“Shall I pop down at some point this week?”
“Perfecto,” Papa said, clasping Harry’s hand.
“Dinner’s ready!” Mom shouted from the dining room. Papa walked through first.
I held Harry back by his arm. “Thank you,” I whispered, fully aware he would see the raw emotion in my face.
“He is good, Faith. Excellent, in fact. I meant it.”
“The best,” I said, echoing my sentiment from earlier.
“Faith Maria Parisi, get your ass in here this second! I won’t have my potatoes going cold!”
“Just so you know, she was actually shouting at us both there, but it wouldn’t be polite to rip into you when she just met you.”
“Duly noted,” Harry said and offered me his arm to walk into the dining room.
I spluttered a laugh. “It’s eight feet that way,” I said, pointing to the table.
“Bloody hell, Faith. Can you just let me be chivalrous for one damn minute without all the commentary?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, impressed by his vigor, and saw the rush of heat in his eyes.
As we walked to the table, I realized I was turned on. I was turned on at Harry’s stern words. As I sat down, I tried to pretend like everything was okay and I wasn’t about to ravish Harry over the green bean casserole in front of my parents and God.
“Why do you look like you’ve just bumped uglies, Faith?” Mom said, as direct as always. “Your cheeks are flushed, and I can see your nipples through your dress—”
“Let’s eat, shall we!” I reached over to the center of the table to fill my plate.
As I began to fill it high with all the complex carbs, Mom hit my hand. “Faith, let Harry go first. He’s the guest, and not my ill-mannered daughter, who acts like she hasn’t eaten in weeks.”
Harry’s lips twitched as he politely, and ever so cautiously, filled his plate with veggies, chicken, casserole, and gravy. I stared at him, confused at how anyone could be so controlled when all this delicious food was positively crying out to be eaten, the flavors invading the nose like tiny Viking marauders, pillaging the senses.
It occurred to me then that Harry rarely did anything that wasn’t completely perfect and somewhat measured. Not in a negative fashion, but like he’d had manners and “proper” etiquette completely hammered into him. I wanted to see that careful control shatter. I covered my salacious smirk with the back of my hand, knowing the very place I wanted to see that control break.
“So, Harry? Whereabouts in England are you from?” Mom asked, nodding her head in permission for me to get my food.
“Surrey.”
“Harry Sinclair from Surrey,” Mom mused. Then her eyes widened and she dropped her fork, the metal clattering to the plate like a thunderclap. “Not the Harry Sinclair from Surrey? The one whose father owns HCS…” I could practically see the lightbulb appear over my mother’s head.
“Yeah. You knew he was my boss, Mom,” I said, trying to keep her calm.
“I didn’t realize he was the boss. One of the Sinclairs.”
Harry shifted in his seat, showing his discomfort. “My father is actually the one in charge of HCS Media right now,” he said politely.
“Would you want to take over one day?” Papa asked, and I could have kissed him for making it sound like it wasn’t a big deal. Unlike Mom. I was making slashing gestures across my neck to tell her cut out the Sinclair talk.
“I can’t wait,” Harry said, drawing my attention. He placed his fork down while he spoke. Shit, I felt like I should enroll in a damn finishing school or something just so I could be in his presence and not feel like a caveman. “I studied at Cambridge for my degree in journalism, then went on to Oxford to complete my master’s. It’s not just in my blood, but it’s my passion too.”
“I didn’t know this,” I said, just as enraptured by his answer as my parents.
He looked at me and I saw it. I saw the passion blazing in his eyes. “Yes,” he said and took a drink of his water. “I have lots of ideas for HCS Media. Where to take it, how to give back. Masses of journals with notes and ideas on how to truly change the media and publishing industry for the better.
“Wow,” I said and Papa nodded.
“Your father,” Papa said, “He knows you have these ideas?”
The glacial shell that Harry wore like an ice-filled jacket slowly knitted back into place, his rigid posture rearing its stiff head. “My father is very set in his ways and likes things as they are.” He gave us a tight and unhopeful smile. “Maybe one day.”
There was a slight awkward pause in the conversation, and Mom broke it. “Faith, I’ve been meaning to say, I finally read your column last week. Sound advice on the rimming question. And I agree that a pogo stick is never safe to lose one’s virginity on.” Harry suddenly began choking on his food. I slapped him on the back and was close to bending him over the table and conducting the Heimlich Maneuver when he suddenly started breathing again.