“I’ll definitely look that up,” Henry says, looking impressed. “What got you into the furniture thing?”
“It started as a hobby. I’ve been doing it since high school.”
“I’d love to see it.” He reaches for his drink, a pilsner, which is so different than the froufrou concoction Thomas was just drinking.
The thought of Thomas makes my stomach fill with unease. So help me if this idea of his backfires—I’ll never forgive him.
Just leave out the whole news thing, he’d said. Tell him about that tacky furniture thing you do. A few dates in, you can tell him about the whole news debacle thing you’ve gotten yourself into.
I grabbed on to the idea like a rope on the back of a speedboat pulling me through a large wake. But now that I’m sitting across from Henry, my thoughts are all over the place. I don’t want to start something that could end up white picket fences and blue front doors with a lie. I’ll tell him soon. Next date. If there is one. Gosh, I hope there is.
“What do you do?” I say, sitting back in my chair, feeling relieved to move the conversation away from me.
This time it’s Henry’s turn to fidget in his chair. “I’m in . . . er . . . entertainment.”
Entertainment? Oh my, is Henry famous and I’m so dense I didn’t even pick up on it? He’s certainly handsome enough to be, with that strong jawline and those brilliant blue eyes.
Pictures of a red carpet and flashing camera lights run through my head. Henry in a tux waving at adoring fans, me on his arm in a red dress with a plummeting neckline. Vitriol emanating from the fans as they see me connected to this man who only has eyes for me.
Control yourself, Quinn.
“What kind of entertainment?” I ask, leaning toward Henry, my interest piqued.
He reaches up and scratches the back of his neck. He lets out a sigh. “Well, see, it’s all a bit under the radar right now.” His smile is a grimace.
“Are you famous?” The words fall out of my mouth like a word vomit waterfall.
“No,” he says. “Not famous.”
I feel a mixture of relief and disappointment at this info.
“I’m still in the interviewing stages, and it’s . . . er . . . it’s not meant to be known.”
“Oh,” I say, nodding my head in understanding. “Contracts?”
“Yeah.” His tone of surprise and the instantaneous furrow of his brow alert me to my faux pas. Why would a person who restores furniture know anything about entertainment contracts?
But I know those kinds of contracts in and out, and I know how important it is to keep them secret until word gets out. I replaced a well-loved reporter who was retiring at the station when I first got hired. I wasn’t even allowed to tell my friends exactly where I was going until the station made the announcement. I mean, I still did, but I wasn’t supposed to.
“I have a cousin in the business,” I say, the lie rolling off my tongue like an eighth grader trying to work her way into the popular crowd. I’ve always been good at coming up with half-truths and lies on the fly, but it’s not something I brag about. It does come in handy in situations like this, though.
“Ah,” he says, and a look of camaraderie crosses his face. I think he appreciates that I understand him. Or rather, my cousin does. Gah.
Yes sir, we may have a lot more in common than you think.
“Is it Disney? Universal?”
“No,” he says, shaking his head.
There are so many options, but one hangs on my tongue, and even as I try to swallow it back, it can’t be held in. “Television?” I squeak out.
His eyebrows pop up. “Perhaps.”
“News?” I wrap my hand around my wineglass, trying to steady myself, but then realize the anticipation filling me as I await his answer has my grip tightening around the bowl of the glass so hard I might crush it. I let go quickly and place my hands in my lap.
Henry’s lips pull downward. “Definitely not.”
There’s a lot I could read into that answer. His tone, his frown. I don’t really know Henry, but there was definitely a note of distaste in those two words.
I’m suddenly glad I only told him about the furniture thing.
It would appear that Henry doesn’t like the news. That’s cool. Totally cool. Maybe I’ll wait until date number three to tell him the truth. If there is a date number three.
Henry runs a hand through his hair. “Do you have any siblings?”
Okay. Cue taken. We’re changing the subject. I’m totally on board with this.
“Yep, a sister. She’s three years younger than me. You?”
“Same. Just a sister. Maggie. She’s two years older than me, though. She’s back in London. Married, two kids.”
“You’re an uncle.”
“I am,” he says, and there’s a twinkle of pride in those blue eyes, and I may have spontaneously gotten pregnant. Just now.
The sound of glass crashing on the ground halts our conversation, and all eyes turn to the bar, where a red-faced bartender waves awkwardly, taking ownership of the mishap.
“Parents?” I ask, bringing Henry’s attention back to me.
Henry lifts one brow, then lets it drop. “Orphan.”
“Shut up,” I say after an initial moment of what-have-I-asked washes over me at the look on his face. The quick upturn of his lips lets me know he’s teasing. “You know what I mean. Are they still married? Divorced?”
“My mum and dad are still together,” he says. “Yours?”
“We’re an anomaly.”
“An anomaly?”
“My parents are still together as well.” Although I’m not sure what’s kept them together. They’re so different. But opposites attract and all that.
Henry holds up his drink toward me. “To not being a statistic.” I grab my glass by the stem and clink it with his.
The conversation moves back to the weather. With other people I’m trying to get to know, I’d think of that as a red flag—talking about the heat and humidity around here. It’s so . . . boring. In fact, Boring Brady and I talk about the weather a lot. But it’s not boring with Henry. Any topic with him seems worthwhile. Also, that accent is so mesmerizing, he could be reading me the periodic table and I think I’d listen with rapt attention.
A couple sitting a few tables away from us gets up and walks toward the exit. His hand on her lower back as they leave. I look back at Henry, who’s running a hand down his face.
“I’m a bit knackered,” he says and then looks at his Apple Watch. “I’ve got another round of interviews tomorrow. Mind if we call it?”
“Sure,” I say, backing my chair away from the table. Henry follows suit.
I go to move toward the door, and I feel Henry’s hand lightly on my lower back as we walk toward the exit, just like the couple that exited before us. A trickle of excitement travels down my spine, that two-story craftsman-style house making a reappearance. I don’t even chastise myself for it.
“Are you far from here?” Henry asks as we walk out the doors of the air-conditioned bar and into the extra warm night, the humidity wrapping around me like a blanket.
“I’m just a few minutes’ walk that way,” I say, pointing toward the high-rise building that I live in. It has blue lights going up the side of it, making it easy to spot.