Chapter Twelve - Mirabelle
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mirabelle
I KISSED HENRY. That really just happened.
If only fifteen-year-old me could see me now. She might go into cardiac shock.
I’m having a fun time with Henry, and I think he is too. He seems to have relaxed from all the stress he carries on a day-to-day basis, and I think the stick he has permanently lodged up his ass has shifted. We’re in an isolated area that has an amazing view of the night sky through the glass windows surrounding us. Only a couple of other small, clustered groups of people are up here, but they’re on the other side of the room, giving us some semblance of privacy.
Henry doesn’t seem freaked by the idea that we kissed, or at least he isn’t acting like it. Meanwhile, I’m trying to keep myself from having a major freakout. It’s taking everything in me not to run to the bathroom to call JJ or Emily.
Is it weird I want to talk to my brother about kissing Henry?
His lips were so soft, and he reacted quickly to kiss me back. And the way his hand tangled in my hair? It’s a good thing I have some serious willpower, because I’m not sure if I could pull away again. It’s almost like he needed me to take the first step, but once I did, it seemed like Henry wanted to keep kissing me—
“Mirabelle?” Henry asks, redirecting my attention back to the conversation. I blink rapidly and notice that the waiter is waiting patiently to hear my answer to whatever he just asked me.
Oh god. I smile at the waiter as my cheeks burn with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention. Would you mind repeating that?”
“Would you like dessert?” he repeats.
Henry chuckles, not even bothering to hide his amusement at this. The worst part is that Henry easily could have answered this question for me, considering I’ve never turned down dessert anywhere.
“Absolutely. Surprise me with your favorite,” I say, smiling at the waiter as Henry asks for the same.
I consider kicking him under the table, but that wouldn’t be very loving of a fake girlfriend to do to her fake boyfriend, who she’s trying to seduce into being her real boyfriend.
“You were in la-la land,” he teases, and I roll my eyes.
“You could have answered for me. You knew what my answer was going to be.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “I know, but I’ve also heard it’s rude to order for your date,” Henry says, but there’s something weird about how he says it. I study him for a moment, and under my scrutiny, Henry shifts his eyes away to look out the window. I gasp, clapping my hands over my mouth as surprised laughter bubbles from my chest.
“What are you laughing at me for?”
“You’ve totally ordered for someone on a date before, and she bit your head off, didn’t she?” I grin at him, finding this funnier than I probably should. Normally, the idea of Henry with another girl makes my stomach hurt, but he’s not here with her, he’s here with me. I could be totally delusional, but it doesn’t feel entirely fake.
Henry’s ears immediately turn pink, and he pushes his sleeves up his forearms, my attention immediately drawn to the ink that was previously hidden. All that’s visible is the rolling ocean in shades of grey and black, with the scaly tail of a hippocampus, while the rest is hidden from view.
“I wouldn’t say she bit my head off, but I did listen to her go on about how controlling men are and how misogynistic they can be after I ordered an ice cream sundae for us to split. I didn’t mean it that way, but who doesn’t like ice cream and chocolate sauce?” he says, defending himself. Henry clears his throat, meeting my eyes as his widen. “Oh shit, I didn’t mean I think you would react like that if I ordered for you, but I’m trying to listen more so I stop pissing you off. I didn’t want to say or do the wrong thing, so I thought it’d be better if you ordered for yourself,” he rambles, and I try not to melt into a puddle.
There is nothing sexier than a man hearing your words and caring enough to value them.
“Did you go on another date with her after that lecture?” I ask, forcing my brain to move past that before I say something dumb like I love you or can I have your babies? Both are acceptable options, but not for this moment.
Henry cringes, his gaze shifting away momentarily. “No, that was the end of that,” he answers, tapping his fingers on the tablecloth. “Probably for the best.”
“Probably, it doesn’t sound like she was the right person for you,” I say, taking a sip of what is technically Henry’s wine, since I can’t order my own legally for another five months. If only we were in France.
“Who do you think is the right person for me, if you don’t mind me asking?” he asks, probing for an answer to my statement. A lock of Henry’s dark, unruly waves has fallen in his face as he tilts his head to look at me.
A lump immediately forms in my throat, and I take another long drink of the wine, trying to wash it away. “You know, I think I’m going to go to the restroom. I’ll be back in a minute,” I squeak out, pushing my chair back as I snag my phone off the table. I’m totally calling Emily in the bathroom, and if she doesn’t answer, I’m calling JJ.
His face shifts in confusion, and I hear his deep voice say something, but I’ve already walked too far away to hear what he said.
That might be the worst way I could have reacted to that question, but honestly, I’ve done rather well with everything else tonight. I was bound to crack at some point. I’m not sure how Henry is single, because while he might say dumb shit, he’s pretty good at playing the role of a boyfriend.
A quick scan underneath the doors of the stalls reveals I’m in here by myself. I hit Emily’s number, dragging a hand over my face in agony.
She answers immediately, catching me by surprise. Normally it’s harder to get ahold of her. “Aren’t you supposed to be on your date with your boyfriend?”
“I’m hiding in the bathroom,” I blurt out, smoothing down my dress. Why can I be bold in every other aspect of my life, except with Henry?
“Um, why?”
“Henry asked me a question I didn’t know how to answer after we had the most life changing kiss ever, and he’s so fucking sweet, and I’m acting like a child by cowering in the bathroom,” I ramble, pacing back and forth.
“Woah, slow down. Give me a second to catch up,” Emily says. “What did he ask you?”
“We were joking around about one of his previous dates, and he said it was for the best it didn’t work out. So I obviously opened my mouth and agreed with him that she wasn’t the right girl for him, cause, duh, hello, she’s not me. And then it opened the door for him to ask who I fucking thought was right for him? So I ran, and I’m hiding in the bathroom like an idiot.”
“Would it be so bad if you finally told him that you like him?”
That is absolutely the worst possible thing I could do. I think the only thing worse would be if I asked to have his babies. “Yeah, and get rejected? That’d be amazing for my self-esteem, Em.”
“Bullshit. He could like you too, Mira. You’re the most confident person I know. Get your ass back out there, and tell Henry you like him instead of hiding.”
I roll my eyes, shaking my head. “You don’t get it. I can’t do that, it would change everything.” That kiss might have changed my entire perspective on what kissing should be like, but Henry wouldn’t have even kissed me if I hadn’t made the first move.
Why couldn’t I say, Oh, I don’t know who the right person is for you, Henry?
“Okay, but you still have to leave the fucking bathroom,” my best friend reminds me, and I groan as the door opens. An older woman walks in, giving me an odd look.
“Fine, I’m going,” I whisper, checking my hair in the mirror first.
“Proud of you.”
“You should be. I feel like I’m walking to my funeral,” I say, stepping onto the restaurant floor.
“At least you’ll die looking good. Love you, babe.”
“I love you too,” I echo automatically, realizing I messed up leaving Henry alone, especially when he looks as good as he does tonight. There’s some woman standing over him, and the man I’m assuming is her date has taken my seat. He seems more interested in the fact that Henry is well . . . Henry , to even appear upset his date is fawning all over my fake boyfriend.
I note how stiff Henry is, and anyone with half a brain can tell he’s uncomfortable.
“So what is it like working out all the time?” she asks, following it up with a fake high-pitched giggle, dragging her hand down his arm as Henry tries to shift away. I want to gag and shove a steak knife through her hand for touching him. Too aggressive?
“I’m sorry, I’m having a private meal. Do you min—”
“Yeah, do you take steroids? I think I read somewhere that you do. There’s no way those muscles are real without extra help,” the guy adds in, cutting Henry off. He did not just speak over Henry politely trying to ask them to leave— which is honestly a huge step for him —to ask if he juices.
My temper flares because I’ve been accused of that shit, and it’s not cool. His muscles are definitely real. I saw the article after its publication the other day, and Stacey had me issue a release denying it with recent drug tests results. The site posted a retraction, curing most of the backlash.
“Excuse me, that’s my seat, and that’s my boyfriend so get your hands off him. Pretty sure I heard him trying to tell you he’s having a private meal, and I’m guessing Henry didn’t ask you to touch him, or give you permission to. If I were you, I’d back the hell off,” I snap, ensuring I follow it up with a polite smile as she stares at me like a deer caught in headlights. I know I’m letting my own experiences after the Olympics bleed into my reaction right now, but it doesn’t mean I’m wrong to tell them off. Relief floods Henry’s face, and I’m happy I didn’t actually grab the knife on the table to stab her with it.
Any other man, I’d probably be irritated, but for Henry, I’m ready to cut a bitch.
The man sitting in my seat gapes at me, his jaw ajar, clearly recognizing me, but my patience wavers further when his eyes drop straight to my chest.
Seriously?
I swear, men have a one-track mind.
“My eyes are up here,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. Henry’s chair screeches on the flooring as he stands up.
“You’re Mirabelle Walker,” he stammers, jerking his eyes back up to my face, and then over to Henry.
“Show some respect,” Henry warns, and I give him a look telling him silently to back off. He doesn’t get to pull the penis card and be all macho right now. I can handle this myself.
“Yes, I am Mirabelle Walker, and I’m sorry, but not actually, because you’re interrupting a private dinner,” I say evenly. “I understand it might be cool and all to see us at the same restaurant as you, and we happily would have had a conversation with you or taken a picture had you asked, but instead, you accused him of taking steroids and put your hands on him. You shouldn’t believe everything you read, and you definitely shouldn’t touch anyone without their consent.”
All three of them are speechless as the waiter happens to appear with two plates of dessert.
The woman’s face is flaming with embarrassment— as it should be —and she looks at Henry as if asking him whether I can speak to her like that.
The waiter looks at the couple, narrowing his eyes. “Excuse me, but I believe your seats were in the main dining area. Please return to them before I call my manager to have you removed,” he says, and they immediately make their exit. The waiter huffs, smiling apologetically at us. “I’m so sorry that they were able to disturb your evening. If you’d like this to be boxed up, I would be more than happy to get that done for you right away.”
Henry looks at me, raising an eyebrow to ask what I’d like to do. Honestly, I’m upset, but I don’t want to ruin the evening any more than I already have. Perhaps I should have bit my tongue, but I couldn’t help myself.
“No, it’s okay. We’ll stay. Thank you for the apology, it’s appreciated,” I say, mustering a smile as I take my seat. Henry follows my lead, and the waiter sets the plates in front of us.
“Let me go speak with my manager to see what we can do to make up for the interruption,” he says, but Henry shakes his head.
“Please don’t worry about it,” Henry interjects, smiling at the waiter.
The chocolate cake in front of me looks incredible, but unfortunately, I’ve lost my appetite. I was dangerously close to losing my temper on that couple, and that would have reflected poorly on us instead of them. Maybe I was more awful than deserved, but I don’t understand why people think it’s okay to touch us and accuse us of shit like taking steroids because we’re public figures.
I’m sure they’ll still sell the interaction to the tabloids, but hopefully it backlashes on me more than Henry. My reputation can take it, but his can’t.
I mean, come on. They were treating Henry like he wasn’t a real fucking person.
I push the chocolate chips around my plate, wondering how crazy Henry now thinks I am. This night was going so great. And then I had to ruin it. If I hadn’t left Henry alone to go freak out in the bathroom then whoever the fuck that was wouldn’t have had the opportunity to approach Henry. I was ready to go full psycho on that woman.
“Mirabelle, you haven’t taken a single bite of your cake,” Henry points out, watching me closely as I look up at him.
“I lost my appetite.” I shrug, setting down my fork as I glance to the side out at the Charlotte skyline.
“I’m sorry about that. I’d hoped they’d be gone before you got back,” he apologizes.
“It was my fault for leaving you alone. They might have approached regardless, but I can’t stand that she felt like she could touch you.” I shudder dramatically, but it makes me sick to my stomach. “You have nothing to apologize for. I’m the one that should be apologizing. I’m sorry. I could have held my tongue better, but it makes me so damn mad. It’s no excuse, though. I’ll call my PR team later to give them a heads-up in case those two say anything to anyone.”
“Well, I don’t think you have anything to apologize for either, so why don’t we agree that they should be the ones apologizing, and enjoy the rest of our night.” Henry takes a bite of the cake, a groan of satisfaction sounding from his mouth. I watch as his tongue flicks to get the stray dab of frosting from his lip, and all I can think about is how badly I want to kiss him again. “You should try it. It’s delicious,” he says, his lips quirking upward, and I almost wish he didn’t know me so well.
I relax a little in my seat, picking up my fork again. “I’m shocked you’re actually eating it. Your diet is pretty strict.”
“I won’t tell if you won’t.” Henry laughs, and I can’t help joining him. I’m still feeling slightly defeated, despite how nice tonight’s dinner was. I didn’t exactly wow Henry and prove to him why I should be his real girlfriend instead of his fake girlfriend.
Right before we exit the building, Henry grabs my hand, looping his fingers through mine. I look around but there’s no paparazzi to be seen, which means he wants to hold my hand.
Hell yeah.
Maybe tonight wasn’t such a disaster after all.