Page 49 of Say You Will

Henry puts an arm around my waist, guiding me from the room. Shouting over his shoulder toward the kitchen, he calls, “Did you hear that, Grandma? Franki thinks I’m nice.”

She hoots with laughter. “I’m not deaf, Henry. But that poor girl might be blind.”

Twenty minutes later, Henry wields a big-ass knife with expert skill, then scoops the guts into a bowl.

“I can’t believe you keep surgical gloves in your car,” I say.

“I keep a lot of things in my car,” he drawls.

“It’s convenient that you have them.”

He uses his shoulder in an inefficient attempt to push his glasses back up his nose. “I can still feel the guts. They’re cold and slippery.”

I slide closer to him. “Do you want me to do it?”

He frowns. “No. Then your hands would get cold.”

I reach up and push his glasses back into place for him. Sunshine streams through the window over the sink lighting Henry’s blue eyes, but the sparkle in them looks more like mischief than sunlight to me. When I step back, he murmurs. “Oh, no you don’t. You need to come back here so I can say ‘thank you.’”

I glance toward the kitchen door where Grandma disappeared about two minutes ago when a neighbor stopped by to pick up a carton of eggs. She’d handed over the carton, then followed the woman out the door relaying how Grandad has had to beef up the fencing around the farm because the coyotes “won’t stay away from them chickens.” Their fencing isrobustunless coyotes climb walls taller than I am.

Henry nods at the door. “Grandma will be talking for at least fifteen minutes. Will you come back, so I can I say thank you?”

Over the years, I’ve fallen for so many people pretending to befriend me for so many different reasons that I don’t trust my own instincts. My own mother is at the top of that list. The more I think about his flirtation, the more suspicion creeps in about Henry’s motives.

I feel like an umbrella where one minute the rain was pouring down on top of me, and I was doing my umbrella thing, fighting off the deluge. Then the wind came at me from another directionand whipped me inside out. Am I naive to believe this doesn’t have anything to do with trying to get me to marry him? I don’t know. There’s nothing in his behavior that hints at deception. Nothing inconsistent or manipulative.Except for the timing.

“I can hear your ‘thank you’ from here.” I need to think.

Henry heaves a sigh, then relents. “Thank you for fixing my glasses.”

Women were all over him at that wedding reception. He could easily find someone more mercenary and significantly less demanding than I am if he’s still looking for a wife to meet his deadline. Does he plan on marrying someone else for business purposes and dating me on the side? It sounds so unlike him that I dismiss the thought immediately.

I turn back to the open cookbook to read through the list of ingredients, double-checking that I’ve got everything laid out. Flour dusted on the counter? Check. Rolling pin? Check. Egg wash? Ready to go.

“Dammit.”

At the sound of Henry’s swearing, I turn and choke on a laugh when I see what he’s done.

“Is this funny to you?” he asks with great dignity, one arrogant eyebrow lifted.

Henry must have forgotten he had pumpkin guts on his hands and attempted to push his glasses up again out of habit.

“Did the pumpkin guts attack you in self-defense?” I ask.

He has an orange smear across one of his lenses, and an entire goopy, slimy string, complete with a seed, hangs from his cheek. “I could use a hand here when you’re done chortling.”

With a smile, I move closer, removing his glasses first and setting them on the counter. Then I wet a paper towel and wipe his face clean. I’m inches from Henry, definitely in the kissing zone, and there’s that glint in his eyes again.

“Thank you, Franki.” His voice is entirely too pleased.

No way. “Did you do that on purpose? You hate pumpkin guts.”

He lowers his forehead to mine. “I hate you standing so far away more.”

Dropping the paper towel to the counter, I shake my head against his. I don’t want to fight this. Not right now. I’ll think about it later.

When I kiss him this time, it’s different from the first. Gentler and less wild, but no less wonderful. Because his gloved hands are covered in pumpkin, he holds them out away from both of us, almost in a gesture of surrender.

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