Chapter 10 A Seat Next to Trouble
A SEAT NEXT TO TROUBLE
AMIRA
Of all the people I expected to see behind that floral arrangement, Henson was not one of them.
Our eyes lock, and it’s like time folds in on itself, trapping us in this surreal bubble where the scent of pine and eucalyptus fills my nose, and all I can hear is the rush of blood in my ears.
He stares at me as if he’s seeing a ghost.
“I’m so glad you could make it!” Mrs. Nadine Thatcher exclaims, hands outstretched.
I quickly look away from Henson, pretending to admire the arrangement now safely in his hands.
“I’m sorry it took so long. The bouquet is a bit ambitious.” I give her a polite smile.
She laughs, not noticing the static between me and Henson. “Oh, it’s beautiful. Thank you so much for bringing it.”
Nadine gestures between me and Henson. “Amira, this is my son.”
My stomach drops. Her son?
I try to make sense of the moment. I didn’t know—how could I have known? Nadine never used the last name Miller. She always introduced herself with what I now assume is her maiden name. And Henson and I never got into specifics about his ties to Nantucket.
It suddenly makes so much horrible sense.
Somehow, we both do the same thing in perfect unspoken agreement: we pretend.
He shifts the bouquet into one hand and extends the other toward me. “Nice to meet you, Amira.”
I go along with it. I hesitate for a second, then take his hand.
The moment our palms connect, my body reacts before my brain can catch up. Warmth shoots up my arm, that stupid, unbearable awareness crackling in my chest like a live wire.
I pull my hand back just a little too fast.
“Likewise,” I say, voice tight.
Nadine beams, oblivious. “Oh, Amira, it’s Christmas Eve, you must stay and join us for dinner.”
I open my mouth to decline, but Henson beats me to it.
“Ma.” His voice is casual yet clipped. “She probably has her own plans.”
“I don’t, actually,” I blurt out, then instantly regret it. Henson looks at me, surprised.
Why did I say that?
Nadine grins. “Perfect! Then it’s settled.”
I press my lips into a smile, nodding like I haven’t just walked into a trap I set myself.
She leads me into the house, chatting about the food and how glad she is that I came. I follow her, hyper-aware of Henson at my side, walking as if he’s been carved from marble.
When we step into the living room, it’s full of people and warmth and laughter.
The space glows with soft golden lights strung along the mantle and woven through garlands laced with pinecones, red ribbons, and tiny gold bells.
Stockings hang neatly beneath the mantle, each one embroidered with names in gold thread. A cozy fire crackles in the stone hearth.
It’s straight out of a holiday movie.
Nadine claps her hands to get the room’s attention.
“Everyone, this is Amira. She’s the wonderful event planner helping me with the New Year’s Eve party and will be joining us for dinner.”
A chorus of greetings follows, and everyone’s faces are kind, welcoming.
Except his.
Henson looks like he’s trying not to catch anyone’s attention and melt into the shadows.
My gaze then snags on his brother, Worth. I recognize him instantly from the media, business articles and countless gossip sites that love to track his extracurriculars. He’s definitely the face of the company. The playboy, always photographed at events with a different woman on his arm.
After everything Henson told me, about his anxiety and discomfort in the spotlight, it kind of makes sense. He’s not the brother plastered across headlines. He’s the one trying to stay hidden.
Worth looks between the two of us with narrowed eyes, his gaze lingering on Henson’s stiff posture for a moment before amusement flickers across his face.
As everyone gets settled at the table, he gives me a smile, a scheming one I don’t trust.
“Amira, come sit right here,” Worth says, patting the cushion beside him… of the empty seat directly next to Henson’s.
Henson’s scowl is instant, sharp enough to cut glass.
To avoid making a scene, I walk over and sit down. The cushion dips slightly, and I can feel the heat coming off of him, even though we’re not even touching.
Platters are passed, wine is poured, conversation flows.
And I’m sitting next to the man I spent the night with—who kissed every inch of my skin and whispered things that made my toes curl—pretending like we’ve never met.
Merry. Freaking. Christmas.
I smile as someone passes me the mashed potatoes, trying not to overthink the fact that Henson is close enough that our elbows brush whenever we move.
I should be focusing on the food, or at least the woman across from me who just complimented my sweater, but I can feel him next to me.
“Amira,” Worth says, his tone casual, “what made you decide to take this job? I mean, coming all the way to Nantucket over the holidays—that’s a big commitment.”
I pause, my fork halfway to my mouth.
There’s nothing malicious in his tone. Just curiosity. But it still makes something tighten in my chest.
“I, um…” I offer a demure smile, buying myself a moment. “I’ve always wanted to work on a destination event. The timing just lined up.”
Worth tilts his head, still watching me. “So you’re all alone? No family plans? No one you know in Nantucket?” His eyes flick to his brother.
Before I can answer, Henson cuts in. “Come on, Worth. She’s our guest, not someone you’re deposing.”
The table goes a little quiet.
My cheeks flush. I glance at Henson. His jaw is tense, eyes focused ahead, as if he’s trying hard not to glare at his own brother.
He didn’t have to come to my defense, but he did.
I don’t even think; I reach out and gently place my hand on his thigh under the table. A silent thank you.
The second I do, he twitches like I’ve lit a spark beneath his skin.
And then, just as quickly, his hand moves down and covers mine. His palm is warm, grounding. He squeezes once.
The simple gesture sends a rush of heat up my spine, settling low in my stomach.
Reality crashes back in.
He’s your new client’s son.
This is a holiday dinner.
I pull my hand back, placing it in my lap.
“No, I don’t have plans,” I say, directing the answer to Worth with a practiced smile. “Work is grounding for me. It’s been a chaotic few months, and I thought a change of scenery might help.”
It’s true and vague enough to keep me from unraveling at the table.
Worth nods, thankfully satisfied, and the conversation drifts to something about New Year’s Eve fireworks. I take a sip of water, pretending that my pulse isn’t racing and Henson’s hand isn’t still sitting idle on his leg, where mine just was.
I came to Nantucket for a reset.
So why does everything feel even messier now?