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.
“I’ll walk you.”
“Okay.” I could protest. I barely know Henry. But I have this feeling—like, I don’t want the night to end. On paper, it wouldn’t appear to be the most magical of dates, but it felt magical even so. There’s something here between Henry and me. And it’s been a long time since I’ve felt a spark like that. Maybe I’ve never felt it.
“Do you live downtown, too?” I ask after I start walking toward my place. I figure he does, but then I realize that is a lot of assumption on my part.
“I’m staying at a hotel down here.”
My head swings toward him, and I stop walking. Henry stops, too. “You don’t live here?”
He shakes his head as if I should know the answer to this. “I’m in Miami right now. Been there for the past eight months.”
I shake my head. How do I not know this? “I thought you lived here . . . in Orlando.”
“Well . . . I hope to. I mean, that’s the plan.”
My craftsman house dims before my eyes. Of course this is how it would go. Of course I’d finally meet someone who gives me a spark I haven’t felt in a long time—if ever—and of course he doesn’t even live here. Of freaking course. That is my life. It’s how my story goes: Meet hot man, hot man lives in Miami. Quinn goes back to boring old life. The end.
“Right,” I say, starting the walk again. Henry walks with me.
“I’m here for a week, though.” He lets out a breath. “I’d love to see you again.”
Flutterings in my heart, nearly dead from all the disappointment, spark up again.
“I’d like that,” I say, even as I wonder if it’s a bad idea. My heart immediately goes into protective mode. But then I tell my heart to shut up. It’s only a week. How could I possibly fall so hard in a week? And there’s always the possibility that he’ll move here. Even though, as I think that, I know that won’t happen. I don’t have that kind of luck.
“This is me,” I say as we get to my building, the lobby brightly lit up. I love it here. It costs me way too much, and the actual apartment is fairly small, but it’s my own place, and I’ve always wanted a place of my own.
“All right, well, good night,” Henry says, his hands in his pockets. He leans in and kisses me lightly on the cheek. He smells of sandalwood with a hint of hops from his drink.
A warmth spreads from where his lips touched, and tingles spread from the spot, extending over my entire cheek.
“Good night,” I say as I reach up and touch my face, the place where his lips just were. Realizing I probably look ridiculous, I quickly reach into my purse and pull out my keys. I turn and unlock my door with my key fob, and then, opening the door, I look over my shoulder to see Henry still standing there, his hands still in his pockets, a small smile on his face. The dimple is there again. Maybe it wanted to say good night too.
He waves at me and