Page 38 of A Play For The Heart
“Exactly! He told me he was taking out the trash and forgot his key card. And his pants apparently. He was so embarrassed that he avoided me for a week. I would see him and break out in laughter. I couldn't help myself.”
Everyone at the table laughs at my expense and Sawyer reassuringly pats my arm. Our thighs are still pressed together and the movement shifted her closer to me.
“In my defense, I was just trying to clean up before bed. I don't remember losing my pants in the process.”
Sawyer is right that I avoided her. But not because she kept laughing at me. It was because I got a boner the moment I saw her in her pajamas and the image of her was so seared into my brain that it took me a week to mentally recover enough to face her.
My feelings were haywire then. I now have a tighter leash on them.
Everyone else shares their embarrassing drinking stories to make me feel better, but if it makes Sawyer laugh, I would embarrass myself every single day.
Throughout the night I feel Sawyer looking at me every so often, and I feel the warmth of her thigh against mine constantly. I peer at her from the corner of my eye each time and she quickly looks away when she gets caught. Maren catches my eye after one of the moments and winks at me.
Maren’s comments and the way Sawyer reacted to my touch bounces around my mind far after we leave the bar. It consumes my mind as I get ready for bed. I replay the quick glances and soft smiles. It feels like a herd of wildebeest is stampeding in my stomach and I feel lightheaded thinking about what it all may mean.
Maren may be right.
CHAPTER 18
“But I can't help the fact that my mind keeps track of everywhere your hands have been to”
that was then—Emily James
Sawyer
I’vebeenreplayingthesame moment in my mind since Friday night. Henry and I at Longboards. His hand reaching out and tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. His electric blue eyes on mine while his hand lingered for half a second. His hard thigh pressed against mine underneath the booth.
Two. Long. Days.
The same memories on repeat.
I groan. Not being able to shake the image is torture. Part of me revels in the memory, at the way goosebumps broke out across my skin when he touched me. How my heart began to race when his hand closed the space between us. The other part of me, the more logical part of me, is very concerned about the reaction I had towards him touching my hair. It was an entirely platonic interaction, there’s no reason to get all worked up over a little hair touch.Right?
I collect the snacks from the pantry and drop them onto the coffee table, next to the bottles of wine and assortment of face masks. It’s Sunday night, which means it’s the first official meeting of the book club Maren created. She started reading some fantasy romance with faeries and decided that Nathalie and I had to read it. We all quickly became obsessed and decided we needed weekly girl nights or book club meetings to talk about the brooding, morally gray main characters who are too sexy for their own good.
I connect my phone to the TV and turn on the book club playlist Nathalie crafted for the night, full of Taylor Swift and 2000s throwbacks. That girl has a playlist for every situation under the sun.
Sad? Listen to ‘These aren’t tears, *sniffles*.’
Angry? Try ‘fist meet face’.
Decided to go for a run then instantly regret it? Take a listen to ‘I have made a grave error’.
A knock on the door signals Natalie’s arrival. I yell to Maren as I open the door for Nathalie. As usual, she shows up with snacks, even though I told her I had it covered. She bulldozes past me into the kitchen with the Cheez-Its and Oreos in her hands. Her purse dangles at her waist, a bag of Cheetos sticking out. My mouth salivates from the hot orange color. It’s a Pavlovian response.
“I finally finished chapter fifty-five and I have things to say,” Nathalie says as a way of greeting.
I know exactly what scene she’s talking about, and I also have several things to say about it. For example, how did the paint not get into areas where paint should never be? The logistics seem questionable, and I haven’t been able to work out how it wasn’t wildly uncomfortable and messy. And did not lead to a horrible UTI. Wait, do they even have UTIs in a fantasy world?
“Book Club!” Maren yells as she makes her way into the living room. Her hair is pulled back into a bun and she wears another signature science shirt. This time it’s different coral species. I made the mistake of asking about it earlier and had to listen to her ramble for twenty minutes about reefs and climate change and ocean acidification. At least her soap-box speeches are making me smarter.
Nathalie and I flop onto the couch beside her, the two of us dressed down in preparation for pampering.
“I need wine for this. I have a feeling I’m going to be defending my opinions,” Maren pours herself a large glass of white wine, then slides the wine bottle in our direction. Wine in hand, we begin to debate the different male characters. Maren starts by ripping all of them to shreds, except one who she describes as “a tall, sexy man with tattoos who can do no wrong.” I decide not to mention that she basically described Jack because I don’t feel like being boob punched. I already have to deal with the back pain the ten-pound beasts give me, the last thing I need is the pain from a boob punch added to it. And I know Maren can pack a punch. Nathalie argues that the quiet one, who barely spoke in the books, is a misunderstood soul. I'm not sure how you can determine that someone is misunderstood if they barely speak, but I digress. I’m not here to yuck someone's yum. I adore the main character, who is so deeply in love with his mate it is almost too sweet.
We go back and forth on theories and predictions for the next books, and all choose a face mask to put on. Maren splurged on expensive ones made with natural ingredients so the colors are wild. While we wait for the time to pass to take the face masks off, I gorge myself on Cheetos while Maren dives into the ridiculous theories she has come up with. Right as Maren and Nathalie begin to debate redemption arcs, the doorbell rings. I glance at Maren, wondering if she’s expecting anyone. Enthralled in the debate, Maren doesn’t even acknowledge the doorbell. Her hands fly around as her argument turns passionate. I get up from my spot on the couch to answer the door. I peer through the peephole first and my heart stammers.
On the other side of the door, Henry is standing in the hallway, wringing his hands together and shifting on his feet. He looks almost nervous. I swing the door open, and his eyes shoot up from the ground and land on me. They go wide in shock.
