Page 50 of Say You Will

Henry stands completely still as I press my body against his warm, hard, lean strength. When he chases my tongue with his, I shiver in response. Then I place my palms on the crisp cotton covering the ridged surface of his abdomen and slide my hands up over his chest.

“Harder,” he says against my mouth.

I freeze, and Henry says, “Don’t stop touching me. Please. Just press harder.”

I kiss him again, and I touch him using a firm, sweeping pressure until I’ve got my hands in his hair.

I can feel his erection, long and thick, as he presses against me. Still, those hands of his remain in the air in a posture similar to the one he’d held that night on the library balcony. With a very distinct difference.

I draw back so I can look into his eyes. “Henry.”

I don’t know why I say his name or even what I want or expect in response. For the first time in my life, I feelpowerful. I know he wants me, but he’s also content to stand there and coax me, allowing me to come to him.

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Franki.”

His expression is so smug I want to laugh. “What?”

“You kissed me first. Twice.”

Technically, I tried three times, but I don’t remind him of that.

The creaking of the screen door alerts us a split second before Grandma re-enters the kitchen. When she sees me pulling my hands back and stepping away from Henry, she plants her fists on her hips. “You’ll have to go home to your own kitchen for that kind of funny business. We’re here for pie and soup, not making baby batter.”

Henry snickers like a little kid, and nearly covers his mouth with the back of his hand before he remembers the pumpkin at the last second and uses his forearm, instead.

When he sees my embarrassed reaction, he sobers. “No funny business, Grandma. I had an accident with some pumpkin guts, and Franki was giving me a hand.”

“More than one, looked like.” Grandma winks at me, and, when Henry turns back to preparing the pumpkin to be pureed, she gives me a thumbs up.

sixteen

Franki

Stargirl Interlude | The Weeknd, Lana Del Rey

From my position inthe front passenger seat, I glance back at the two foil-wrapped pies that sit in a box on the backseat of Henry’s SUV. “You’re an expert pie transporter. I’m not sure I would have thought of strapping them in with a seatbelt.”

For some strange reason, it made me think of what it would be like to watch him strap a child into a car seat. It was a weird, silly leap of logic, but Henry isso goodat taking care of everything and everyone, and I still can’t shake it.

“I don’t want a quick stop to avoid hitting a deer to end with this car covered in pie,” he says.

I turn to face him as we make our way down the long country road. “Blackwater is an entirely different life than one in a city. It’s so peaceful and slow here. I wish we could stay forever.”

His expression turns thoughtful, but he says nothing in response.

“Did you like the bisque enough to eat it again?” I ask.

He glances my way and reaches out briefly to squeeze my hand. “Pumpkin bisque is my new favorite.”

“Are you fibbing?”

He shakes his head. “Not at all. If it were just soup, I’d say it was fine. But it’s not just soup.”

“What is it?”

Henry smiles, but the space between his eyebrows contracts in a frown, as if I asked him what letter comes after “C” in the alphabet. “It’s a memory.”

I lean back against the headrest. “It was fun.”

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