Naughty or Nice

12. Rora

12

RORA

DECEMBER 10

I did the math on the ride to the restaurant: seven thousand dollars. This man spent just shy of seven thousand dollars on me like it was no big deal. Because he “wanted to”. What the hell kind of answer is that?

I was already planning on inviting him in when we get back to Wintermore to thank him for such a mind-blowing orgasm in the car, but now I have to pull out the big guns first.

“Take that road on the right and just follow it until you get to the parking lot,” I say, pointing out the exit to Henry.

He does as I say, peering curiously up the long single-track road. But there’s nothing to see but fluffy snow and branches struggling under its weight. Until we turn and come face to face with thousands of Christmas lights, that is.

Henry’s eyes light up brighter than all of them combined as he pulls into the parking lot, perfectly parking in the first free space he comes across.

“Holy shit. This is incredible.” He gets out of the car and spins around, taking them all in.

Even I can admit that it’s pretty; lights of every color hang from the trees, and there’s not an inch of the restaurant’s facade not glowing or twinkling.

“What is this place?” Henry asks, his face illuminated by the blue lights on the branch above him.

“Just wait until you see the inside,” I say, holding out my hand without thinking. I almost snatch it back, because logic tells me that holding his hand is significantly more intimate than coming all over his fingers a couple of hours ago, but Henry takes it, engulfing my palm.

I lead him across the parking lot, pushing backward through the restaurant’s front door so I can watch his jaw drop when he first sees it. And drop, it does. The second we walk into the restaurant, Henry looks like… Well, like a kid in a Christmas themed restaurant, I suppose. He drags his gaze slowly over every inch of the place, taking in the details.

There’s a tree at every table, and the ceiling beams are covered in pine garlands and more lights. Ornaments dangle from the ceiling, and the walls are covered in decorations, from giant candy canes to portraits of Santa, to wreaths.

He looks at me with a soft, uncertain smile. “You brought me to a Christmas restaurant? You must hate this.”

“I knew you’d love it,” I reply, ignoring the part where I definitely hate it. He doesn’t, and I like that .

His smile stretches into something blinding. “This is… Wow,” Henry says as he spots the life-size nutcracker by the door.

The hostess waiting at the stand chuckles, clutching a couple of menus to her chest. “First time?”

I nod, struggling to drag my eyes from Henry. He looks so fucking happy; my heart is damn near beating out of my chest. “He loves Christmas.”

“Well, in that case, you’ve come to the right place. Just the two of you?”

When I confirm, she leads us into the restaurant. “If you don’t mind me saying, you’re kind of giving me Santa vibes,” she says, giving Henry a once-over.

“I’ve heard that before.” He winks at me.

“I’m sure.” She’s smiling at him, and I have the sudden urge to drag Henry right back out of the restaurant .

Smiling at customers is her job , I remind myself. Not that I should need to remind myself of anything, obviously.

“Rora?” Henry squeezes my hand, and I jump.

“Huh?”

“Is a booth okay?” the hostess asks.

“Sure.”

I have to let go of Henry’s hand to slide into the booth. The benches are covered in red velvet, but it’s not nearly as soft as Henry’s suit. We thank the hostess as she sets menus in front of us, and before she’s even walked away, Henry reaches across the table to take my hand again.

“You okay?” he asks, his brow furrowed.

“I’m fine.” And for a reason I couldn’t come up with if you paid me, I force my lips into a strained smile.

This only serves to concern Henry more. Understandable, since I’m not sure I’ve ever actually smiled around him. It’s not like I keep track of when I smile, but it’s not often.

I squeeze his hand and focus on the menu in front of me, hoping we can just pretend that never happened. “The menu’s Christmas themed, too,” I explain, clearing my throat and proceeding to read the menu aloud to him as if he doesn’t have his own.

I’m halfway through the entrees when he places his free hand flat on the menu. “What’s going on here, sugar?”

I keep my eyes trained on the table. “I’m reading the menu,” I reply like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Mm.” Henry catches my chin with his finger and gently raises my head until I’m forced to look at him. “Yeah, I got that. I was talking more about the little breakdown you seem to be in the middle of.”

“Ah, yes. That.” I swallow. “I don’t really want to talk about that.” But it’s becoming impossible not to think about, no matter how many kooky Christmas themed menu items I read.

I’m jealous of the hostess. And for what? Because she smiled at a man I barely know? Because she’s smiley and works in a Christmas restaurant, and is so much better suited to a man like Henry than me—someone who hates his favorite thing and never smiles?

It’s all stupid. Neither of us is well-suited to Henry because he’s about to start a job that involves traveling all over the globe, and he doesn’t do long distance. And neither do I. Our night together was just us scratching an itch. And the car was … harder to justify.

I barely know him, but I know I like him. Like, really like him. Fuck.

I sit back against the soft velvet booth and take a deep breath. If I can’t turn these feelings off, and I’m not sure I can, I might as well get to know him a little better. This thing between us isn’t going anywhere, but we’re here now.

“You said earlier that you’ve been meaning to get a new hobby. What do you do for fun? Watching me aside.”

Henry looks momentarily confused at the sudden subject change, but he takes it in stride. “I like to paint. Nothing crazy, just little doodles and stuff like that. It’s a stress relief, mostly, but it’s so hard to do when I’m traveling. And I listen to a lot of music.”

“What kind of music?” I ask, because if I think about him painting, I’m going to think about him messy, and that’s not a good idea for anyone.

“Anything but acid rock and jazz,” Henry replies, wrinkling his nose. “I go through genre phases, but I’ll try most things. I can spend hours just listening to a bunch of albums straight through.”

“I can’t remember the last time I listened to an album from start to finish. I’m more of a shuffled playlist kind of girl,” I admit, and Henry laughs, his eyes twinkling sapphire.

“Albums are a dying art, but I like listening to things how artists intended them to be listened to.”

“What are your favorites? ”

I could listen to Henry talking about the things he loves for hours. I soak in every word, every detail of his face and excited gesture of his hand as he talks me through the albums he’s been listening to lately. He doesn’t just listen to the music; he analyzes it, going so far as to doing research to find out the context behind the songs.

I promise to listen to some of his favorites, even suggesting we get Noelle to play some at the store. He shuts that down quickly, well aware I’m just trying to wriggle out of listening to Christmas music.

“What about you?” Henry asks once our table is laden down with food. Apparently, my menu-monologuing made everything sound good, and he wanted to try it all.

I spear a maple-glazed parsnip with my fork. “What about me?”

“What do you do when you’re not working? The game thing you play?”

I fight a laugh. As much as he looks like a kid on Christmas in here, he’s never sounded older. “It’s called a Switch, and yeah, that’s mostly what I do. I can play it anywhere, so it’s perfect for traveling.”

“What do you play?”

Trying to explain the concept of Animal Crossing to someone who hasn’t played a video game in twenty years goes about as well as expected. I pull out my Switch and show Henry my island while we wait for dessert and, once he sees it, he’s immediately intrigued. I’m not surprised; he’s exactly the kind of person I’d expect to be into cozy games.

Something about sharing little parts of ourselves leaves me feeling simultaneously lighter and heavier as we leave the restaurant, anchored hand in hand. The drive home is far less eventful than the drive to Jackson, and we make it back to Wintermore without incident, listening to a folk album Henry swore I’d like. He was right .

Dusk bleeds over the sky as he pulls into my parents’ driveway and kills the engine.

“Do you want to come in?” I ask, my voice suddenly feeling too loud in the twilight hush.

Henry doesn’t respond for a moment, and I worry I’ve seriously misjudged things.

Shit. The way he was holding my hand at the restaurant, the way he slid into the both next to me so we could look at my Switch together and share dessert… I’ve clearly been seeing something that wasn’t there. I should just?—

“I do,” he replies, finally.

Oh. Never mind the spiraling, then.

“But come here. I want to talk first.” He taps his thigh.

I unclip my seatbelt, climb over the center console, and settle on his lap.

“This is becoming a habit.”

“I don’t mind.” He cups my chin, his face inches from mine.

I want to pull out my camera and take a close-up picture of his eyes so I can count all the individual shades of blue, so I can zoom in and trace the flecks of violet. But I’m not so far gone that I can’t recognize that would be completely unhinged behavior.

“I want to make sure you’re inviting me in because you want me to come in and not because you feel any kind of obligation to me for the camera,” Henry says, running his thumb across the apple of my cheek.

My skin pebbles under his touch, the sweet scent of him so fucking intoxicating it takes a second for his words to sink in.

I place my hand atop his on my cheek. “I want you to come in because I want you , Henry. One night was never going to be enough, no matter how much I tried to tell myself it was.”

His fingers twitch against my face, and he sucks in a shaky breath. “I like you, sugar. I can’t pretend I don’t, but we’re both leaving in a few weeks and it’s going to hurt like hell.”

“Probably,” I agree. “I hate goodbyes, but I’m used to them. ”

My parents went on their first photography trip without me when I was eight months old, and I can’t even count the number of times we’ve said goodbye to each other over the years. And I said goodbye to Wintermore the second I could, but I come back once or twice a year and go through it all over again when I leave the Whittens. They drop me at the airport and I play it cool until I’m out of their sight, then I cry my way through security. Just like every time I see my parents and we part ways. It hurts, but it hurts because I care about them, and that’s not a bad thing.

“I’m okay with it hurting later if it means I don’t have to hide how much I care about you now.”

Henry looks momentarily stunned before a soft, bittersweet smile falls across his lips. “I’m okay with that, too. Let’s go inside.”