I wanted to study them all and ask about them—where had he gotten that old map? What place in the world did he love best? Did he like vineyards more than beaches? Did he like upscale hotels in the city or small cabins in the mountains? Was he an ocean or lake person? Did he prefer snow skiing or water skiing? If he had all the money in the world, would he still live here and do what he did?

On the other end of the couch was a chunky double-knit throw blanket in a soft camel color, and I wondered if someone had made it for him. For a moment, I let myself imagine the two of us on a wintry afternoon like this one, wrapped up in it and each other, right here on the couch. I missed that feeling of just being close to someone, that effortless, easy affection. Would I ever feel that again?

A moment later, Henry came over with two cups of coffee and handed one to me. “Here you go. Let me know if you’d like it sweeter.”

“I’m sure it’s fine.” I sipped it, scorched my tongue, and suffered silently, totally unsure how to start this conversation. I was having trouble focusing on why I’d come here—all I could think about was his body pressed close to mine in the dark. “So you’re probably wondering why I’m here.”

He lowered himself onto the opposite end of the couch, as far away from me as possible. “I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

I took another scalding sip. “I thought maybe we should talk about what happened last night.”

His expression was something between a frown and a grimace. “I’m sorry about that. It was totally out of line.”

“Henry, it wasn’t.”

“Yes, it was, and I’ve been kicking myself for it ever since I left your house.”

“Please don’t.” I set my coffee cup on the table in front of me and scooted closer to him. I put a hand on his arm—his skin was warm. “It’s okay. You don’t need to be sorry. I’m not.”

“You’re not?”

“No.” I sat back. “Do you know how long it’s been since someone kissed me that way?”

He shook his head, almost looking frightened to know the answer.

“A really long time. And it felt good. So good I didn’t want it to end.” For a split second, I almost thought he was going to smile.

“I still shouldn’t have done it.” The frown was unyielding. “I work for your family. You’re going through a rough time. I don’t know what I want.”

“Because it’s too soon to know that, Henry.” I sat back, placing my hands in my lap. “You and I, we’re still healing. And that’s okay. But for me, part of that healing process means learning to feel good in my skin again. You made me feel beautiful and sexy and desirable.”

“You are all of those things,” he said quickly.

I smiled, warmth humming beneath my skin. “You are too.”

He gave me a look like he was in pain. “Jesus Christ, Sylvia. You shouldn’t say that stuff to me.”

“Why not?”

“Because it puts ideas in my head.”

“Ideas aren’t going to hurt us. And I trust you to behave.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t do that either.”

“I can’t help it.” I smiled, in spite of everything. “You know I tend to trust everyone. And if you turn out to be a giant asshole, I’ll be mad. But my heart is telling me you are not that guy.”

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, messing his hair. “I’m not that guy. I just . . . lost control temporarily. But like I said, it won’t happen again.”

“But we can still be friends, right?”

“I guess so.” He didn’t look entirely sure.

“I hope so, Henry.” I leaned forward again, placing my hand on his leg this time. “Because I could use a friend like you.”

His eyes were on my hand. “Okay, but you really have to stop touching me.”

I laughed and took my hand off him. “I can do that.”

“And don’t wear that red dress around me again.”

“Deal.”

“And maybe not that perfume either.” He inhaled a shuddering breath. “It smells too fucking good.”

I held up both hands, palms toward him. “I will keep my hands to myself, wear only rags, and stick to unscented soap. Does that work?” But my toes were tingling—he liked my dress! He liked my perfume! He was tempted when I touched him!

I felt like the girl who gets the note back to find the “yes” box was checked—he liked me!

“Could you wear a bag over your head too?” he asked.

I laughed. “You know, you don’t make it easy, either.”

“I don’t?”

I shook my head. “No, you are too handsome and too smart, and every time you do something like give me your coat or tell me I’m beautiful, it makes me melt.”

“That’s why I want you to wear the bag. If I can’t see how beautiful you are, maybe I’ll forget.”

Heat crept into my cheeks as I smiled at him. “You did it again.”

“I’d say I was sorry, but you know I’m not much of a liar.”

“I know.” I moved back to my end of the couch and picked up my coffee, which was now cool enough to drink. “I like that about you—your honesty. I’ve heard enough lies to last my entire life.”

He sipped his coffee too, and I figured maybe now was a good time to move forward. Try to get to a place of normalcy, a place where we could converse without feeling nervous or awkward.

“Thanks again for helping me with the gifts last night,” I said. “The kids were thrilled this morning.”

“I was glad to help. Did Keaton like his telescope?”

I nodded. “He’s all excited to set it up.”

“And how about Whitney? What was her favorite gift?”

“Probably the ridiculously expensive eye shadow palette. I’m a little scared about her appearance at Christmas dinner.”

He chuckled. “You’re going to Mack’s house?”

“Yes. Are you?” I asked, excited by the prospect.

“No. I’m going to another friend’s house.”

“Oh.” I tried not to feel too disappointed. Of course he had other friends. “Mack is bringing the girls over to take a ride in the new sleigh this afternoon. You should come.”

“Thanks, but I’ve got some things to do.”

“I doubt any of your things are as fun as a ride in a horse-drawn sleigh with hot chocolate afterward. Maybe even a snowball fight in between.”

He grinned. “I do like a good snowball fight.”

“Well, you’re invited, if you change your mind.”

“Thanks,” he said, but I knew in my gut he wouldn’t come.

I looked down at my mug, rubbing the handle with my thumb. “You know, I wanted to tell you . . . I know what it’s like to go through fertility treatments. I couldn’t get pregnant either.”

“I’m sorry.”

I offered him a sad smile. “Thanks. I feel very grateful that IVF worked for me. I never did get an answer as to why I can’t get pregnant—just stubborn, defiant eggs, I guess. Anyway, I didn’t mention it the other night because I felt bad. I didn’t want you to think I was comparing my situation to yours. Obviously, I got lucky, and—”