“It’s Emma.”
“Emma,” he whispers to himself. “Nice to meet you, Emma. I’m Henry.”
Henry reaches out a hand and I stare at it for a second before reaching out my hand to touch his. When our skin connects, I memorize the texture of his skin. I’m met with asoftness that most men in this town don’t have. His handshake is warm and inviting but still firm and confident.
I clear my throat and pull my hand back, wrapping it around the glass Henry set down in front of me. “Where’s Knox?”
“Apparently, he found something better to do tonight,” Henry says, gesturing over to his brother pressed against a tiny brunette in the middle of the dancefloor.
I shake my head and pick up my glass to take a drink. He ordered me a vodka and cranberry juice despite me telling him what I wanted. It was a safe choice, and I respected a man who was practical and observant.
“Thank you for the drink,” I say before setting my sights on his drink of choice. “I thought you were supposed to convince me you weren’t pretentious. I don’t think drinking a glass of merlot in a dive bar is a good start.”
Henry’s lips quirk at the corners, fighting a full-blown grin. Instead, he tilts the glass toward his mouth and takes a long sip before answering me. My eyes slip down his clean-shaven face to the well-defined slope of his throat, watching his Adam’s Apple bob up and down. I swallow hard.
“I almost ordered a beer, but I changed my mind at the last second.”
“Why’s that?” I ask.
“I wanted to see if you’d take the opportunity to judge me again, and I was right.”
Heat creeps up the back of my neck. I have to take another swig of my drink to keep my emotions from running rampant this early in the evening.
“I wasn’t judging, I was making an informed observation,” I say, setting my drink down. Generally, I wasn’t a judgmental person—he had just caught me at a bad time. Part of me felt this burning need to change that narrative, but then again, what did I have to lose? After tonight, I fully planned to put this man on ice.
Henry tilts his head, watching me. The attention makes my skin prickle, and my stomach dips with an emotion I haven’t experienced since high school.
“Uh-huh,” he murmurs, setting his drink down with a light clink. “And what else have you observed about me, Emma?”
The way he says my name makes my body stand at attention, ready for its next command. I press my teeth together, willing my mind to stay focused. “Your hands are soft, so you probably have a white-collar job.”
“That’s fair,” he answers with a nod. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s not a bad thing. It’s just another way I know you’re not from Honey Grove. Most of the men around here know how to work with their hands.”
Henry’s smile widens, and I notice the slightest dimple curving into both sides of his mouth. My fingers dance at my sides, wanting to reach out and trace them.
“Oh, trust me. I know how to work with my hands.” He smirks, taking another long sip of his wine. “But I get it. I’m different from the men you usually go for.”
My lips part, but the words don’t come out. My dating history consisted of one man, and yes, my ex-husband was very different from the man standing in front of me. Colt worked in construction, and every day, he came home from work covered in dirt and grime with callouses that could cut steel.
Henry patiently waits for a response, and when I come up with nothing, he leans back on his heels and flashes a lopsided grin. “Don’t worry. I like that you noticed.”
My grip tightens on my glass, and I’m tempted to take a step back. This conversation is heading in a direction I’m not comfortable exploring. Part of me wants to lean into my new neighbor and find some excuse to touch his forearm that iscompletely exposed. But I can’t do that. I should find an excuse to leave.
That’s when the universe lets me know it has my back. Before I can respond, someone bumps into me from behind, jostling my arm. My grip slips from my drink, and time slows as the glass tips forward in slow motion, spilling straight onto Henry’s light khaki slacks.
My eyes widen in horror. Henry inhales sharply, reacting to the cold liquid seeping into his pants.
“Oh my God!” I gasp, jumping into action. “I am so sorry!”
Henry lets out a strangled laugh, looking down at himself. “Carajo. It was getting a little hot in here.”
I scramble for some napkins and press them into Henry’s hands. “Here, take these. God, I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for a new pair of pants, or I can pay to have them dry cleaned. Or I?—”
“Emma, breathe,” he says, reaching for my hands. I stare at our hands clasped together, and all the commotion fades away. His fingers linger just long enough for me to miss them when he pulls away. “It’s fine. I don’t think it’ll stain. I can?—”
“Come back to my place,” I blurt out before thinking.
