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She hesitates, then nods, so I take her hand and lead her off the dance floor, and together we head for the exit, out into the balmy night.
Chapter Three
Juliette
We go out of the bar, and I pause on the pavement, looking up and down the street. It’s busy everywhere. All the restaurants and bars are bursting at the seams, oozing music and laughter. To our left, a fight breaks out in front of one of the noisier pubs, and people start gathering around, cheering. In the distance, the first sirens begin to wail.
I feel miserable and a mess, close to breaking down, and I don’t know where to go. I don’t want to be around people, but I don’t want to go home, either.
“Come on.” Henry leads me away to the right, resting his hand in the middle of my back, guiding me through the crowd. I let him steer me, then stop at the end of the pavement, not sure where we’re going.
We cross the street and continue down a side road toward the Avon, then turn toward the Cedar Hotel. It’s one of the small, boutique hotels that he stays at from time to time when he doesn’t want to drive to his house out at Sumner Beach. I think he’s staying here tonight.
“It has a great bar,” he says. “Hopefully it’ll be quiet there.”
If it were any other guy, I might feel nervous that he’d taken me back to his hotel without asking, but Henry is the definition of a gentleman, and I’ve known him a long time. We’re often alone together—at the office, or in the car on the way to meetings, and he’s never once acted inappropriately. I think it’s one reason why I find Cam’s insinuation that there’s something between us so upsetting.
He leads me through the front door and into the lobby, then stops, surprised. It’s bustling with people—it looks as if a coach load of visitors has turned up. The queue for reception is about twenty people deep. We walk along to the bar and find it packed, with all the tables and chairs occupied.
“Shit,” he says. “That’s Christmas for you.”
My ears ring with all the voices and music, and I feel overwhelmed by everyone’s energy. I can’t face the thought of battling our way to the bar, or going back out into the busy, noisy streets. “I just want to get inebriated in silence,” I say miserably. “Is that too much to ask?”
“You want me to order you an Uber?”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to go home.” My throat tightens, and I swallow hard.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” His blue eyes study me. “Look, we’re friends, right? And you need somewhere to stay. I’d get you a room, but I’d imagine they’re fully booked now. I’m in a studio apartment. How about we go there, order some booze up, we’ll get trashed together safely and you can cry until all your mascara has run, and when you’ve had enough, you can pass out on the bed, and I’ll take the sofa?”
My eyes water, and I rub my nose. “Are you sure?”
“Of course. I’d only be watching Die Hard on my own anyway. Come on. Fuck everyone else.”
I nod, my spirits lifting a little at the thought of escaping with him. “Yeah, fuck everyone else.”
We go across the lobby to the elevators, and we ride up with some of the visitors. We stand in the corner, not touching, not speaking, but I can feel his concerned gaze on me. I think Henry sees himself as the father of Kia Kaha. He’s the oldest of the guys, if only by a few months, and he’s the one who always organizes a designated driver or transport home when we go out, who insists any women don’t walk home alone, who makes sure nobody’s feeling left out in a group, and who—more than any of us—is inclusive and supportive no matter of the person’s age, gender, color, or sexuality. I love all the guys at the company, but I feel safest with him.
Not that I think of him as a father figure. I’m acutely conscious of how gorgeous he looks tonight. He’s wearing black jeans and a burgundy-colored Henley that clings to his muscular torso and bulging biceps. The undone top button reveals his Adam’s apple and the hollow at the base of his throat. His dark hair is shaved at the nape of his neck, with a fade that leads to a longer section that tends to flop over his forehead at the end of the day. He has a five o’clock shadow across his cheek and jaw. He’s so big all over—big shoulders, big hands, big… feet.
I wonder if any other part of his body is larger than usual?
Juliette! That’s so inappropriate. I turn my gaze away, embarrassed by my thoughts, and rub my forehead. I hate Cam for making me feel guilty when I haven’t done anything. I like Henry; he’s my friend. He’s a good guy. He’s kind and supportive, and I know without having to ask that he’d never make a move on a girl who was in a relationship. I hate that Cam turned what we have into something cheap and tawdry.
I blink as the elevator stops and the doors open, and Henry gestures for me to precede him out into the corridor. It’s quieter here, and we walk all the way to the end, where he unlocks the door and opens it to reveal the apartment. I go in, looking around. It’s large and stylish, the walls white, with Art Deco furnishings—all geometric shapes, florals, animals, and sunrays. There’s an open-plan living room and kitchen, and through a separate door I can see a bedroom with a king-size bed covered in a black-and-white duvet and matching pillows.
“Make yourself at home,” Henry says, toeing off his Converses. “I’ll order some drinks. What are you in the mood for?”
“Alcohol,” I reply vehemently.
He chuckles. “Any particular sort?”
“My relationship is over, Henry. I don’t care what alcohol it is, as long as it makes me not care anymore.”
He stares at me. “You’ve broken up with Cam?”
“After he walked out, I texted him and asked if he was coming back. He said ‘No, I’m done.’”
“Did you message back?”
