3. Henry

CHAPTER 3

HENRY

"Whoever said the best way to get over a man is to get under another must've had way more game than me. Seriously," I say, dipping a chip into some excellent queso.

Zayden French, my best friend from college—before I dropped out—waves a hand in the air. He stopped by to cheer me up, which I appreciate, even if it isn't working. "You've got game. You just haven't been successful yet." That's easy for him to say. He's dating Turner Graff, the most popular guy on campus. He's forgotten how much he hated Turner at first.

Zay and I met because we were both art majors, but Zay's way more stylish than I am, in an industrial goth way. "Opposites attract" apparently works for friendships, too.

Regardless, nothing's working for me at the moment. I point two fingers at my chest. "Geek of the week over here, trying to be a playa. And failing miserably."

"You tried one time to be a playa, with the sexy-as-sin but very rule-following father of your cheating ex-boyfriend. That's barely trying," he scoffs. "You should ask CUPID."

I raise both eyebrows. "You're aware that the chubby baby someone gave a bow and arrow to doesn't exist. And while I'm on the topic, why would someone give a baby a bow and arrow? It's illogical. Or at least dangerous."

Zay laughs. "Ignoring the fact that you're ridiculous, the CUPID I'm talking about is a computer program that's part of Heart2Heart. It matches you up with a date."

"No." I cross my arms over my chest. "Oh my God. Absolutely not."

Mimicking my tone, he says, "Oh my God, absolutely yes! It's the best idea. If you really want to get under someone, this will totally work. It's supposed to take care of everything. You don't even have to talk to the guy before you show up for your date. I have a friend who swears by Heart2Heart."

"No."

"Why are you saying no? I thought you were a geek trying to be a playa."

I pause. "I did say that, didn't I." I bite my lip. "I guess I want to be a playa with a known entity, not a stranger."

When I propositioned Keane, although my motives may have been driven in part—okay, a lot—by a desire for revenge, the truth is more complicated. Even though I don't know him all that well, I've always felt comfortable with him. Like I could be myself. On some level, I must have thought there was a chance he'd say yes.

But the way he said no, with what sounded like sincere regret, has haunted me since then. Haunted me in a way that's made me horny beyond belief.

It's not every day that my crush tells me he has a crush on me but is too honorable to do something about it. That kind of declaration does things to a guy. At the very least, it made me feel amazing and horrible at the same time.

Zayden reads my hesitation over this whole online hookup/dating thing and says, "You don't have to put out on a date. You can just talk."

I snort. "Who says ‘put out' anymore? It's not 1980."

"How would you know what they said in 1980?"

"Valid point. See? I'm not good at peopling. Or small talk."

"You talk fine with me," Zay says soothingly. "And CUPID is supposed to be super good at picking the right people for each other, so it should be easy. Just be yourself. If you can't open up and chat with him, if he doesn't make you feel comfortable, then leave. That's all there is to it." He says this like it's so simple.

"I'll think about it," I mutter. But I know he'll talk me into downloading the app and letting an algorithm pick my next man.

I thought I could make the short block from my car to the coffee shop without getting drenched, but nope. Poor planning on my part. I studied art, not weather—and a fat lot of good that does me, running a bed-and-breakfast. In any case, my clothes are soaked through.

As the rain pours down, turning the world gray, I duck under the awning in front of Patterson Hardware and peer out at the cute little main street of my wine-loving hometown. It's a few blocks of vintage buildings and tourist shops, all clearly in denial that weather other than sunshine exists, judging by the proprietors who are rushing to pull in racks of postcards. Unruly wine grapes tamed into neat, trellised lines because of irrigation, not precipitation, cover the hills surrounding us. This kind of dumping-down storm is rare, but we've been having a succession of them, and it feels like maybe we're getting over a long drought. I know I'd be happy to end another kind of drought.

Except that's not going to happen if I'm stuck under this awning.

Ugh. I'm going to be late. I got the timing exactly wrong, which is very on brand for me. Like last month when I walked in on Kerrigan …

Never mind. Not going there. Today's a brand-new opportunity for a fresh start! Even my inner thoughts are falsely cheerful. In reality, my gut says It's Valentine's Day. Ugh.

Of course I bowed to Zayden's peer pressure and agreed to sign up for a CUPID date on the Heart2Heart app, which, by some computer magic, set up a date for me—down to the time and location—with a total stranger. Although I set the geographical bounds to a radius of fifty miles, the app managed to find someone local. It arranged everything. I just have to show up at the Southwinds Coffee shop across the street.

Needless to say, I'm incredibly nervous, and it's not because (as far as I know) banana muffin barista still works there.

As I wait for this frigging monsoon to subside—which isn't happening, by the way—a tall figure hustles to join me under the awning. He's standing a few feet behind me, so I don't initially get a good look.

I glance at him again, trying not to be obvious about it, and I freeze. "Keane?"

Keane Fitzpatrick stares at me, and a smile takes over his face. Rivulets of rain drip down the side of his chiseled jaw. "Henry?"

He's wearing a black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and black dress pants with shiny loafers, all of which are plastered to his very nice body. Well, not the shoes.

Fuck you, anxiety, for making me overexplain things even inside my own head .

"Yeah, that's me. Um. Hi," I say awkwardly. Because how exactly do you chat with your cheating ex's father, who you thereafter asked to fuck you?

"How've you been?"

I want to say I've been a total mess since your son screwed me over, and I'm still embarrassed over my revenge plan with you that never got off the ground .

What I actually say is, "I'm okay. Except it's really coming down." I want to kick myself for being so unoriginal.

"You got that right."

I shiver because his voice is wonderfully low and deep—not startlingly so, like those little guys with baritone voices that don't match their bodies. More like … he's a man . Yum.

He gives me a searching look. "Are you sure you're okay? You're soaked and shivering."

"Yeah." I chuckle. "To be fair to both of us, we don't usually need any kind of rain gear around here." I glance down. "I shouldn't have worn white because now I look like I'd win a wet T-shirt contest in Daytona Beach—if the contestants were male and wore dress shirts to a wet T-shirt contest, which now that I think about it is highly unlikely and would probably require that the contest be renamed. Also, it's February, so a little early for spring break. Tell that to my exposed nips, though."

Note to self: Don't mention wet T-shirt contests or nipples to your ex's hot dad. And stop rambling.

Keane studies me, lingering on said nips for a beat too long, but I like his eyes on me. "I wish I had a coat to give you."

"That's okay. It'll ease up, I'm sure." I force a smile. "I'm a big fan of rain viewed from inside somewhere warm and dry when I have a blanket and a cup of tea and a sketch pad."

"It's definitely better that way," he agrees. "Rain can have a certain … charm."

"Do you know the word ‘petrichor'?" I ask before I can stop my motor mouth. I stare out at the dumping rain so I don't have to see Keane's sure-to-be-exasperated expression.

"The scent of rain on dry earth." I can hear the smile in his voice. "I like crossword puzzles, and that word comes up sometimes."

I'm amazed for two reasons. First, that he knows the word, although I suppose it's not that special. But second, because he's not laughing at me the way everyone else seems to. "It's the most romantic word I know."

"Well, I can't do much about romance, but I wish I could buy you a cup of tea across the street so you could at least have part of your fantasy," he says. "Except I'm late. I'm meeting someone in Southwinds."

"Me, too. Late and… meeting someone."

"Huh."

I furrow my brows. "You're not …"

"You don't think …" Keane gestures between us. "You're not my date, are you? From the Heart2Heart app?"

My cheeks burn as I nod. "I think maybe I am. Are you user2423? I'm supposed to meet him at twelve thirty."

"Yes." He pauses for just a moment too long, as if he's doing the same analysis I am.

First, and most importantly, the algorithm deities decided Keane Fitzpatrick should be my fucking Valentine's Day date. Are you kidding me, universe? Is this a joke? Did it track my GPS and know that I asked him to fuck me?

Worse—now that I've had a little time to reflect, in what circumstances do Keane and I make sense? He has his life together. I … don't. I'm too young. We're a bad idea. He was absolutely right to turn me down.

And in any case, if he got to know me better, he'd think I'm too anxious for him. Too much of a hot mess. Keane Fitzpatrick is the stuff crushes are made of: a prosperous winery owner with elegant manners and lifestyle.

Let's not ignore the fact that he's my ex-boyfriend's dad . Sure, I had the evil idea that it would be fun to use Keane to get back at Kerrigan, but after driving home and burying myself in my art, I realized that was a very bad thought for a nice boy like me to be having. In addition to it not being respectful to Keane, what would really happen if Kerrigan found out I'd slept with his dad?

He'd flip. (That's putting it mildly.) And I'm not in the mental space to deal with that. I have more important things to focus on. Like running the bed-and-breakfast my wacky aunt left me.

At last, Keane seems to make a decision and holds out his hand. "C'mon. Let's get both of us something warm to drink. We can take it to go, and you can come back to my house and we can talk some more. I'll give you something dry to wear."

The fact that he's not rejecting me off the bat sends butterflies fluttering around my stomach. Because the truth is, I do want to spend time with him, even if it can't mean anything more.

So I smile and nod gratefully. "Sure."

I slip my hand into his, and we dash across the street.

I'm in so much trouble.