Page 45 of The Woman Left Behind

Through all this, he’d clearly found his groove after being out of practice with dating. He was teasy and flirty and made me feel pretty and desirable, the way his chocolate gaze heated when he caught sight of the skin of my shoulder, or got hungry, when it dropped to my mouth.

Gah!

It was everything!

More everything, after we left the restaurant. Even before we got there, it was clear I broke the seal on touch with our kiss, and I learned Harry was a touchy guy (I adored that too), and a gentleman to boot.

We held hands when we walked together or he put a gentle guiding touch on my waist, back or hip when he wanted me to be somewhere. He opened doors. He waited for me to precede him. He pulled my chair out for me. He reached out and tugged my hair playfully when he’d tease me. He paid for everything.

And he bought me a tub of popcorn and some Milk Duds during intermission (he had some popcorn, just a little bit, but no Milk Duds).

All of that was great.

All of that was perfect.

All of that was built on the foundation of the insanely delicious kiss we shared.

And all of it ended after we shared many more insanely delicious kisses just inside my closed door when he took me home.

We did all of that standing, necking, with a wee bit of mild groping, and there was something about it that was sweet and throwback and thoughtful as all heck. It was like, if we took one more step in, or moved the festivities to my couch, it would be pushing it too far, taking too much, and Harry wasn’t about to do that.

This, what we were doing, was happening. We were both all in.

But Harry made it clear he was going to see to me while we explored it.

Mom and Dad and that unknown were underlying all of this, and if I allowed myself to think about it, I might start weeping again. Because he knew that, had a mind to it, and like he’d promised from the beginning, he was seeing me through it.

It was just that, now, there was an added, and very welcome, nuance to it.

Before he left, while we were trading swift, soft kisses in my open front door, I offered, “Wanna chill out with me tomorrow?”

“I was afraid you wouldn’t ask,” he replied, my belly melted, he kissed my nose and ordered, “Sleep in and text me when you wake up. We’ll make plans.”

“You don’t plan chillouts, Harry,” I educated.

He grinned (and dang, I loved his grin). “Right. We’ll plan for you to show me how not to plan a chillout.”

“Acceptable.”

He gave me a squeeze, let me go, walked down my path, and then we had a staring contest with him leaned across the cab of his truck, making gestures for me to get inside and close the door, and me standing in my door, making gestures for him to drive away.

I lost this contest when Harry got out of his truck, went to the side of the hood and called in his authoritative, commanding voice, “Inside, Lillian! Lock the door!”

“All right, all right,” I muttered, smiling to myself.

I went inside and locked the door.

I then walked to the window and watched him drive away before I turned and floated on air through my house, going through the motions of getting ready for bed.

Once in bed, I nodded right off (another miracle!) and slept like a baby.

That brought me to now, where I turned and took my phone off the magnetic thingie that displayed and charged it.

When I did, I saw I had a whole slew of texts from all of my girls, as well as group texts including all of the girls, a voicemail from Ronnie (she texted, but when she wanted to chat, she called).

And last, a text from Harry.

Hope you slept well. Hope you slept in. Call me when you get up. Later, sweetheart.

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