Page 9 of Mixed Motives

But my date with him is sanctioned by technology. I guess the app figured a coffee date was a good idea since we wouldn’t want the commitment of Valentine’s Day dinner with a stranger in case it went badly.

As I race across the street with him, I think about my life choices. My friend sends me on a date, telling me I need to get out more… and who do I match up with but my son’s ex-boyfriend. The one I turned down last month when he asked me for sex. The one I admitted my attraction to.

Such a bad idea.

Except I can’t seem to stop myself. Part of me is thinking Okay, I already know I like him. A lot. And if this computer matched us up, maybe there’s something more here. I want to find out.

Plus, it would be rude to back out now. I can’t say No, I’m not going to go on this scheduled date because it’s you. That would make him feel terrible.

Yeah, I’m sticking with this date for Henry’s sake. I’ll go with that.

He immediately gets under my defenses in the simplest way: he holds my hand like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

It’s not normal. Not in my circles.

I haven’t been on many dates in recent years, too wrapped up in running my winery. And the few dates I’ve been on with men … they haven’t gone well.

Henry and I walk into the shop and are immediately enveloped by the interior warmth. “What would you like?” I ask, headed to the counter.

He glances around, a tense look on his face, and mutters, “Banana nut muffin.” He clears his throat. “I mean… nothing. I mean Earl Grey tea. Do you mind if I go wash my hands?”

I wonder if I’m going to get ghosted, but I can’t do anything about that, so I nod.

After I place our orders, he comes back and sits with me to wait for our drinks. I notice he’s carefully not touching anything.

He sees me watching him and looks sheepish. “I have this thing. It’s kind of an anxiety thing. I wash my hands a lot.”

“Oh, sure. You do that at my house, too, now that I think of it. It’s okay. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to make you feel better.”

Henry stares at me.

“Is something wrong?” I ask.

“No. I’m just not used to people accommodating my weirdness.”

“What’s so weird about that? Or accommodating, for that matter. I mean, maybe we need to get you some lotion if your skin gets dry. But anxiety is very common. I have it, too.”

“You do?”

I smile at him. “Yeah, definitely. Running a business? I can?—”

The barista calls my name, and I excuse myself from Henry and get our drinks, which are in a tray, plus a bag of muffins. I meet Henry at the condiment station so he can add cream and sugar to his tea. Once we’re all set, he offers to carry the muffin bag, though he looks at it oddly before picking it up, and then he takes my other hand as we exit the building.

Again, his easy affection makes something in my chest swell.

I walk him to his car, even though it’s still bucketing rain, since I figure I’m going to dry off soon enough. I leave the food and drinks with him, then jog to my car, which is only half a block away.

When I pull into my garage, Henry is sitting in his car at the curb, waiting for me. I gesture him inside.

“I’m still soaking wet,” he says as he passes me our food.

I put it on a cabinet and start taking off my shoes and socks. “Hang on. Let me get you something to wear,” I say, hustling to my room and getting the smallest T-shirt and sweatpants I own, along with socks. Henry will still be swimming in my clothing, but at least he’ll be warm.

When I hand them to him and wave him to a bathroom to change in, I can’t help but wipe a trickle of water running down his forehead. I freeze, realizing that I’m perhaps being overly familiar, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, he gives me a grateful smile and scoots into the bathroom.

I race upstairs to change as well, putting on a thermal shirt and plaid flannel pants since I figure that we’re going to be trapped by the rainstorm for a while. I glance in the mirror, and my hair is a mess, so I drag a towel through it, trying to get it to be less unruly. It doesn’t listen.

When I get back, Henry has folded up his wet clothes, but I take them from him. “Want me to put these in the dryer?” I ask.

---