I bang again as I yell into the phone like that’ll help her hear me. “Henri. I have Benadryl. Let me in.”
“Side it unna da doe.”
I growl at the phone. “I’m not sliding it under the door.”
“I fye, Wuca.”
“You are not fine.”
She huffs.
I huff.
I also breathe easier. If she couldn’t huff, she couldn’t breathe, but she can huff, which means she can breathe.
“Henri, I’m not fine until I see you,” I hiss into the phone.
I jerk my head in greeting at someone who mutters my name as they pass me in the hallway.
“Ya ya ya,” Henri says, and that does it.
I’m breaking down this door.
“Nooooo,” she moans.
“Henri—”
“Oh my god, scoot. Scoot.” Mackenzie shoves me aside. “Henri? It’s me. I’m coming in, and I haven’t told you about that time that my dad accidentally tried pot thanks to the same woman who accidentally fed it to Brooks too, but trust me when I say, I’ve seen it all, and you’re about to be in very good hands.”
I try to butt my way back in, and Brooks gets in my face and growls.
I get right back in his and point at the door. “That’s my girlfriend.”
He lifts a brow.
A single, go on, tell your story brow, and my skin flushes so hot ice would sizzle right off me.
“I’ve got her, Luca,” Mackenzie says.
She steals the Benadryl, twists the knob, and within two seconds, she’s disappeared into the bathroom.
Henri let her in, when she won’t let me.
“She seriously can’t catch a break, can she?” Brooks mutters.
He’s right.
She’s a walking disaster.
And I love her.
I stumble backwards against the wall as the thought races through my head.
It can’t be right, except while I have no intention of ever falling in love—yes, I hear myself—it’s Henri.
How could a person get to know her and not love her on some level?
I do have a heart.
It might not get much use, and this love might not be fairy tale love, but I have one, and I care about her.
Brooks grins. “Ah, I know that look. You need a drink, man?”
I scowl at him, because the only thing keeping him from falling in love was a stupid superstition.
What’s keeping me from falling in fairy tale love?
Baggage.
So much damn baggage.
I lift the phone to my ear again, and dammit.
She hung up on me.
I dial her phone again. I’m not going to stand here and yell through the door if I don’t have to.
“Hey, Luca,” Mackenzie says cheerfully on the other end. “Henri’s okay. She’s breathing. I’ve got her.”
“I need to talk to her.”
“Can you give the Benadryl a bit to work?”
I hear a whimper in the background, and my heart stops.
Dead stops.
This is worse than getting home to find her in tears. It’s worse than that look on her face every time she thinks I’m not looking after she tries so hard to get Nonna to like her, or when she drifts off on her ramblings with that right, he doesn’t like me look on her face.
Also, Nonna’s dead to me right now too for making Henri feel like shit, and I swear, if she did it on purpose to make me like Henri, I don’t care how many Eyes she flings at me, she’s waking up with raw cod in her bed next time she comes to visit.
“Tell ’im ay ’on’t wann bahver ’im,” Henri says to Mackenzie.
“She’s not bothering me. I want to take care of her.”
“Aww, Luca, that’s sweet.” Mackenzie pauses. “But maybe you should’ve shown her that before bringing her to a party where all of the alcoholic snacks weren’t labeled as well as they should’ve been.”
She’s right.
This is my fault.
Henri doesn’t want me because I’m a massive bag of dicks. I’m not one dick. I’m all of the dicks.
“C’mon, Luca.” Brooks claps me on the shoulder and turns me back toward the party. “Let’s get you a big glass of water and round up all the married guys. We’ll get you through this.”
I glance at my phone again, and once more, the ladies have hung up on me.
Henri doesn’t want me.
I’m not what she needs. Not for the kind of life she’s always dreamed for herself, anyway.
And Mackenzie’s right.
It’s my own damn fault.
Question is, where do we go from here?
30
Henri
Because Mackenzie is a goddess, she stays with me in the bathroom through the ugly and the very, very occasionally funny for two hours.
I’ll have a rash for at least a week, but the worst of my reaction has passed.
And no, you don’t want to know what went on in that bathroom.
Let’s just say Mackenzie’s getting a very nice thank-you gift. And either we’re fast friends for life now, or I need to move somewhere deep in the jungle, befriend some local wildlife, and never look another human being in the face again.
The party noises are fading when we finally unlock the door and slip out.
And immediately trip over Luca.
He leaps to his feet and reaches for me, then stops.
I cringe, waiting for him to recoil at the hives all over my cheeks and neck.
Instead, the frown lines on his face deepen, and he oh-so-gently brushes his fingertips over my skin. “Christ, Henri, I’m sorry. Does it hurt?”
I shake my head, which is starting to ache, because insta-hangover is a thing.
He sets a hesitant hand on my shoulder, like he’s aware that I’m rashing out all over. “C’mon. Let’s go home. Dogzilla’s probably worried.”
The ride back to his place is different than the ride to the party was, and for the second time tonight, I want to curl up in a ball and cry.
I ruined his night out during his first opportunity to celebrate going to the post-season.
My laptop is toast.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to look any of the Lady Fireballs in the eye again because I’m so embarrassed. It’s been a few years since I’ve been to a party, and I didn’t know I was allergic to alcohol the last time I encountered vodka-soaked fruit, but I still should’ve known to be wary tonight.
Luca holds my hand the entire drive, letting go only when he needs to shift the car into gear or then into park when we reach his driveway.
And he’s not merely holding it.
He’s cradling it like it’s an ancient porcelain doll that might break if someone breathes on it wrong.
I don’t want to be something that breaks easily.
I want to be strong. I want to be fearless. I want to experience life and live it to the fullest, even when it means I accidentally have alcohol at a party, because these are the kinds of stories I want to tell my grandkids someday.
But every day that passes—and every wedding that passes—that future of sitting in matching rocking chairs with my one true love on the front porch of our farmhouse overlooking rolling hills while dozens of grandkids frolic in the yard slips further away.