Practice Makes Perfect Read Free Page B

to prom; showing up for the first IRL after lots of great online convos, only for her to get an emergency call from her roommate.
    Not that he hadn’t had some great girlfriends in the past. He was still friends with his high school girlfriend. Her kids called him Uncle Henry. He dated. He dated quite a lot, thank you. He’d gone on a date just last week. The woman smelled like cat litter and cigarettes, but it was fun. He didn’t plan on calling her again—a mutual decision—but at least he’d discovered a new restaurant.
    And Helen had laughed when he told her the story.
    Whatever Helen was reading now, it looked like it was bothering her. Her face was screwed up in concern and concentration, and she started running the ends of her hair over her lips as she read. He’d never really looked at Helen’s lips before. It was . . . distracting.
    Not distracting for her, though, since she didn’t even hear him walk into the room (OK, so he’d snuck in quietly) and stand behind her to read over her shoulder. He couldn’t see it all, but he could read the bold pull quote in the middle of the screen.
    Remember: The most erotic scenes involve all five senses; sound and smell and taste are just as important as sight and touch.
    â€œWhat?”
    He hadn’t meant to say it. It just slipped out. Because the last thing he’d expected Helen the Librarian to be reading was a text about crafting erotic fiction. Even though she was a librarian. She looked up all kinds of stuff. Maybe it was for an English class.
    Whatever she was doing, he definitely surprised her, because she squeaked and slammed her laptop closed and turned to face him in one quick move that almost toppled her chair in a tangle of legs and wires.
    He caught her chair and righted it, and he caught her eye as well. She stood up, shielding her closed laptop from him.
    â€œHi,” she said breathlessly. “Where did you—”
    â€œI was standing at the door, but you didn’t see me. Or hear me. Or . . . smell me. Helen, what the heck were you reading?” He laughed, teasing her for getting caught doing something he was pretty sure wasn’t part of her regular Pembroke workload.
    If the fifty shades of red she turned was any indication, it definitely was extracurricular.
    â€œNothing,” she said, turning back to her desk and shoving her laptop aside.
    â€œSure didn’t look like nothing.” He reached for her laptop to try to tease her some more.
    She slapped his hand away. “Forget it!”
    His smile froze on his face. She was really pissed. “Helen, I’m just kidding. You can read your pervy stuff all you want. I don’t care.”
    He was going for a keep-it-light-in-an-awkward-situation tone. It did not make her face look less mad.
    Smooth, Beckham.
    Then her mad face crumpled and she plopped down on her chair, her head in her hands.
    â€œHey, hey.” He squatted down so they were face-to-face. He’d made her cry. He’d taken an awkward situation and turned it into a crying situation. He hated seeing people cry. He should probably just go before it escalated. What situation came after crying? Did he even want to find out?
    â€œI’m sorry, just forget it, OK?” She snuffled into her hands.
    â€œHelen—”
    â€œPlease, Henry. Just drop it.”
    Henry prided himself on being a sensitive guy, the kind of guy who respected women’s experiences and recognized the institutional misogyny of the patriarchy. But even he would rather have a root canal than deal with tears. So, like a coward, he took Helen’s proffered excuse and backed out of her office.
    He should call Grace. Grace could handle feelings. But what would he tell her? Grace, I just left our best friend crying in her office because I think she has some kind of sex problem and I caught her reading about it at work and I made fun of her for it .
    â€œUh, I’ll call you