Daydream (Maple Hills, #3)(28)
“It’s not that. I just need to bake a cake. One of the girls I work with has a birthday tomorrow and she forgot to take a vacation day. I normally work tonight but they convinced me to switch to tomorrow so we could have a little birthday party in the break room. I said I’d bake the cake.”
Behind Henry, customers for the event start to appear from the staircase. I recognize them from book club. Whatever they think about Henry and me sitting close together talking, they don’t say anything as they take a seat in the front row and give me a small wave.
“So tonight is a pass and you’re working tomorrow. What about Saturday?”
“Surely the captain of the hockey team has something better to do on a Saturday night than study?” I tease. I know their first game of the season isn’t until next week, so this is his last weekend of sort-of-but-also-not-really freedom.
“I’m sure there will be something loud and busy happening. It’ll happen whether I’m there or not. I honestly kind of hate the parties sometimes. It takes me a long time to recover from all the noise and socializing.”
“Saturday it is then. Do you want to come to my place? It’ll be quiet and I promise I won’t make you do a keg stand. You don’t even need to talk to me if you don’t want to.”
“I like talking to you more than I like talking to almost anyone. Yes, that’d be good. I’ll text you when I’m done at the gym? I can pick up dinner.”
Far too many seconds pass without me saying anything. More people begin to filter in and take their seat and I’m almost certain my cheeks are bright pink. I offer Henry a nod, swallowing hard. “Sounds good. I think I should probably greet people now instead of giving you all my attention. Do you want to stay and watch the panel? It’s a very interesting book about a serial killer.”
“Tempting, but you’re the only person I like listening to talk about books. And I have hockey practice in fifteen minutes.”
“Oh my God, go!” I squeak. “You can’t be late!”
He stands slowly, clearly in no rush. “Yes, Captain. Talk to you later.”
I whisper a “bye” as I watch him steal one final cookie and stroll away just as Aurora appears at the top of the stairs with her friends Emilia and Poppy. I watch her eyes narrow as she watches him walk past her, telling me she didn’t know he was going to be here. When her eyes leave him and land on me, immediately spotting the flowers still in my hands, her face breaks into the biggest smile.
I have a feeling she isn’t going to want to talk about serial killers today.
* * *
I’M LOSING MY THIRD FIGHT with eggshell fragments in my bowl when my cell phone lights up on the counter. Henry’s face stares back at me, because when he added his number he also took a selfie and changed my background. Wiping my hands on my apron, I swipe at the notification to open it.
HENRY TURNER
Ate too many cookies and nearly threw up on the ice.
Offended that you’re blaming my baking.
Have you considered you might just be out of shape?
No. I can show you if you like.
I’m good. I’ll take your word for it.
How’s your cake?
Being victimized by eggshells but otherwise okay so far.
Want help?
Do you know how to make a cake?
I don’t know how to do a lot of things.
Doesn’t mean I’m not good at it.
That’s the most confident nonanswer ever.
Are you not tired from hockey?
Exhausted. What’s your address?
I stare at my screen for at least forty-five seconds before typing out my address for him. As soon as I hit send I immediately start to panic, scanning the chaos I’ve created in the kitchen and mentally recapping the mess in the rest of the house. It was fine when he was coming over in two days because I had two days to make this place look presentable, and now I have, what? Fifteen minutes at most?
It’s not a total disaster, but I’m not confident there isn’t a bra or pair of panties somewhere they shouldn’t be. It takes me seven minutes to sprint around the house scanning for stray items, and a further four to clear up the random Tupperware littering my counters. It would have taken me less, but Joy followed me into every single room.
I don’t blame her; she’s probably never seen me move so quickly. When Henry knocks on the door a minute later, I’m still wondering if I’ve done enough. He looks me up and down lazily as I pull the door open. “You’re very sweaty,” is the only thing he says.
I want to tell him it’s because I’ve been running around my house like a woman possessed, trying to ensure he isn’t going to be hit by an errant piece of lace when he walks into a room while also trying not to fall over a cat, but I don’t.
“The kitchen is hot with the oven on,” I say. “Come in.”
I notice the sketchbook tucked under his arm before I notice the gray sweatpants, and for that, I feel like I deserve some sort of praise. I follow him through the doorway and he takes a seat at the breakfast bar opposite where I’ve set out all of the ingredients. Joy looks up from her bed in the kitchen and immediately makes a beeline for Henry. “You’re not allergic to cats, are you?” I ask, instantly relieved when he shakes his head. “Good, because she loves affection.”