The What If Guy

by Moss, Brooke

  Henry stepped up to the door and kissed me on the cheek.

  “What’s the DVD for?” I asked.

  Henry stood back and gulped. “You look incredible.”

  I giggled like a fourteen-year-old. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Henry looked at the flowers and the DVD as if he’d forgotten about them. He handed me the beautiful bouquet.

  “They’re lovely. Thank you.”

  “The DVD is for your dad. It’s a movie about the history of the Seattle Mariners. I thought he might like it.”

  I smiled. “That’s thoughtful. Take it on in.”

  Henry stepped inside, and my father nodded at him. “Hey Billy, you watchin’ the game?”

  My dad looked up from the television. “Yup. Up by seven.”

  “Nice.” Henry handed him the DVD. “Check this out after the game.”

  My father looked it over. “Thanks, kid.”

  Henry grinned at me as I put the tulips in a vase, then he picked up my sweater. “This yours?”

  I nodded, still soaking in his awesomeness.

  Henry held the sweater for me, and I slid my arms in. His fingers grazed my shoulders, and I shivered with anticipation.

  “Dad, did you take your medication?” I asked.

  “You watched me,” he replied, his tone gruff.

  “You have your list of numbers to call if you need anything?”

  “Yup.”

  “Then have a great night.” Henry and I moved toward the door. “I’ll have my phone with me. And Doris will be calling, and—”

  “Go on and get out of here.” My dad waved his hand. “Take a night off, nursemaid.”

  “Fine.” I squeezed his bony shoulder.

  “Hey, Tobler.”

  I cringed. What was my dad going to say now? Was he suddenly going to become a protective father? Oh lord, was he going to give us the sex talk?

  Henry faced my father, who pointed a shaky finger at him. “You treat her right. I might not be strong anymore, but I know people.”

  “Dad, don’t threaten him.”

  Henry chuckled. “I understand. And if I don’t treat her right, I encourage you to contact those people.”

  My father’s mouth twitched. “Get the hell out of here, I’ve got girls comin’ over.”

  I scoffed and pulled Henry out the door and down the sidewalk. “I’m so sorry. I guess he’s feeling sentimental or something, I—”

  Henry spun me around, flattened my back against the side of his truck, then brought his mouth down on mine with a flash of heat that ignited my insides. When he pulled away, I blinked to uncross my eyes. “I, uh, forgot what I was saying.”

  Henry grinned. “Your dad knows people.”

  “Oh, that’s right.”

  “What kind of people does he know? Should I be afraid?”

  “No. He only knows farmers.”

  “Farmers could kick my butt.”

  “I don’t know. They’d just chase you on their John Deere, and I think you could outrun them.”

  Henry opened the passenger-side door for me. “Be nice.”

  Conversation came easily during our drive to Spokane. He told me about his classes at school, and how the kids were enthusiastically getting into Greek mythology. We discussed Elliott’s talent on the cello, Henry suggesting that he work one-on-one with him until I arranged private lessons. His eyes brightened as he described a solo of “Quasi Scherzando” that El had performed for the strings club the week before, then told me about how petrified he’d been to give his first solo as a kid.

  I loved hearing about Henry’s childhood and couldn’t help picturing him being a lot like Elliott. Gangly, with messy dark curls and a quirky personality. It warmed my belly to think about how well we three seemed to fit together. Kind of like a family.

  Henry drove us to downtown Spokane, to the heart of the city, and parked next to a parking meter outside a café. I grabbed the handle to open my door.

  “Stay there.” He hopped out, crossed to my side, and opened the door.

  “Ma’am,” he said with a smirk.

  My appetite for Henry simmered. I placed my hand in his and slid out of the truck, my skirt fluttering. We walked hand-in-hand down the sidewalk, sidestepping puddles and people. “Where are we going?” I asked, enjoying the tingling sensation I felt, having Henry’s fingers laced with mine.

  “It’s a surprise. Something to remind you of a few of our earlier dates.”

  Henry slowed in front of a small art gallery full of people. My face lit up at the sight of oil paintings and sculptures. “We’re going to an art show?”

  Henry shrugged. “We’re going to a few of them. It’s First Friday.”

  “First Friday?”

  “A special night when the downtown businesses feature local up-and-coming artists’ work.” He opened the gallery’s glass door and led me inside. “The event promotes the artists and brings in customers for the businesses, so it’s a win-win. I’ve been coming almost every Friday since I moved here.”

  We strolled around the small building, examining the art—some pieces modern and eclectic, others traditional and realistic. Many of the sculptures were Native American inspired, as Spokane was rich with Interior Salish history. Henry and I drifted apart whenever we saw a piece that interested us, then wandered back to each other every few minutes, our fingers immediately intertwining.

  I remembered our dates back in Seattle. We’d spent many an hour wandering through the Seattle art shops and galleries, then sitting so closely together, talking in coffee shops, that you couldn’t tell where he ended and I began. But tonight was different. We were older, the atmosphere more sophisticated, but the sexual tension was the same.

  Henry bought me a cup of espresso, and we wandered into a couple more shops and galleries—his arm around my waist. We tipped our heads toward each other as we discussed the use of a bold, brash red in a collection, or an artist’s personal vision, our voices quiet and intimate. A series of blown glass bulbs caught my eye and I wandered away, only to catch Henry watching me from across the brightly-lit gallery. He looked captivated, his mouth upturned, eyebrows low. My stomach clinched, and I gave him a sly grin.

  I’d been waiting over a decade for this night, and he’d planned something for us to do that was very meaningful to me. I tossed my empty espresso cup into a trash can, flipped my hair away from my face, and made a beeline for him, stalking with such determination that a handful of people parted as I crossed the room.

  When I reached Henry, I slipped my arms beneath his suit coat and grasped the back of his shirt. “Can we be alone now?” I whispered, with an edge of desperation in my voice. “Please?”

  He cleared his throat. “We have dinner reservations.”

  I pressed my lips together. Who the hell cares about dinner?

  He put his arm around me and led me out of the gallery. We crossed the damp street and walked a couple of blocks to a brick building facing the raging waters of the Spokane River. Mist from the falls pricked my face as we approached the door.

  “You got us a table at The Edge?” I said. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Being one of Spokane’s premier restaurants, it was almost impossible to get a table at The Edge without planning a month in advance. The restaurant had incredible ambiance—chipped brick walls and knotty wood floors, heavy, medieval-looking doors with wrought iron hinges, and lighting so low that you needed a flashlight to read the menu.

  Our table was set, with candles flickering, in the far corner of the dining room that jutted out over the river, its white caps visible in the darkness below. Henry pulled out my chair. I peeled off my sweater, he kissed the side of my neck, then I settled in my seat.

  “Couldn’t resist,” he said, sitting across from me. “Have I mentioned how beautiful you look tonight?”

  Blushing, I busied myself by adjusting my silverware. “You may have mentioned something about that.” I glanced at him. Damn if he didn
’t look edible himself. “You’re looking handsome tonight, too.”

  “Thank you.” He reached across the table and took my hand. “I love it when you wear your hair down.”

  I touched my curls self-consciously. “I’m certainly no comparison to the way I looked thirteen years ago, but—”

  Henry tightened his grip on my hand. “You’re more beautiful now than you ever were.”

  “Now I know you’re lying. I was so carefree back then—enveloped in my art, and so wild.”

  “I remember. You always had paint under your nails, and wore vintage band T-shirts all the time.”

  “And your hair was so shaggy. It covered the tops of your ears.”

  “My mother hated it. She was always telling me to cut it. But it went with my ripped jeans so well.”

  “It did. We were so Seattle circa the nineties back then.”

  “We really were. We were like a scene from the movie Singles.” He grinned happily.

  “Argh. I know.”

  “Do you still like live music?”

  “Of course. But I haven’t seen any bands play since I left Seattle. You?” I sipped my water.

  “Whenever I go back to California, I try to stop in to see a band or two at this little club I know of. Someday I’ll take you there. You’d love it.”

  “I would.”

  “We should try to find some music around here, too.”

  “It’s a date. I loved First Friday. Can we go again sometime?”

  “Of course. Every time I went before you came back to town, I thought of you. I knew you would enjoy it.” Henry’s eyes glimmered in the candlelight.

  “I really did. I love hole-in-the-wall cafés,” I smiled.

  “They’re the best kind.”

  “Remember the coffee shop we always went to before class?”

  “They had the best Chai tea anywhere,” he said. “We got kicked out for making out in a booth there.”

  “We got booted from a lot of places for making out.”

  He winked at me just as the waitress arrived to take our drink order.

  The entire dinner went that way. Bantering back and forth, reminiscing about old times, flirting, laughing. By the time we finished the final course—chocolate mousse, talk about the art of seduction—our legs were entangled underneath the table. We’d scooted next to each other, and gazed at the beautiful view.

  Henry leaned over and kissed me. “I need to tell you something. I don’t want a fling with you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Did this mean we weren’t going to be alone after dinner? Would that constitute a fling?

  “I don’t want to have a quick affair with you.”

  “Okay.”

  “I want more with you. I’m not trying to sleep with you just because we have unfinished business. You mean more to me than that.”

  A lump formed in my throat. “I don’t want a fling either. I never did. Not then, not now.” I took his face in my hands and pressed my lips to his, my heart skittering. His lips felt so perfect.

  After our kiss, Henry whispered in my ear, his breath dancing down my neck. “Can we be alone?”

  “Good lord, yes, please,” I said, and grabbed my sweater.

  We left the restaurant and made our way to the hotel, which couldn’t have been more fabulous. Three blocks from The Edge, it also overlooked the river and the downtown lights. One of the oldest hotels in Spokane, it had recently been restored to its original turn-of-the-century charm. Our room featured a marble fireplace and a four-poster bed with an ornately carved headboard and a golden, satin coverlet. The room was somewhat dim, lit only by a small desk lamp. The gas flame flickering in the fireplace added a romantic ambiance that made my pulse race. I turned in a slow circle like a little kid.

  “This is amazing.” I sighed, my arms outstretched.

  “I’ll say.” Henry leaned against the fireplace and stared at me.

  I stopped turning and cocked my head. “You didn’t have to do something so extravagant.”

  His gaze warmed me. “Of course I did.”

  “I don’t need all this. I just needed some alone time with you.”

  He shook his head. “I would give you the world, if I could.”

  “I just want you.”

  Henry’s expression grew serious. “You never lost me.” He stood with one arm on the mantel and his other hand in his pocket, holding his jacket open.

  “You never lost me, either.” I unbuttoned my sweater. “I’m so sorry I hurt you. I made the worst mistake of my life when I walked away from you.”

  Henry straightened and put his other hand in his pocket. “It doesn’t matter anymore. We’re here now.”

  My sweater slid down my arms to the floor. I walked slowly toward Henry, and he watched closely.

  I ran my hands up his chest, stopping at his tie, which I tugged and loosened, never taking my eyes off of his. Once the tie came undone, I pulled it free of his collar and dropped it. I glided my hands across his shoulders, pushing his suit jacket down his arms. Henry moved his face closer to mine, but I stepped just out of his reach.

  “Slow down,” I said softly, pulling his shirt free from the waist of his slacks. One by one, I unbuttoned the buttons of his shirt, then raked my fingernails gently across his chest, his flesh warm beneath my touch.

  I took a deep breath to calm my nerves. I added the shirt to the growing pile on the floor, stood on my toes, and kissed his collarbone.

  Henry moaned. “I’ve waited so long for this.” He buried his face in my hair, traced his hands down my sides to my hips, and grasped firmly. The sensation sent a shockwave of anticipation through my entire body.

  “I have, too.” I tipped my head as his lips blazed a trail down my neck. I shuddered. “I’m nervous.”

  Henry looked at me, his hands finding the zipper at the back of my dress. “I am, too,” he admitted softly. “But I’ll take very good care of you.”

  “I don’t doubt that.”

  He slowly unzipped my dress. All of my nerve endings came alive. Henry pushed my dress past my shoulders, following its path with his lips. The fabric spilled from my body, pooling at my feet. I watched proudly as he gazed at my fancy slip, his eyes widening.

  “You’re so…”

  He walked me backwards, his mouth taking mine so hard that my head buzzed. The only sounds in the room were our labored breaths and the hiss of the fire.

  We stepped in unison until I backed into the marble-topped desk. Henry placed me on the cool desktop and settled himself between my knees. He slid his hands beneath my slip, touching along the sides of my thighs. Heat blazed in my core. A room service menu and several pens hit the floor, but we didn’t stop, our movements becoming more frenzied. Henry brought the bottom of the slip up past my waist, then squeezed my hips tightly.

  I gasped.

  He pulled his head back, looking as if words waited on the tip of his tongue. We were both breathless, panting like we’d run around the block before coming up to our room.

  I cupped his face. “I never stopped wondering where you were,” I whispered, nipping at his lower lip. “I always wondered whether you still thought about me.”

  “How could I not?” Light from the flames danced across his face. “You were everything to me.”

  I moved my hands to his belt and began unbuckling. I sighed, linking my legs behind his back, submerging myself in a wave of bliss. Henry slowly lowered me onto the desk, my back pressing against the icy surface. He ran his hands over my silk-covered breasts, standing above me with an approving stare.

  Henry grasped my legs softly. He bent, tenderly kissed the backs of my knees and the insides of my thighs, then brought them together at the edge of the desk. Moving deliberately and deliciously slowly, Henry scooped me up and cradled me to his chest. He kissed me as he walked to the bed, then placed me atop the satin coverlet.

  He stood before me, in the shadows, undressing himself. Seeing him without his clot
hes fulfilled all of the fantasies I’d had about him over the years. I stared in quiet amazement.

  Henry pulled my slip over my head and set it aside. I lay on the bed, basking in his gaze. I had no more fear, no more concern about how I looked. No more worry about how much time had passed since we’d been together.

  Henry’s eyes filled with adoration, and my entire body softened. I was pliable beneath his touch—like clay to a sculptor. Whatever he asked of me, I would do. I loved Henry. I always had.

  Henry rested himself next to me, his body warm against mine.

  “Touch me,” I begged. “Please.”

  He quieted me with another brush of his lips, setting off fireworks behind my closed eyelids. I arched my body against his. He touched me with gentle, reverent desire, his fingers tracing lazy lines down my bare hips and legs.

  “Autumn.” Henry whispered my name, his whiskers tickling my skin. I sighed contentedly. He covered my body with his.

  “Yes?” I clung to the back of his neck. My heart pounded in my ears. I could feel Henry’s heart beating, too.

  “I love you.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I drifted into work the following afternoon with a dumb smile splayed all over my face. Doris and Helen watched me with blatant curiosity.

  “The date was fine,” I told them, before I put on my mustard-colored smock and began dusting the glass cases, humming. Their eyes bored holes into the back of my head, but I didn’t offer any details.

  I could still feel the trails of Henry’s fingers on my body, and places on my face were inflamed from the scruff of his whiskers. I smelled him on my skin, felt his fingers intertwined with mine. The sound of Henry telling me that he loved me echoed in my head.

  Henry loved me.

  It felt too good to be true. My heart tripped. I pressed my hand to my ribs to calm myself and grinned while I dusted. I didn’t have to explain anything to Doris and Helen. I didn’t have to justify why I was walking around in a love-induced daze.

  A love-induced daze was a good way to describe my night with Henry. We’d scarcely slept, preferring to roll around together for most of the night, stopping only to order room service at midnight. We’d sat together in front of the fire, wearing only a blanket, fed each other bites of our late night snack, and told jokes. Henry made me laugh easily—one of the best things about being with him. There’d been an ease between us, despite the newness of our physical relationship. Our conversation had been punctuated with “I love you” and “I love you, too,”—words I’d been dying to hear and say since I’d first seen Henry in his classroom in October.