Unbreakable (Cloverleigh Farms, #4)(26)
“Pretty much.”
“So what are you going to say to him today?”
“I don’t even know exactly what yet—I just feel like something needs to be said. I don’t want things to be awkward between us. We’ve gotten to know each other so much better over the last few days, and I really do want to be friends.”
“And there’s no chance you could be more?”
“No way. Not right now. I have so many other things I need to focus on—finding a house, a job, getting the kids settled . . . and the thought of starting up a relationship again absolutely terrifies me. Not just with Henry, with anyone.”
She sighed. “I get it.”
“I agree he is a great guy, and very attractive, and such a good kisser, but I need to keep my head on straight and my feet on the ground.”
“God, you’re so mature and responsible. Anyone else would be like, ‘Give me all the hot rebound sex right now!’”
Laughing, I put the car in drive. “Yeah, that is not my style. But I better go. I have to be back by noon.”
“Okay. I’ll see you at Mack and Frannie’s for dinner.”
“Bring wine. And wish me luck!”
Fifteen minutes later, I found Henry’s house without a problem and pulled into his driveway. For a moment I sat in the car and looked at his house—a brick ranch with an attached garage, black shutters, and a bay window in the front. I wondered about the first time he and his ex had pulled up in front of it. Was it their dream house? Had they imagined the rest of their lives here? Did Henry plan to stay here by himself? If so, would he eventually remarry and try again to have a family? Or would he change his mind and maybe attempt to adopt?
It’s none of your business, Sylvia. You’ve got your own life to put back together—Henry isn’t your next good cause. He’s a grown man, and when he’s ready to move on, he will. Just go in there and make sure he knows you’re still his friend.
Turning off the engine, I got out of the car and hurried onto the front porch. After a deep breath, I knocked a few times on the thick wooden front door, which was painted black to match the shutters.
Henry pulled it open, looking rugged, rumpled, and sexy in jeans and a black T-shirt with a hole in the sleeve. His feet were bare and his hair was damp, like he’d just gotten dressed after a shower. His expression told me he was surprised to see me. “Sylvia. Hi.”
“Hi. Can I come in?”
“Of course.” He swung the door open wide, and I stepped into the front hall. Right away I could smell coffee brewing and the scent of burning wood.
I glanced around. To my left was an office, and to my right was the dining room. Straight ahead appeared to be a family room, where a fire was lit in the fireplace. From what I could see, the house had oak floors throughout, so I took off my snowy boots and left them on a rug that said WELCOME.
Henry shut the door behind me and messed with his hair a little. “I’ll take your coat—glad to see you’re actually wearing one.”
I laughed and shrugged it off. “Thanks.”
After hanging up my jacket in the front hall closet, he turned to me. “Can I get you something? Coffee or tea?”
“Coffee sounds good.” I followed him back into the family room, which opened onto a kitchen and breakfast nook on one side, and possibly the master bedroom on the other. “I like your house. It’s got a nice open feel.”
“Thanks.” He went into the kitchen and took a white mug with the green Cloverleigh Farms logo on it from the cupboard. “We did some pretty extensive renovations when we bought it.”
I glanced around. “No Christmas tree, huh?”
“I decided not to bother this year. I’m really not home that much anyway.” He poured me a cup of coffee from the pot. “I’m sorry, I don’t have cream, but would you like sugar?”
“Just a little, thanks.”
“Go ahead and sit down. I’ll bring it to you.”
I wandered over to the dark brown leather sectional and lowered myself at one end, facing the fireplace. Looking around, Henry’s house seemed just like him—the decor was rustic in a masculine way, but beautiful too, with touches here and there suggesting he liked the occasional luxury. On the coffee table in front of me were several oversized hardcover books on wine. The mantel was made from what might have been reclaimed wood, and upon it were a few black and white photographs, a pair of wrought-iron candlesticks, a stack of old books, and a small plant. Actually, there were several plants around the room. The wall to my left was all wooden shelves—his television was mounted in the middle, and the rest were filled with books, framed photos, and what looked like mementos from his travels.
I wanted to study them all and ask about them—where had he gotten that old map? What place in the world did he love best? Did he like vineyards more than beaches? Did he like upscale hotels in the city or small cabins in the mountains? Was he an ocean or lake person? Did he prefer snow skiing or water skiing? If he had all the money in the world, would he still live here and do what he did?
On the other end of the couch was a chunky double-knit throw blanket in a soft camel color, and I wondered if someone had made it for him. For a moment, I let myself imagine the two of us on a wintry afternoon like this one, wrapped up in it and each other, right here on the couch. I missed that feeling of just being close to someone, that effortless, easy affection. Would I ever feel that again?