Chapter 4 #2
He picks up his glass of wine, swirling the liquid thoughtfully before taking a sip. “You know, for someone who claims to find me infuriating, you’re pretty good at making me feel not so terrible about myself.”
I laugh. “Well, don’t get used to it.”
Henson pours some more wine, topping off both of our glasses, and then grabs the bottle, motioning toward the couch. “Come on. Let’s get more comfortable.”
I follow him, glass in hand, a slight warmth creeping into my cheeks from the alcohol. The meal was incredible, but the conversation, surprisingly, was even better. It’s rare to connect with someone like this—especially a total stranger—and I’m trying not to overthink it.
We settle on the oversized seat, Henson sprawling out as I tuck my legs under me, keeping my glass balanced in one hand. He sets the bottle on the coffee table and leans back, his arm draping casually along the back of the sofa.
“So, tell me something funny from your childhood. Even better if it’s embarrassing.”
“Okay, but no judgment,” I reply.
“No promises.”
I roll my eyes, stifling a smile.
“When I was about seven, I thought I could teach myself how to ice skate... in my socks. On the kitchen floor.”
Henson arches a brow, intrigued. “Oh, this sounds promising already.”
“It gets better. So, I put on my dad’s old socks—because clearly, bigger socks meant better skating—and I’m gliding around the kitchen, imagining I’m in the Olympics. Everything’s going great until I decide to do a spin.”
He winces, already anticipating the ending. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes,” I say, giggling. “I spun too hard, lost my balance, and slammed right into the fridge. The door flew open, and a carton of orange juice came crashing down on my head. My mom walks in just as I’m lying on the floor, covered in juice, crying about how I’ll never be a figure skater.”
Henson bursts out laughing, his shoulders shaking. “I can just picture it. Did you at least get a medal for effort?”
“Not even a sympathy hug.”
He shakes his head, still chuckling. “That’s amazing. I needed that visual.”
“Your turn. Don’t leave me hanging.”
He pauses, thinking. “Okay. When I was ten, my brother dared me to climb the tree in our backyard and jump down onto the trampoline.”
“Oh, no,” I say, mimicking him.
“Oh, yes,” he echoes, smirking. “I climbed up, no problem. But when it was time to jump, I chickened out. Worth started yelling at me, calling me a baby, so I decided to prove him wrong. I jumped.”
“And?”
“And... I missed the trampoline entirely. Landed in a bush.”
I burst out laughing, clutching my stomach. “Please tell me you weren’t hurt.”
“My pride… and my ankle,” he says with a grin. “I had to spend the night at the emergency room and wore a cast for almost three months. Worth never let me live it down.”
We both laugh, and it feels easy and natural. The wine loosens me up even more, and before I realize it, the words slip out. “Why are you single?”
The question hangs in the air, and I instantly regret it. His laughter fades.
“Sorry,” I blurt out. “You don’t have to—”
“It’s okay,” Henson interrupts. He sets his glass down on the table and shifts closer to me. Then, he reaches out, grabbing my legs and pulling them over his lap.
I gasp softly, heart racing as his hands move to my calves, kneading the muscles. His touch is firm yet soothing, and I can’t stop the sigh that escapes my lips.
“You’re tense,” he murmurs, his hands moving down to my feet, rubbing slow circles into the arches.
I’m acutely aware of how intimate this is, how comfortable we’ve become in such a short amount of time. It feels dangerous, like a line is being crossed, but I can’t bring myself to stop it. Instead, I lean back against the cushions, letting the tension in my body melt away.
It won’t last, I remind myself. Just one night. Tomorrow, we’ll go back to being strangers.
Henson’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. “To answer your question. I’m single because, as cliché as it sounds, I can’t find anyone who’s interested in me for me. It’s always about the money, the lifestyle, the name. Not... me.”
I open my mouth to respond, but he continues.
“My ex, Celia, used me for all of that, and the fame that came with it. She wanted to get engaged, but my gut told me something wasn’t right.
When I told her I wasn’t ready, she flipped and broke up with me, saying she didn’t want to wait around.
A few weeks later, she was engaged to some tech mogul. ”
I watch his face, the pain evident even though he tries to hide it.
“It happened seven months ago,” Henson adds after a pause. “And keeping it quiet was work in itself. I didn’t want it all over Page Six or some trashy headline. I was embarrassed, if I’m being honest. Ashamed I didn’t see it coming.”
“Did you love her?” I nervously twist my fingers. “Do you… still?”
“I thought I did back then,” he admits. “Though, looking back, I think I was more in love with the idea of her than the reality.”
My heart aches for him. “That’s awful. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
He shrugs, though his expression is anything but indifferent. “It made me cautious. Careful about who I let in. Maybe too careful.”
I reach out, placing a hand on his arm. “Well, I think you’re worth knowing, Henson. Anyone who doesn’t see that doesn’t deserve a second of your time.”
I don’t know why I’m being so open with him, but the way he’s letting his guard down, showing me pieces of himself that clearly aren’t meant for just anyone, is disarming.
And if I’m being honest, it’s a little bit of a turn-on.
After coming out of a relationship where everything felt robotic and calculated, his honesty is like oxygen.
His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, the air between us becomes heavy again.
Henson’s gaze drops to my lips, lingering there as if he’s silently debating something.
He doesn’t say a word, but the intensity of his stare speaks volumes. Like a heatwave, rushing through me, settling low in my stomach. My tongue darts out to wet my lips—a nervous habit—and his eyes darken in response.
“Henson...” I murmur, my voice softer than intended.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t break eye contact. His hand, still resting on my ankle, slides up, his fingers brushing against my calf. The subtle touch sends a jolt through me, and I press my thighs together, trying to suppress the wave of arousal building inside me.
“What are you thinking about?”
His lips curl into a sultry smile. “You,” he says simply, voice low and gravelly.
My heart skips a beat, and a flush creeps up my neck. “What about me?”
Henson leans in, his hand continuing its slow, deliberate journey up my leg. His fingertips trace invisible patterns on my skin, igniting sparks wherever they touch.
“About how you look when you’re trying not to blush.” His eyes never leave mine. “About how you’ve been trying to keep your distance, even though I know you feel it too.”
I swallow hard, every nerve in my body on high alert. “Feel what?”
His smile deepens, and he finally moves closer, his knee brushing against my thigh. “This pull between us. It’s been there since the moment we met.”
I lean toward him without even realizing it. My wine glass feels heavy in my hand, so I set it down on the table, freeing myself to steady the faint tremor in my fingers.
“Henson, this is—”
“Just one night,” he cuts in, reading my thoughts. His hand stops just above my knee, gently stroking my skin. “That’s what you’re thinking, right?”
I nod, unable to find my voice.
“But that doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”
The tension between us is electric, and I can’t think straight. I settle into his touch, craving more, even though my brain is screaming at me to pull back.
And then, without warning, Henson cups my cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against my jawline. The tenderness of the gesture steals my breath.
“Tell me to stop, Mira,” he whispers, his face inches from mine now. “And I will.”
But I don’t.