So, I close my eyes and breathe deeply, and then . . . I picture Henry Pembrook naked.
And I laugh. Because he was right, the wanker. It does work.
An hour later, I’m wrapping up my presentation on the importance of promoting child literacy, especially among young girls. I’ve kept my head down, eyes on my notes, so while it probably hasn’t been the most engaging of talks, I didn’t pass out or Davey on any of them, so I consider it a grand victory.
I just have to get through these last few lines and the Q&A.
“In conclusion, I’d like to end with these final thoughts: Reading brings knowledge and knowledge is power; therefore reading is power. The power to know and learn and understand . . . but also the power to dream. Stories inspire us to reach high, love deep, change the world and be more than we ever thought we could. Every book allows us to dream a new dream. Thank you.”
They clap.
And I close my eyes and sigh, deflating with relief. I did it, I really did it. Willard blows an obnoxious whistle while Annie fist-pumps, and it’s wonderful. I only wish . . .
A yearning ache begins in the center of my chest, then spider-webs outward like a crack in a windshield.
Because I wish Henry were here. He would love this—it would blow his mind. And then he’d make a teasing comment that there are others things I could blow. Or maybe I’d say it—he always did bring out the dirty in me.
I shake my head, trying to dust off the melancholy. And I look out over the sea of clapping hands and nodding heads . . . and then my heart stops mid-beat.
My first thought is: he’s cut his hair.
It was almost down to his shoulders the last time I saw him. Thick and soft, wavy and wild. But this is nice too. Short and clean, professional and powerful-looking, with just the right length in front, with a few strands falling over his forehead in a roguish sort of way.
His suit is beige, his tie light green, his shirt crisp white—so sharp and handsome—like a broker on Silver Street.
He’s clapping heartily—with those strong hands that I adore. His gaze is alight with admiration and his smile . . . his smile is so tender my eyes prickle with wetness.
I blink and look away . . . and then I remember to be pissed off at him. Three. Weeks. Three fucking, awful weeks. I lied when I said they weren’t so bad—they were bloody hell. And he shows up now? Here? For what, exactly?
I don’t have to wonder long.
Because the moment Mr. Haverstrom calls for questions, Henry’s hand shoots up high and straight, like he’s a child in class who can’t wait a second more to use the lavatory.
I ignore him.
The only problem is, he’s the only one raising his hand.
“Questions? Anyone?” I look left and right, tilting my head to check all around. “Anyone at all?”
Henry clears his throat. Loudly. “Ahem.”
And several heads swivel toward him.
But I’m still ignoring him, shuffling my papers. “Well, since no one has any questions—”
“He has a question,” Willard says, clear and grinning like a traitorous Cheshire cat.
I’m going to smack him when this is over.
But, first I’m going to deal with Henry.
“Yes, you there in the back,” I say like I’ve never seen him before in my life. Like he isn’t our future king. “What is your question, sir?”
His eyebrow hitches, as if he’s saying, “So that’s how you’re going to play this?”
Murmurs of recognition ripple through the room, but Henry doesn’t seem to notice.
“My question is about Heathcliff.”
And his voice . . . I’ve missed his voice—strong and rough, but teasing and sweet. Oh balls, I’m melting like a cheap candle.
But I don’t let it show. I cross my arms.
“The fat orange cat, you mean?”
The corner of his mouth kicks into a smirk. “No. From Wuthering Heights.”
“Ah, I see. Go on.”
“My question is, why didn’t someone shoot the bastard? Were guns not around in that time period?”
My head shakes on its own. What a ridiculous question! “No, firearms were used, but . . .”
“Then someone should have definitely shot Heathcliff in the arse. He was a thoughtless, abusive, mean son of a bitch.”
“Some feel his one good quality is his love for Catherine. That’s what redeems him.”
Henry shakes his head, his expression sober. “He didn’t deserve her.”
“Well,” I lift a shoulder, “Catherine wasn’t exactly a saint either. And I’m sure the debate over Heathcliff’s worthiness will continue for as long as people read the book. Thank you.”
I turn to the rest of the room. “Other questions?”