I was once again preoccupied with my phone when I heard a knock at the door.
“You expecting someone?” he asked.
“Not that I know of.” I popped the cap on my beer off and followed him to the door.
The second he pulled it open, we both froze.
We were shocked, but for two totally different reasons.
For him: Celebrity Henry Alexander was standing on my front porch.
For me: The man who scared the living shit out of me was standing on my front porch and not hundreds of miles away like he’d been earlier.
His eyes met mine and an apologetic smile spread across his mouth. Tipping his head to the side, he shrugged.
Simple. Silent. Stunning.
Henry.
My mouth dried and I momentarily lost the ability to speak. He appeared tired and slightly disheveled but still sexy as sin, and it caused my hands to itch to touch him.
“Hi,” he said, shifting the two large brown paper bags he was holding to one arm in order to extend a handshake Scott’s way. “Henry Alexander. I’m Evan’s boss.”
Scott clasped his outstretched hand, but his surprised gaze jumped to mine. I felt it, but I couldn’t drag my eyes off Henry long enough to acknowledge his silent question.
“Scott Dalton,” he replied.
“What are you doing here?” I asked Henry. It was an accusation, but it came out as a whisper.
He flashed his gaze to Scott then back to me. “I, um, have some business to talk to you about.”
I pointedly looked at the bags in his hands in question.
“And I thought you might be hungry.” He smiled, but his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.
I couldn’t help it. My lips twitched as I fought a grin. “It’s almost eleven.”
He blew out a breath in mock frustration. “Okay. Fine. I was hungry.” His smile spread.
Scott interrupted our stare off. “Great timing. I was just about to get out of here.”
He hadn’t been. The main event hadn’t even started yet. His offer to go was just one more reason why he was my best friend. But I was his, and as much as I wanted to be alone with Henry, I couldn’t let him leave.
“You aren’t going anywhere. You’ve been drinking, and you’re on the bike. I don’t have any desire to scrape your sorry ass off the pavement tonight.”
Henry pounced. “I have a car.” He swung an arm toward my driveway. “I mean…if you need to go. My driver can take you wherever you’d like.”
I opened my mouth to object, but Scott slapped me on the shoulder.
“Perfect. See you later, man. Nice to meet you, Henry.” He grabbed his boots from beside the door and didn’t even waste the time to put them on before he jogged out.
The best part about Scott was, unless I brought it up later, he would never speak of the eye-fuck I’d just been throwing my male boss.
We both watched him jog away, and Henry threw a thumbs-up to the driver as he quickly got out of the black SUV to open the door for Scott.
“What are you doing here?” I asked Henry again when he’d finally turned back to face me.
He didn’t wait for an invitation before he came inside. “Is it going to be a problem for you that he saw me here?”
“You are my boss,” I deadpanned.
He studied me for several seconds and then blew out a relieved breath. “Good. That could have been bad. Anyway, we need to talk.” He strode past me, toward the kitchen.
As I raked my eyes over his ass, talking became very low on my list of things I wanted to do.
“Are you hungry? I really did bring food.”
I shook my head and asked, “How’d you get here? I thought you were on the road?” I folded my arms over my chest and watched him settle his two bags on the counter.
His blue eyes smiled as they lifted to mine. “I was. But you weren’t. And I wanted to see you. So I flew back.”
My eyebrows nearly hit my hairline. “You flew?”
“I also might be slightly drunk now.” He smiled, but I didn’t return it.
He’d flown? Why did that make my stomach wrench? I pretended that it was because I hadn’t been the one in the cockpit, but I knew that it had more to do with the fact that he’d done something so terrifying just to come see me.
“You flew?” I repeated in a whisper.
“My last name is Gilchrist,” he randomly announced, pulling a takeout container of wings from his bag. He nabbed a piece of celery and crunched a bite.
“Answer me. You flew? To see me?”
He ignored my question. “Henry Alexander Gilchrist. For obvious reasons, I dropped the last name when I started the music thing. I grew up in foster care, and my most prized possession was an out-of-tune guitar I’d bought at a garage sale. I taught myself to play, and I’m not going to lie, at first, it was like nails on a chalkboard even to my ears.”
I tilted my head to the side in confusion. “Why are you telling me this?”