Page 50 of The Woman Left Behind

“It’s a TV show from the UK about a Muslim women’s punk rock band.”

At my description of the show, he let out a surprised bark of laughter.

“Trust me, you’ll be doing a lot of that while watching it,” I promised him.

“Then cue it up, honey, because I could use a few laughs.”

“You want something to drink first?”

“One of those La Croix?”

“You got it.”

I moved to get his drink, and one for me.

Harry moved to the couch.

I went right in for the cuddle.

Harry welcomed it.

We snuggled in, and he did laugh, a whole lot. By the third episode, that skin around his eyes was clear and the tension in his body was gone.

So I felt like I’d climbed a mountain and planted my flag on top.

This feeling dug deeper as we worked together to make the taco salad, and ate it like any couple would, sitting in front of the TV.

It dug even deeper when Harry finally instigated our next make-out session on the couch, this one including far more groping, which proved I wasn’t romanticizing what he gave me the day before, he really was that good with his mouth (and hands).

And it dug even deeper when Harry ended it, saying he had to get back to his dogs, and I knew he did, but he also was guiding this, he’d decided to take it slow, and I appreciated that, because it was what I needed.

At my door amid giving me lingering good-bye kisses, he said, “My turn to cook for you.”

“You helped me cook this time.”

“You can help me cook tomorrow night.”

Tomorrow night.

I smiled at him and even I knew it was radiant.

He gave me yet another, very lingering good-bye kiss before he gave me a squeeze and walked to his truck, the bag with the tin of cookies and the loaf of bread I baked dangling from his hand.

We did the same you-go-inside, no-you-drive-away thing, but much shorter this time (I didn’t want him to have to get out of his truck, so I let him win).

I closed the door, smiling inwardly and looking forward to meeting his dogs.

And I decided I could tell him about Willie later. Maybe on our fifth date.

Or our sixth.

Or maybe Willie would take a hint, and I wouldn’t have to tell Harry at all.

THIRTEEN

Damned Cookie

Harry

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