Practice Makes Perfect (5 page)

The next, his dorky lips were on hers.

She didn't really register it right away. First he was over there, then he was over here. In her space. Very in her space.

Once she got on board, though, she found that thinking about the oddness of kissing a man she had never (well, maybe not
never
) considered kissing before, absolutely paled in comparison to the actual act of kissing him.

Henry could kiss.

She couldn't do anything but kiss him right back.

His lips were soft and gentle, but these were clearly lips that knew their way around a woman's mouth. So she opened up and let him inside, and as his tongue swept across hers, she let out a deep sigh, letting out the breath she was holding all the way in her toes. He was barely touching her, just lightly running one hand up her arm, but the contact made her shiver.

She was about two seconds away from letting her whole body go boneless into his, when Henry pulled away. She blinked. She felt surprised. And confused. And, finally, a little disappointed. For a great kiss, it was kind of short.

“How did that feel?” he asked, his voice a little gruff.

Nope, she wasn't done with the confusion yet.

He handed her her notebook. “Five senses, right?”

Definitely not done with confusion. “What?”

“That thing you were reading the other day at work. It said to write a really sensual scene, describe all of the five senses, not just sight and touch. Which makes sense. I mean, sensual, sense, right?”

“How long were you reading over my shoulder?”

“I googled it yesterday.”

She must still be in the middle of a kiss haze. He was not making any sense. Or maybe she was hallucinating. Maybe she was really still kissing him, but she got so confused that she astral-projected into this conversation that for the life of her she could not keep up with.

“Once I understood what your problem was—not your problem, your secret. Once I knew the truth, I felt like I should do something to help you. I'm not much of a writer, not of fiction, anyway. And I hadn't read any romance novels. So I did some research.”

She shook her head. She pinched her forearm. Yup, her brain was on the same plane as her body. And Henry was more of a nerd than she could have imagined.

“You . . . you googled how to write a romance novel?”

“How to write love scenes. That's what you said you were having trouble with, so that's what I googled.”

“Oh.”

“You really gotta be careful with those key words, don't you?”

“Yeah . . . Henry?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“Did you just kiss me?”

His eyes widened in what she could only describe as panic. “Was that terrible? I should have asked first, but in the book I read, the hero doesn't ask, he just sort of—” Henry made a growly sound and pulled her close so his lips were about half a growl away from hers. “I was trying to create a mood.” His eyes flicked down to her lips and he let her go. “Sorry if I overstepped.”

“No, no, it's fine. It was just . . . I was just . . .”

“Yes? How did it feel?”

“Wait, what book?”

“I downloaded a romance novel. One of the ones written by the writer with the sex-writing advice list. It was pretty good.”

“Henry, that was, like, two days ago.”

He shrugged. “I read fast. So. The kiss. How did it feel?”

Helen snorted. “To be honest, it felt great.”

“Great? That's not good enough, Helen. What was great about it?”

She raised an eyebrow at him, not that he noticed. He was too busy opening her notebook.

“Uh . . .” she said, because apparently she no longer knew how to use words. Not a problem at all for an aspiring writer.

“Let's go through the senses. What did it look like?”

“Henry, stop.” She put her hand on his to stop his pen flying across the notebook. “What are you doing?”

“Taking notes.”

“Taking notes on my feelings?”

“No! Taking notes on
the
feelings. The specific feelings of kissing. So you can put them in your book.”

Right, her book. She needed to get a better handle on how to express the experience of a love scene; Henry was offering her a love scene. That made sense.

On the other hand, it made no sense.

“Henry, hold off on the writing for a second here. I just want to be clear. You're kissing me . . . for the benefit of my novel.”

He nodded, and the sight brought to mind an eager puppy. But an eager puppy who could kiss.

“Internet research isn't working, the dolls aren't working, so unless you can think of a better solution, this is it.”

“ ‘This' meaning—”

“ ‘This' meaning me. And you. And this notebook.”

“Henry, don't you think this is maybe pushing the bonds of friendship a little bit?”

He waved away her concerns. “It's research. It's work.”

“I understand what you're saying, so I'll refrain from pointing out that the notion of making out with me as ‘work' is pretty insulting.”

“Although by mentioning that you'll refrain from pointing it out, you really did just point it out.”

“Touché.”

“But it had to be said. That's not what this is. This is not about you or me or friendship. Or, actually, maybe it is about friendship.”

“How so?”

“I'm a good friend, and I'm willing to be your guinea pig.”

“My sex guinea pig.”

“Your sensual guinea pig. We'll do things and then you'll write about them.”

“You realize this is not how most romance novelists work?”

He grabbed her shoulders. “Helen Lee, you are not most romance novelists. You are Helen Lee. You are the master of your own creative process.”

“If I didn't know you better, I'd say this was just an attempt to get into my sweatpants.”

“I would never. Pay attention this time.”

And then there was his face again, jamming into hers.

This time, she took notes.

“S
o the house has been owned and maintained—well, ‘maintained'—by the Glass family since the 1930s, although no one has lived locally since the '90s, and they seem to have had terrible luck keeping a caretaker.”

Henry looked up from his notes at the long line of steering committee members staring back at him. He didn't get nervous giving talks. He lectured for a living. But these guys were making him sweat through his bow tie.

Pembroke had already bought the brothel. Well, if it was the brothel. He still had no definitive proof of who had sold the building to the Glass family in the 1930s, or who had owned the house at the turn of the century when business would have been booming, so to speak. One day there was a brothel in Willow Springs; the next day, it was completely wiped from the official historical record. If Kentuckians weren't such good storytellers, Henry might never have pinpointed the house on Wood Street as the likely site of Madame Renee's infamous brothel.

Of course, if Kentuckians kept their public records in fireproof storage, he wouldn't be sweating in front of an esteemed panel of town and college dignitaries. He would just brandish the deed of sale and start thinking about the wording of the historical plaque.

This lack of evidence was not doing his cause any favors. Despite his passion and perseverance, the committee had clearly already made up its mind: Tear down the blighted old building and put up something shiny and new. Not that Henry was against an arts center or something like it. For the past few years folks in Willow Springs had been fixing up old properties, and they finally had an old-fashioned downtown again. There was a bookstore and a coffee shop and a hair salon and a hardware store and, on weekends, a farmers' market. In spite of all that work, though, downtown Willow Springs was small and charming enough that the mess of a former brothel (alleged former brothel) really stood out.

But what if it wasn't a mess? Henry couldn't help thinking about the interesting facade—sort of like a gingerbread house on acid—and how great the building would look if it was actually cleaned up. Unfortunately, it needed more than a fresh coat of paint. Grace's Jake had confirmed what the building inspector told the committee when they bid on the property: It could be fixed up, but it would be a hell of a lot cheaper to just tear it down.

“So . . . nothing of any historic significance?”

“Well, I wouldn't say that. The building itself is—”

“Yes, yes, we know, the building itself is original and valuable. It's also falling apart. I mean something extraordinary, Beckham.”

“There are still some unanswered—”

“So, nothing of specific, historic significance?”

Henry sighed. “Not yet.” He tried to emphasize the “yet.”

Mary Beth gave him a sympathetic look.

If only he could find something . . . but he and Helen had been through the archives. And even though Helen was forever bringing him little tidbits of this and that, there was nothing specific. He knew enough about historical research to know that there was never some magical, hidden document with all the answers, just waiting to be found.

His brothel could very well be just a regular old house that had not aged well.

And it was about to age a hell of a lot more.

* * *

Helen looked at the unlit candles on her dresser. Should she try to set the mood? Make it romantic? But it wasn't romantic—it was just supposed to resemble romantic. But to resemble romantic, should she light the candles?

She shook her head. Stick to the script, she reminded herself. In her book, Rennie doesn't light candles. She doesn't even own candles. She would never have anything as froufrou and potentially hazardous in her bedroom.

Rennie also didn't have two stinky hounds who slept on the foot of her bed.

“Helen?”

At the sound of Henry's voice from the front door, George and Tammy forgot that they were too old for long walks and physical exertion and scampered off the bed, howling and barking and tumbling down the hall.

“Hey, mutts.” She heard Henry talking to the dogs—who were
not
mutts, and she had the DNA test to prove it—as she stomped down the hall at a more dignified pace.

“Hey,” she said to the top of his head.

“Ready?” he asked, and reached for his bow tie.

She laughed. “Hold on. Do you want to come in first?”

“Sure, sure. Sorry. I'm just—” He waved his hands in front of his face.

He was just Henry, she thought. “How'd the steering committee meeting go?” she asked as she led him into the house.

“Eh.”

“That good, huh?”

“I wish I knew what they were going to do with the house, that's all. Mary Beth says they can't make any decisions until they find out if it has historical significance.”

“Which it does.”

“Yeah, according to Willow Springs folklore. It turns out the committee wants some actual proof before they spend millions of dollars restoring it.”

“Mary Beth didn't even say what the ideas for the house were?”

He shook his head. “She couldn't. I guess she's sworn to secrecy or something.”

“Pft, secrets.” She handed Henry a glass of wine. “Are you hungry?”

“No. Just bummed.”

“Poor Henry,” Helen said, then stopped herself. That came out kind of seductive. She wasn't supposed to be seductive. She was supposed to be seduced.

Henry took a gulp of his wine. “OK,” he said, clapping his hands. “Let's do this.”

“Such a romantic,” she said, before she remembered this wasn't supposed to be romantic. This was supposed to be research.

“Are you nervous?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “Psh. No.” If she said it again, she might convince herself.

“Close your eyes,” Henry said. She watched him put his wineglass down, then watched his hand come up to her face, then that was it, because he covered her eyes with his hand. “Take a deep breath.”

She took a deep breath.

“Focus on what you feel and hear. This is about the research. Capture this for your book.”

She nodded.

“Also, let that breath out.”

She exhaled.

“Poor Helen,” Henry said, and she was going to pout and protest that she wasn't poor anything! But then his hands moved to the sides of her face and she felt his breath warm on her lips, and when he finally kissed her, he tasted like wine. Would Rennie drink wine? Probably. Would Hawk? Tough-guy MMA fighter with a delicate wineglass in his hand? She couldn't picture it.

“Helen,” Henry said softly against her lips. “Stay with me, here.”

Right, yes, with Henry. Henry, who drank wine and was nothing like tough-guy Hawk, but who was kissing like she imagined Hawk would kiss, strong and sweet, so she put her arms around his neck and ran her fingers through his thick hair (Hawk had a buzz cut, but whatever). She let Henry back her down the hallway into her bedroom, where he kicked the door closed, in spite of George and Tammy's whines of protest.

He pulled away for a second and looked toward the door. “Are they—”

“They're fine,” Helen said, and pulled him back to her. They were fine. They just didn't like to be where Helen was not, and they hated to be where Henry was not. But guess what, she thought. Too bad.

Henry shrugged and put his hands at her waist. He squeezed her tight to him as he kissed her again and she felt her whole body flush. She lost her balance but she barely tipped. Henry was more solid than she'd thought he would be.

And he was still wearing a bow tie.

She leaned back far enough to try to figure out how to de-Henry him (Hawk would
never
wear a bow tie). “Complicated,” she whispered, frustrated.

“It's not a clip-on,” Henry said, and pulled. The tie came off with a flourish, and he swung it over his head with a little dance.

Definitely not something Hawk would do. She laughed anyway.

Then he kissed her again, her lips and her jaw and her neck. He found that sweet spot at her pulse that made her squirm, and she squirmed. His hands roamed under the hem of her shirt, and she stopped squirming long enough to find the buttons of his shirt, and even managed to unbutton a few before Henry got frustrated and tore the thing over his head.

Holy Hawk, Henry was kind of buff.

Not MMA-fighter buff, but lean and long and a little hairy. He looked perfect. Helen ran her hands over his chest—touch was a sense, and she had to focus on senses. She scraped her fingernails lightly across his shoulders, then down to his abs, and she was going for Henry's belt when he grabbed her wrists and pulled them up over her head, somehow magically bringing her shirt with them. And now it was Henry's turn to touch, and she closed her eyes as his fingers ran gently over her collarbone and down to the clasp of her bra.

When she heard the snap, she couldn't keep her eyes closed. Kissing and touching was one thing, but this was getting real. Parts she wouldn't show in public were now being shown to Henry, and he kept his fingers working over her slowly, gently, with what she could only describe as reverence.

It was perfect. It was just how Hawk would react the first time he saw Rennie—like she was perfect and her nakedness was a gift.

“Christ, Helen.”

And then his lips followed his hands and Helen had to hold on to those surprisingly strong shoulders as Henry moved across her body, then back up to her mouth, where he kissed her so deep that she started to wrap her legs around him and he backed her up to the bed and she fell backward onto it with Henry on top.

Then there was a whine and a thump from the other side of the door, and it was like a bucket of cold water on their totally platonic sex research. Henry was wild-eyed and disheveled, but to his credit, he made it to the door before she was even off the bed.

He was greeted by two sets of sad puppy-dog eyes and a pathetic paw at his shoe. The thump was not a dog in danger, but a stack of books Helen kept meaning to take back to the library, which were now strewn across the hall.

She took a deep breath. Don't kill the dogs, she told herself as she got up off the bed to join Henry at the door. They don't understand how to be good stewards of library property. Also, they don't understand what a moment is, so how could they know not to kill it?

“Good thing you guys are cute,” Henry muttered.

They're not that cute, she thought.

Henry ran his hands through his hair, moving its style from delightfully mussed to standing straight up. She tried to resist, but she smoothed the worst of it down anyway.

“How was that?” he asked.

“It would be a lot better if you would stop asking how it was before the afterglow even wears off.”

“You think that's afterglow?” he asked, and reached for her again.

George and Tammy had a different idea.

Their idea involved snuffling into the bedroom and jumping on the bed, right in the warm spot Helen had just vacated.

She sighed. They're cute, she told herself.

“Maybe this is a good time for a break,” Henry suggested, running his hands through his hair again. “I'll take the dogs out, you write.”

She wanted to protest—this was way too weird, and anyway, she wanted to keep making out. But Henry bent to pick up his shirt and the muscles in his back moved in a way that made her think about how Hawk might move, and before she could lose that image, she ran to her computer and started typing.

* * *

Henry took a deep breath of the humid evening air. It was too hot to be refreshing, but it gave him a moment to pull himself together.

Helen Lee was a great kisser.

Why hadn't they done this before?

They weren't really even doing it now, he reminded himself. It was just research. That totally didn't count, even though he had his tongue down her throat and she had her hand on his crotch.

He was glad she'd stopped before they went any further. Henry was starting to forget that he was supposed to be acting out a sex scene in a romance novel instead of making out with his best friend. He'd never really thought about making out with her before. She was just . . . she was Helen. Henry didn't make out with Helen.

He stopped walking to let George and Tammy sniff the bushes. One of the hazards of walking hounds was the constant pauses for investigation. Sort of defeated the purpose of him walking off some of his lust before he made a fool of himself. Couldn't really burn much energy standing still.

“Henry?”

Startled out of his thoughts, which had started to veer toward the silkiness of Helen's hair and how good it felt sliding through his fingers, he saw Grace and Jake approaching on the sidewalk.

“Hey, doggies.” Grace squatted down to receive slobbery kisses from George and Tammy.

“Henry,” Jake said, giving him a man-nod in greeting.

“Jake.” Henry man-nodded back.

“Where's Helen?” Grace asked, extricating herself from the puppy pit.

“Uh . . . she's back at the house. Doing some work. I'm walking her dogs.”

“I see that,” Grace said. Henry ignored her raised eyebrow.

“Well, I'm just walking my fiancé,” Grace filled in when no more information was forthcoming.

Jake responded by pinching her side, which made Grace squeal and set the dogs to howling.

“God, I haven't seen Helen in forever,” Grace said after she pulled herself together. “I'm a terrible friend.”