Daydream (Maple Hills, #3)(9)

Is. Maybe? Possibly, depending on the hallucination thing.

Starting a brand-new book club has had my nerves out of control all day, not to mention I’ve had an excessive amount of caffeine. I’d originally said no when the owner of Enchanted asked me to run her book club last term, because I thought running two would be too much work. However, in a slightly frantic I’ll show you, Will Ellington!–type moment, when I saw her at the store’s opening night, I told her my schedule had opened up. Meaning the two weeks since Will and I split have involved me zooming around to try to ensure this venture isn’t a flop.

The “real” first session is next week, but when I started posting about the club, many of the prospective members asked for a welcome session to get a feel for what to expect. I picked a book that most people said they’d already read to give us something to talk about.

So, under the circumstances, hallucination is not quite as unbelievable as it may have originally sounded. I will admit, though, if I am hallucinating, my imagination has certainly stepped it up.

When he takes a seat and picks up a book from the pile beside his chair, I decide, albeit not confidently, that he’s real. Which brings me to my next predicament: introducing myself.

Introductions have always been my least favorite part of book club. I’ve spent my life relying on Grayson, or, as a teen, Will, to make introductions for me. Even Gigi and Maisie, my younger sisters, are better at it than I am.

This has always been the one place they haven’t been able to pick up the slack socially. It’s not that I don’t know how to have a conversation with people; I just don’t know where to start. Once I have started, I spend the conversation worrying if I’m making a good first impression. I wouldn’t call myself shy; I’ve just spent my life around louder, more dominant personalities, which has never allowed me to properly challenge myself to get confident in these scenarios.

However, books are a great equalizer, and I just need to remember that everyone comes here with the same purpose.

Thankfully he’s so engrossed in reading the back of his book that he hasn’t noticed my minor confidence crisis in the corner of the room. The more I stare—to work out what to say, not to be a creep—the more I’m beginning to feel like I know him from somewhere.

Right on cue, he leans back in his chair to stretch for another cookie from the table, and the hem of his T-shirt rises enough to reveal a sliver of light brown skin covering his solid, muscular stomach.

I know he isn’t one of my neighbors, given that I’m surrounded by senior citizens.

And he isn’t in my major, because I would not forget him.

I don’t go to parties, so I can rule that out.

He isn’t here with anyone, so he doesn’t appear to be someone’s boyfriend.

Maybe he’s a model and I’ve seen him on a billboard. He has the bone structure for it, my God. Sharp and yet soft at the same time, an oxymoron I know, but it makes sense with his face, I swear. Reddish-brown curls cut short. Dark lashes line his brown eyes, fanning against his cheek as he watches me. Full lips settled in a relaxed smile. Wait, as he watches me.

As. He. Watches. Me.

It could be my imagination and/or the coffee again, but I swear he smirks. I’ve never broken eye contact so quickly in my life.

“Hi!” I choke out as I speed across the hardwood floor toward him. “Welcome to book club!”

My God, he’s even prettier up close. I’m firmly backing my billboard theory. I make the split-second decision as I reach him not to shake his hand, because not only would it mean I had to do it to every other person who comes in here, it’s also really weird. What I’m slowly realizing is my brain is coming out of a deep slumber and it’s just remembering that other men exist, and some of them look like models. I give him my most welcoming smile, and God, I really feel like I know him from somewhere. “Hi, I’m Halle.”

“Henry.”

“Hi.” You’ve said that. “Have we met?”

“No. I’d remember you,” he says. Ironic, because I’d definitely say the same thing about him, but I still can’t place him. “Do you want some help with the chairs?”

“I’m well practiced doing it by myself, don’t worry.” Henry ignores me and stands to start repositioning the chairs anyway, so I copy, even though it was my task in the first place. It’s so quiet up here and I feel like this might be the worst I’ve ever been at welcoming someone to group. Say something, Halle. “So, big fan of romance?”

“Are you asking me out?” he asks, and the chair I’m holding slips out of my hand and crashes to the floor.

“What? No!” I say, my voice rising a few octaves.

“That’s a shame.” If I wasn’t already blushing, I definitely am now. “Kinda sounded like you were hitting on me.”

There are tomatoes that will never be as red as me right now. “Oh shit, I’m sorry. I was just asking about your reading preferences.”

He heads toward the storage room to get more chairs and looks back at me over his shoulder. “I don’t really have any. I’m more of a hands-on person.”

“Oh, so you’re hoping to get into reading romance?”

“No,” he says, dragging a stack of chairs like they weigh absolutely nothing.