawnmower, and a small collection of tools.
“So thanks for taking me to a stinky gym for the first of three very important dates,” I teased as he led me inside. “There, amongst all of those sweaty, grunting men and women, I fell madly in love with you.”
He laughed in surprise. I grinned like a fool beside him, infected with his good mood. “I thought you might like to see what I’ve been working on the past year. And like I said, you kind of ruined my first-date plans.”
“What were they?”
“Now you’ll never know,” he said.
I puffed out my lower lip in a mock pout. “Aw, come on.”
“That’s the first and last time that’s going to work on me,” he said, flicking my lower lip as he grinned. “I was going to take you to a romantic dinner at the new Devon Tower, then maybe a horse-carriage ride through Bricktown. Or maybe a boat ride along the canal.”
I wasn’t successful in suppressing a snort.
“What?”
“Sorry, sorry,” I said quickly. “It’s just . . . too much.”
“Good thing I went with the sweaty, grunting plan then,” he said and disappeared down the hall, leaving me to stand in the living room by myself.
I looked around, noting that the interior had clearly not been updated since the eighties with its dark brown carpet and wood paneling. Henry had not decorated yet; picture frames were still leaning against the walls and boxes were still stacked, unopened.
I ventured down the hallway and peered into his bedroom, which looked very much the same as before, down to the same blue covers. I would have thought the new Henry would have at least bought new sheets to match his new life.
I was about to look into the second bedroom, hoping to see his paintings, when the bathroom door opened and he came out, rubbing his head with a towel.
“Did you just take a shower?” I asked, taking note of his fresh clothes. “While you had a guest waiting?”
He gave an impatient little sigh and beckoned me over. “Just get over here.”
I walked over, pretending I hadn’t just been caught snooping, and looked inside the bathroom. The lights were off, but the room was filled with the soft flickering of candles that ran along the sides of the filled bathtub. “Oh,” was all I could say.
“Is this too much?” he asked.
“No.” I walked inside, shaking my head. I turned around, nearly running into him. “But I don’t have a change of clothes.”
“You can borrow some of mine,” he said and motioned to a pile of folded clothes on the counter. “And before you start assuming, no, I won’t be joining you. This is just for you. I’ll be cooking dinner while you take a bath,” he said. He gave me a kiss on the cheek, smelling so fresh. “Enjoy.”
Okay, I had to admit that the bubble bath was a smooth move. I sighed when I slid into the warm water, not realizing until that moment that my body had been tense all afternoon. The truth was, even though I’d agreed to this challenge, I was still very much afraid. Every time Henry was near, I felt tight with worry that each moment we spent together would be the last, always looking out for signs that he was going to leave me again.
Then again wasn’t that the goal? The challenge was a chance for him to prove that he was trustworthy, that I could believe in him again. He was trying, at least. I had to give him points for that.
I closed my eyes, leaned back and tried to clear my head, but I could hear Henry moving around in the kitchen, clanging pots and various things around, putting him front and center in my thoughts.
True to his word, Henry left me alone during my bath, but several minutes later the noises in the kitchen stopped and I found I could no longer sit still. I jumped out of the tub and dressed in his clothes—a tan shirt and a pair of gray sweat pants—and practically ran out of the bathroom.
Henry, thankfully, was still in the house. He hadn’t run away.
I sat at the dining table just off the kitchen, watching him drain pasta noodles as I silently berated myself for being so silly. Of course he was still here. Did I really believe he was going to just ditch me in his own house?
Did I?
“That was quick,” he said, scooping the spaghetti into bowls. He placed them onto the table with a flourish and said, “Voila! Spaghetti a la Henry.”
I made a big production of sniffing the food. “Mmm. What is the secret ingredient, Chef?”
He winked. “Love.”
I snickered. “And cheese. Plenty of it.”
With a grin he sat down beside me and we began to eat, the atmosphere in the tiny dining room reminding me of much simpler times, back when a quiet attraction was the only thing between us.
* * *
We watched some television after dinner, but inevitably he had to take me back home.
“You can keep the clothes,” he said at my doorstep, giving me that sexy sliding look.
“Oh no, you’re not going to tell me I look good in your clothes, are you?” I asked. “You know, that clichéd thing that guys do?”
“No. I was going to say keep them until you wash them” he said. He pinched my cheek. “But you really do look cute in my clothes.”
> I laughed and gave him a light jab in the stomach.
He grasped my wrist, then brought my hand up to his lips. He wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me close. “Well, I’d better get going,” he said, sounding like he wanted to do anything but.
I wanted to invite him inside—at least, a part of me did—but it was too soon to let him jump with both feet into my life again, so I just stood on my tiptoes and pressed my forehead to his mouth. “Good night, Henry. Thank you for the strange date.”
I felt his lips forming a smile against my skin. “Are you in love with me yet?”
“Not yet.”
He didn’t look too bothered when he drew away. “I still have two more dates to win you over,” he said, wriggling two fingers at me.
“Good luck to you, Mr. Logan,” I said, giving him a very formal handshake.
He gave me a quick peck on the lips before pulling away. “Good night, Miss Sherman. I love you.”
2
SECOND DATE
The next morning I received an email from Rebecca detailing the new job description along with a link to the company’s website. I sat at my desk with a heavy ball of worry in my stomach, looking through photographs of the large, creative office space complete with a Zen garden and a rock-climbing wall. Shake Design was one of Denver’s most promising companies and boasted several large national clients, and according to their website, also treated their employees well. The benefits package that Rebecca had attached was proof enough.
Shake Design was offering me a huge opportunity—a job that would allow me to direct while still getting my hands dirty with design. To top it off, I’d always wanted to live in Colorado. It was, in a nutshell, the offer of a lifetime and only a fool would refuse.
But then again, when it came to matters of the heart, I haven’t always done the smart thing.
Henry was waiting for me in the parking lot when I got off work that Wednesday afternoon. He was seated casually on his motorcycle, his helmet in his lap, looking like an ultra-sexy magazine ad for Harley-Davidson.
His face lit up when he saw me approach. “Hi.”
I placed my purse inside one of the saddlebags and settled in behind him, feeling heat emanating through his jacket. I squirmed when I slid closer, my crotch pressing against his ass.
“Stop that,” he said. “Or I will take you on this bike right here, right now.”
“Empty promises,” I teased, suddenly unable to keep from thinking about having sex on his motorcycle. I didn’t even know if it was possible, but boy, did it sound erotic as hell.
He turned and flashed me a wicked smile. “This is no empty promise, Els,” he said, his voice taking on a gritty quality that indicated he was really turned on. “The past few days have been torture. Just say the word and I’m all yours.”
I gulped, seriously contemplating saying yes just to see what he’d do. “You’re right, we’d better get going,” I said and popped the helmet over my flushed face instead.
* * *
Henry took me to a coffee shop on the north side, near the Oklahoma City University campus.
“The Red Cup?” I asked as we got off the bike. I didn’t want to judge, but was he taking me to an artsy-fartsy coffee shop for our second date?
“Yep.” He grabbed my hand and led me through the parking lot toward the converted house, painted a bright green. On top of the roof was a giant red cup with a silver spoon. It was quirky and cute, sure, but didn’t really indicate grand gesture.
Inside the place was a riot of color with black-and-white-checked floors, brightly painted walls, and art everywhere. After we ordered our food, Henry led me to the back—to what I assumed was the old living room—and we sat down in a yellow pleather booth that curved around a corner.
“So, interesting place,” I said, studying the eclectic collection of art and people. There were students, paintings, bohemians, prints, hipsters, and suits. “Why here? This place is not exactly romantic.”
He leaned back into the booth, his head nearly hitting the canvas painting on the wall above him. “You didn’t want romance, remember? It was too much?”
I glanced around. “Yeah, but . . .”
He raised both eyebrows. “Yes?”
“I want a little bit of romance,” I said, holding two fingers close together.
He shook his head. “I can’t win with you, can I?”
I grinned. “Is it too much to ask that you read my mind?”
“I’m sorry. Next time I will use my ESP and take you to Starbucks instead.” He smiled widely, his features relaxed.
I studied his face for a long while, then said, “You seem happy.” It was true; he seemed so at ease with the world, no longer that brooding guy who didn’t know himself. This new Henry was grounded and relaxed, different but still the same boy I’d fallen in love with many years ago. It felt strange, like I was cheating on the old Henry with the new.
“I am.” He stretched his arms on the back of the booth and gathered me into his side. “Deliriously,” he said in a sigh.
I leaned my head on his shoulder, wishing I could say the same and completely mean it.
We sat in comfortable silence for a long while, his hand rubbing my shoulder as he occasionally kissed the top of my head. It was cozy, even if beneath my skin ran an undercurrent of tension and worry. We finally separated when the waitress brought our food, and we ate in silence all the while casting glances at each other.
I was keenly aware of the little things: the faint scent of Henry’s cologne, the hint of orange in my salad vinaigrette, the love song playing softly in the background. It was as if all of my senses were heightened, and even though it was nearly overwhelming, I wanted more.
Then I saw it.
I was studying Henry’s wavy hair—noting how different it made him look from the buzz cut—when I noticed that the signature on the canvas behind his head said H. Logan. I twisted around in my seat to get a better look at the large painting, which was an abstract in browns, tans and blues.
“It’s about time you noticed,” Henry said with a chuckle, wiping his mouth with a napkin and twisting around.
“You did this?” I asked him, still staring at the painting, trying to make sense of the shapes and swirls.
“You like it?”
“Yes,” I said. “What is it?”
“I’ll give you a hint: It’s a semi-abstract. It’s titled She Is Love.”
Then it all came together, the oval that came to a point at the bottom, the brownish green orbs for the eyes, and the long curly hair. “It’s me?”
He nodded. “Beautiful, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, it really is,” I said, unable to believe that Henry could create something so wonderful. Being a designer, I liked to consider myself aesthetically selective; I had seen many illustrations and paintings, had even created a few of my own. Perhaps I was being a little subjective, since I was the inspiration for the piece, but Henry’s painting was definitely gallery-quality.
“I wasn’t talking about the painting,” he said, his eyes fixed on my face, making the air in the entire place too thick to breathe. He was going to kiss me and, as much as I wanted to taste him, I couldn’t risk getting attached again. Not when I was considering leaving.
I blinked and cleared my throat. “So you learned to paint in Korea?”
He leaned away, trying to hide his disappointment. “Yeah. I took a class on base, taught by this old skinny guy who always smelled like whiskey,” he said. “Davis was critical, which really helped me improve. He told me over and over to loosen up, to stand back to get a better perspective.”
“And that worked?”
His eyes were on my face, the heat of his gaze warming my cheeks. “It helped with my painting. And I’m hoping it’ll help with other things in my life.”
I turned my at
tention back to my food, picking at a piece of lettuce. “So what else did you do in Korea?”
“I worked a lot. Also tried a lot of classes.”
“Did you date?” The question slipped out of my mouth before I could catch it. I hadn’t meant to bring it up right then.
He hesitated before saying, “I did. I dated two women before I gave up.” He paused, taking my hand. “But neither relationship lasted more than a few dates.”
My eyes flicked up to his face. “Why not?”
“You know why.”
My heart throbbed in my chest, begging me not to ask the next inevitable question. I swallowed hard. “Did you sleep with them?”
His eyes were all intensity as he looked at me. “I thought about it, but no.” He paused for a long, tense moment before asking, “How about you? Did you and Seth—?”
I hadn’t expected his answer. I had steeled myself for a yes, and was now instead faced with a confession that did not match my own. “Yeah, we did.”
His nostrils flared as he stared down at the table. “Fuck,” he said under his breath, crumpling the napkin in his hand.
It felt like an apology was in order but upon further reflection, between the two of us, I was the one definitely owed.
“I’m sorry, Elsie,” he said, his eyes meeting mine. “I’m a grade-A dickhead. I’m the one who fucked everything up and now I’m jealous as hell that someone else, someone not me, got to sleep with you.”
“You should be sorry,” I blurted, taking even myself by surprise. “You ruined everything we had.” I could feel the energy crackling around us. This was the first time we were really hashing it out, the first time I was voicing my opinion that, yes, he screwed up. Finally saying those words felt good in a small way and terrible in an even bigger way. “You took what we had and threw it away because you felt confused,” I said, gathering steam. “Well guess what, Henry? We all get confused about ourselves but we don’t go hurting those we love just so we can get some clarity.”
