“Train, I imagine. Unless she stole a car. With that kid’s attitude, I wouldn’t be shocked.” A moment later, Henry emerges with pants on.
I admire his torso as he tugs a black sweater over his head. “What are you going to do?”
“There’s only one thing to do. Talk to Audrey.”
The version of Henry I know well is back—calm, take charge, unruffled. “And you’re sure Violet is yours?” I ask, though I already know the answer to that. I saw it in her face.
“Yes, she’s mine. My father insisted on a paternity test as part of the contract. He probably gave them my toothbrush as a sample.”
“Of course he did.” If William wanted the test and didn’t want Henry to know, then the test would run and Henry wouldn’t be the wiser.
“It doesn’t matter what my father did or didn’t do in the past. He’s gone and I’m here, and I have a child I now know about. I can’t ignore that, even if I might want to.” Henry collects his wallet and watch from the dresser. “I’ll be back later.”
“Wait, you’re going now?” I check the bedside clock. It’s a quarter to ten on a Sunday morning.
“It’ll be noon by the time I get there.”
“Right.” Of course, he wouldn’t waste time. This is Henry, after all. But a twinge of worry pricks me. Henry is running out the door to meet the mother of his child, his horny teenage conquest.
And he’s doing it without me.
No, he’s not.
“Give me fifteen minutes to get ready.”
His jaw tenses. “I think it’s best if—”
“I’m coming with you, Henry. Don’t you dare try to tell me otherwise.” I force as much confidence in my voice as I can muster, sliding out of bed.
He tracks my body—clad in a tank top and panties—as I stroll past him into the closet.
But he doesn’t argue.
In fact, from the corner of my eye, I think I catch a smile.
My face blanches as I read the email. “Zaheera is recommending a first batch run of five thousand soaps for mid-November.”
“It’s a small start,” Henry says, his focus on the business section of the newspaper.
“A small start?” I gape at him. “I haven’t sold that many bars in all my years of making soap, combined.”
“And I’m sure you’ll be sold out in under a day. They would have run the numbers. They know what they’re doing. Trust them.”
“I do. Of course I do. This marketing campaign they’re going out with is insane.” I flip through the presentation deck, filled with taglines and graphics, and Farm Girl Soap product reviews they’ve collected from Margo and her high-society friends, as well as a list of influencers they’re targeting.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Nothing. I’m nervous.” What if everyone is wrong? What if they think too highly of my product? Of me?
Victor turns onto a quiet street where quaint houses line each side, their lawns sprinkled with fallen leaves and the odd bicycle. I count six basketball hoops and two hockey nets as we creep along. Speaking of being nervous … “Mrs. Robinson found a cute little neighborhood to hide in.”
Henry’s eyebrow arches, but there’s no amusement in the look. “I didn’t agree to you coming so you could attack her. If you can’t be civil—”
“I’ll be on my best behavior.” I cross my finger over my chest, drawing his interest downward over the fitted poppy red V-neck sweater I chose. One of his favorites. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t choose it because I wanted to look especially good next to his teenage paramour.
His eyes settle there, and I can almost read the split second of depraved thoughts flittering through his mind. At some point, this tension is going to get the better of Henry, and I know how he likes to manage his stress levels: with me pinned against a wall or bent over a table.
I can’t wait.
“Did Dyson say if she was married?” Audrey would be about forty-six now. Is she still smoking hot by Henry’s standards?
He folds the newspaper and sets it on the seat beside him. “No, she’s never been married from what he could see.”
“Because her boyfriends still have a curfew.”
“Abbi …”
“Best behavior! I swear.” I hold up my hands in surrender.
“Yes, I remember your best behavior with Kiera at my father’s funeral. I believe you tried to crush her hand.”