The dinner is exactly like I knew it would be. A crackling warm fire, the scent of apple wood tangling with melted butter, sweet peas, marjoram, and savory roast. Candlelight flickers and catches the ruby sparkle of wine in mismatched glasses (inherited, I’m sure, through the centuries). The wood of my chair is butter-soft, sanded down and worn from decades of Joules sitting in it, the stones under my feet are sloped from treading feet, and a corgi sometimes nudges my ankle, its fur soft and nose wet, hoping to remind me of my duty to share the bounty.
Laughter and good-natured joking are tossed and batted around the table as quick as a flash, the sound echoing off the plaster walls and the conversation bouncing between everyone like a professional ping-pong match. I almost can’t keep up with the back-and-forth. It’s lightning-quick and hilarious.
The main focus is the wedding and how John must have the dumbest luck to have actually convinced Olivia to marry him. Olivia laughs at all the jokes, joining in and teasing John. She came to England from Jamaica when she was twelve, and she’s known the Joules since her family moved into a flat in town and her dad joined Charles as a driver in the rally. Everyone sobers a bit when they toast Olivia’s parents, Alden and Barbara, departed but still loved.
Olivia doesn’t have any family here. She teaches at the primary school, and I think, she’s lucky to have found a family that clearly loves her dearly.
Next to me Maeve stealthily drops another spoonful of peas into the napkin on my lap. They hit like little raindrops kerplopping against a windowpane. No one notices except Henry. He’s sitting across from us, and every time Maeve’s spoon dips below the table his eyes fill with laughter.
“What’s so funny?” Lorna asks, leaning close and pressing her shoulder against mine. Her floral perfume drifts over me and her mahogany hair brushes my shoulder.
I turn to her and notice the daggered look she shoots across the table, narrowing her eyes on Henry. She’s been skewering Henry with warning glances all dinner, not realizing that when she glares at the (adorable) woman across the table, she’s actually glaring at Henry.
It’s enough to make you feel sorry for her.
“Hmm?” I frown at her. “Oh. Nothing.”
Lorna studies my expression as if she can delve inside me and discover all the mysteries of my mind. She’s on the hunt, and boy, is it making me uncomfortable.
Unfortunately, it turns out she’s a bridesmaid and one of Olivia’s closest friends. And . . . I’m getting the feeling she and Henry have some history. Or . . . it’s not history and it’s a current event. Except wouldn’t someone have said something when I introduced “Serena” as my girlfriend? And wouldn’t Henry have mentioned Lorna before telling me to introduce him as my girlfriend?
I go back to my roast, sending my knife through the soft, herby meat. I didn’t miss the glance Henry sent my way, nodding at the meat, reminding me of our deal. I noticed he only has salad, vegetables, and a roll on his plate. I’ll have to thank him later.
I spear a piece of meat, and then instead of peas hitting my napkin, I feel fingers stroking along my thigh. Up. Up.
Is that . . .?
Up.
My fork and knife clatter to my plate.
“You all right, Henry?” Niall asks, stopping his story about John’s irrational fear of bananas.
Up.
Lorna smiles over at me, batting her eyelashes, not letting on that her hand is currently stroking over my thigh, trailing higher and higher toward somewhere she is definitely not welcome to touch.
“Oh, fine. Fine,” I say, nodding.
I reach down and bat at Lorna’s hand. A pile of peas falls from my napkin and thuds lightly to the stone floor, pattering almost noiselessly. The three dogs simultaneously scramble across the stone, their claws clicking and their tongues licking.
Lizzy laughs at the canine scramble, covering the noise of the dogs, and says, “Isn’t it John that’s supposed to be nervous? I mean, Olivia, you’re nice, you’re charming, you’re beautiful, you deserve someone splendid, which is why I can’t for the life of me understand how you ended up with my brother.”
Olivia grins at Lizzy. “Right! It was how terrible he was at maths. I felt he needed me.”
“And I will forever thank Mr. Crawley for his iron-fisted hold on Calculus, because it gave me you,” says John, dropping a kiss on Olivia’s lips.
And they’re off again. The table conversation veers toward wedding-night jitters, the honeymoon, and why Charles can’t drive the limo (because he drives like he’s on a rally course and John doesn’t want to frighten the guests).
Lorna twinkles at me. “Remember our anniversary dinner at Il Bacco?” she whispers huskily, her breath tickling my ear. “When I . . .”—her hand slips up my thigh—“did this at the table?”
Before she can reach her final destination and lovingly recreate a “night to remember,” I shove my chair back and stand. All the remaining peas tumble to the floor. The kitchen falls silent. Maeve stares at me with wide eyes, and the dogs scramble around my feet, slurping up the buttered peas.
All eyes are on me. Henry’s mom gives me a concerned look. Lorna folds her hands primly in front of her and gives me a look that reminds me of a coral-colored python that just swallowed a mouse and is happily digesting it.
“I . . . uh . . .” I clear my throat, shoot Henry a meaningful glance, and then say, “Excuse me for a moment.”
I hurry from the kitchen. Silence follows, and then someone says something and the conversation flows again. I push my hand through my hair and roll my shoulders, shaking off the come-ons from Henry’s (apparent) ex-girlfriend.
Jeez, she’s bold.
Those poor, innocent corgis certainly got an eyeful.
I hurry through the library overflowing with books, past the two desks, the growling clawfoot lions, and the empty tea tray, and into the entry, turning into a small room on the left with a wooden door. The room is dark and smells like wool and stone. I flip on the light and find it’s chock-full of wool coats, raincoats, trench coats, rubber boots, umbrellas, and a hat rack full of quirky hats, whimsical hats, and functional hats.
It’s crowded, only maybe six feet by six feet, and most of the space is taken up by the coats hanging on the wall and a low wooden bench for putting on boots, but it’s big enough and private enough for Henry and me to have a quick chat.
Mostly about his ex. And also about that stag do I got body-slammed for. And also about where we’re sleeping tonight. Because I’m not sleeping with Niall.
I leave the door partly open and hope Henry will hurry.
Dropping my head and rubbing my temples, I close my eyes and let out a sigh. It’s been so busy, such a rush, that it’s hard to believe I’ve been Henry for almost twenty-four hours. I’ve barely had a moment to look through the data we pulled, and I haven’t pondered any theories to fix this.
The door creaks and then clicks shut.
“What took you so—?” I cut off. It’s not Henry.
Lorna smiles. A seductive, sultry, sloe-eyed smile. Then she unzips her coral suit jacket, shrugs it off, and drops it to the floor. Quick as a snap she’s out of her camisole, and it’s joined her jacket on the stone floor in a little clothing party for two.
She isn’t wearing a bra.
Her breasts—well, they aren’t bad. I mean, I’ve seen a lot of boobs. I’m a female. I took gym class. I was on the swim team. There was boob. Lots of it.
Every boob is different. Boobs are like snowflakes, unique. And Lorna’s? They’re all right. If I was in the locker room and I saw her boobs in passing I’d be like, huh, okay, whatever. I wouldn’t give them a second glance.
Just another bit of boob.
BUT.
I have never seen boobs as a man. I have never seen boobs while in a man’s body.
And I clearly have never seen boobs as Henry, who obviously—very, very obviously—loves boobs.
Boobs are the best thing that has ever been created. Boobs. Mmm, boobs. I have a flash of an image, a memory of Henry’s, stroking my hand lovingly along a silken breast, my lips running over the hot, satiny skin, my heart pounding wildly, my body tight as I graze my teeth over a taut, rosy nipple. It tastes sweet, like mint and apples. I blink. My mouth goes dry.
My word. My word. Now I know what it means when someone says they’re a breast man.
Lorna smiles at me. The coat-room light shines down on her pearl-dust skin and falls over the sloping edges of her breasts. Her pert, apricot-colored nipples pucker in the cold.
I can’t look away.
It’s like that kid’s game, freeze tag. I’ve been frozen in place and I can’t move until Lorna tags me, setting me free.
Why?
Well, I’m going to remind you of something I have as a man that I didn’t have much of as a woman.
Testosterone.
That delightful hormone that spurs arousal.
I paid attention in health class. I took notes. I drew diagrams. Our instructor, Mrs. Wilinski, used a projector with ink drawings from the 1950s and a Ken doll to show us the region of the (nonexistent) male parts.
Here’s what I remember about the science of the male reproductive system from my sex-ed class:
[Here we have a basic, labeled diagram of Ken Doll male anatomy.]
Look, I could get scientific, explain how blood flows to the penis, how it becomes hard, and— I can’t, because I’m not quite thinking clearly. I’m a bit lightheaded, actually.
“Henry?” Lorna says, stepping toward me.
My jeans are becoming uncomfortably tight. I almost want to reach down and adjust myself, and that’s when I remember who I am, snap out of the boob freeze-beam, and take a quick step back.
“Ack,” I say. “No. Get ahold of yourself. What’s wrong with you?”
She’s a boob bedazzler, a breast beguiler, a titty temptress. It’s horrible. I wave my hand in front of my face, blocking my view of her breasts.
Lorna reaches for me and I stumble back, knocking over the hat rack. It’s a long, wooden, tree-like hatstand with limbs extending from the trunk and two dozen hats hanging like leaves. I catch the wobbling stand and hold it between us. I use it like a shield, waving the fuzzy and quirky and practical felt hats menacingly.
Lorna tries to step around it, but I shove it in her way.
“Back off, and for goodness’ sake, put your shirt on,” I say, thrusting the woolly hats at her.
She swats them away. “Henry!”
My word, she’s persistent.
“I’m with Serena. Don’t you have any self-respect? Who does this? Honestly. Haven’t you heard of the sacred law of sisterhood? Don’t poach! And respect yourself! Jeez!”
“Henry!” Lorna grabs the hat rack and begins to grapple with me, attempting to wrest the hats from my hands. “Why do you sound like an American? What’s wrong with you?”
What’s wrong with me? I’m being accosted by a horny ex-girlfriend.
Not to mention this isn’t my body and I just got freeze-rayed for the first time by a plucky pair of B-cup British breasts.
A big, Kool-Aid-purple felt hat with yellow ostrich feathers tickles her boobs, and another, a brown bowler hat, keeps punching me in the jaw every time she yanks on the hatstand.
“I sound American because I like Serena. My girlfriend. I’m with Serena,” I say forcefully, even though I’m not quite sure how Henry would actually want me to handle this situation. He did say we shouldn’t ruin relationships, but . . .
“But you can’t be with Serena! You and I are getting married!” Lorna wails, dropping the hat rack.
And because this is a shocker that I absolutely did not expect, I also drop the hat rack. It clatters noisily to the stone floor, throwing hats everywhere.
I stare stunned at half-naked Lorna, my mouth falling open in shock, and that is exactly how Henry and his mom find us when he yanks open the coat-room door.