Page 59 of Lessons in Forgiving
He sighed, shoulder against the wall when he crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Nothing,” he said, then reconsidered. “Everything. I don’t know. They’re fully booked because of some conference, so I’ll be trying my luck at one of the other hotels around here.”
When he looked back at me, a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “You should sleep though, Paula. It’s getting late.”
I only blinked at him. “Are you serious?”
Henry shrugged, then went on like he really thought I’d go along with it. “We’ve got an early start tomorrow. I’ll be waiting for you in the lobby at seven.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Sharp.”
I couldn’t help my laugh—a single outburst. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not.” His face contorted in irritation for the first time since we’d been forced back into each other’s orbits, and it reminded me of the last time it had.
When he’d saidwe shouldn’t do this, let me leave, and never looked back.
“We have to be at the stadium by eight. I need time to change, stretch. Then my lawyers will have to go over the contracts after—” The mention of those shot even more of that prominent annoyance into his features.
“No.” My head shook enough to stop his rambling. “That’s not what I meant.” Gently, hesitantly, I peeled the blanket off the other side of the bed, beckoning him in. “Just… stay here.”
I couldn’t possibly be the reason for Henry Pressley to go off into the night, trying to find a hotel in an area that was fully booked because of whatever conference. He probably wouldn’t find one anyway.
His eyes flicked up to mine, a million things in his gaze. None that I could interpret.
“Before I change my mind, Henry.” Another minute, and I might, because the longer I looked at him—his brown hair only half as neatly parted in the middle from a long day, the top buttons of the shirt he’d changed into after practice, open—the worse the idea seemed.
He only took a single step further into the room, giving an almost nonexistent nod before he said, “You do know I’ll have to get ready for bed first, right?” The tension fell off him, I could see it. “Brush my teeth. Wash my face.”
Looking at him, rolling my eyes only to not be staring, I imagined an entire night of agony. His scent lingering in the sheets, the weight of his body on the mattress—him, right there, and nothing I could do about it.
“If you must,” I said at last, hoping he’d at least be changing into a shirt.
Which reminded me of another problem.
“Oh,” slipped past my lips just before he closed the bathroom door behind him. His head poked back out of the frame, a puzzled look urging me to elaborate on the worrying sound. “There might be another problem,” I confessed.
My eyes trailed to the hoodie I was still wearing, and now that we’d be sharing a room—a bed, I couldn’t shrug the fact off. “I may have forgotten to pack a shirt to sleep in.” My gaze flicked to Henry’s silver suitcase, then to my overnight bag.
I had not been paying attention to what I’d been throwing into it yesterday, and apparently, that had left me without PJs.
Henry snickered. “Why am I not surprised?” With only a glance in the direction of his luggage, he nodded toward it. “Should be an HBU jersey in there. I packed one just in case.”
“In case I forgot a shirt?” I wondered, almost laughed at the thought.
“In case I won’t get the Blue Eagles’.”
He shut the door between us.
I thought about that statement when I pulled the red jersey out of his perfectly packed suitcase.
Was there still a possibility the Blue Eagles wouldn’t take Henry on? The MSL draft had been months ago—I remembered it to the date, because the day the results had come out, I’d been heavily avoiding the Internet and my need to Google which team (if any), had taken Henry on. Maeve might’ve suspended my electronics that day.
He was scheduled to sign the last of his contracts tomorrow, after practice. So if he didn’t, or they didn’t let him, where would that leave Henry? Without a team? Without a pro career?
Sure, there were other ways than the MSL draft to get into soccer on a professional level, but he hadn’t planned for any of them. Had he?
I wasn’t quite sure how long I’d been standing in the middle of the room, Henry’s jersey bunched up between my hands. But it was long enough for him to be back, and to scare the shit out of me when he asked, very calmly, “What are you thinking about?”
“Mierda!” I cursed, more to myself when I jumped and clutched my chest, still holding the jersey. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.” My hands back by my sides, I turned to shoot him a glare that evaporated swiftly.
His eyes ran down my frame the same second I remembered I still wasn’t wearing pants.
