8. Henry
8
HENRY
T he break room door swings open without warning. My mother's signature perfume fills the air before I even see her face.
"Henry, darling." She glides in wearing her designer gown, diamonds glittering at her throat. Behind her trails a statuesque blonde in a red dress. Who the hell is this? This isn't the woman she was parading around early. "I've been looking everywhere for you."
"Mother." I get up, glancing at Monica. Her eyes widen slightly at the sudden appearance of my mother. While these two ladies are dressed to the nines, Monica is in her chef whites. I hope that isn't making her feel some type of way. "I'm a bit occupied at the moment."
"Oh nonsense." Mother waves her hand dismissively. "I want you to meet Lola Sinclair. Her father runs that lovely vineyard in Napa we visited last summer."
Lola extends a manicured hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Henry. Your mother's told me so much about you."
I ignore her outstretched hand. "Mother, this isn't the time. I'm helping?—"
"Lola just finished her MBA at Harvard." Mother barrels on, acting as if Monica isn't even in the room. "She's taking over their international distribution next quarter."
Monica starts to rise from her chair. "I should probably get back to?—"
"No." I catch her wrist gently, mindful of her injured hand. "Please stay." The last thing I need is to be trapped alone with my mother's latest matchmaking attempt.
"Henry." Mother's voice carries that sharp edge I know too well. "Don't be rude. Lola came all this way specifically to meet you."
"I'm sure she did." I keep my grip on Monica's wrist, thumb brushing over her pulse point. "But as you can see, I'm helping with an injury. So unless either of you are secretly medical professionals..."
"Really, darling. The staff can handle their own issues." Mother's gaze finally lands on Monica, dismissing her entirely with a single look.
My jaw clenches. "Mother?—"
"Henry, I'm being serious. Who is this woman, anyway? And why are you treating her as if she's the most important person at your cousin's party? From the looks of it, she's just a chef. Right?"
"She's my fiancée," I blurt out, which makes all the ladies in this room flinch.
The silence that follows my declaration feels like a physical weight. Monica's wrist tenses under my fingers, and I loosen my grip but don't let go. Mother's face cycles through several expressions - shock, confusion, and finally settling on something between outrage and disbelief.
"I beg your pardon?" Mother's voice comes out strangled.
Lola's perfectly made-up face twists. "You're engaged? To the help?" She spits the last word like poison.
"Watch yourself." Ice coats my words. I know I just met her, but considering how happy she's made me feel during our brief conversation, I won't let someone like Lola Sinclair minimize her.
"This is absurd." Lola shakes her head indignantly as she spins around. "I can't believe you wasted my time, Catherine." The door slams behind her with enough force to rattle the break room's cheap venetian blinds.
"Henry." Mother's lips press into a thin line. "We will discuss this later. At length." She hurries after Lola, but pauses at the door. "And I expect answers. Real ones."
The door closes again, softer this time. I drop Monica's wrist and run a hand through my hair.
"I'm so sorry about that. I didn't mean to drag you into?—"
A snort cuts me off.
Monica's shoulders shake with suppressed laughter. "Fiancée?" Her eyes dance with amusement. "That's what you went with?"
"It was the first thing that came to mind." Heat creeps up my neck and my collar suddenly feels too tight. "I couldn't let her steamroll over you like that. You didn't deserve to be caught in the crossfire of Blackwood family politics."
"So you decided to promote me from 'just a chef' straight to future Mrs. Blackwood?" She raises an eyebrow, those brown eyes sparkling with mischief. "Talk about a career advancement. Do I get dental with that?"
"Look, I panicked, okay?" But her laughter is infectious, and I find myself grinning despite the clusterfuck I've just created. "Mother's been trying to set me up with society princesses for as long as I can remember. You should've seen the last one - brought her own wine critic to dinner. The guy actually spit into a fucking bucket at Eleven Madison Park. We got asked to leave."
"And now you've gone and disappointed poor Lola Sinclair of the Napa Valley Sinclairs." Monica wipes at her eyes, still chuckling. "Your mother looked ready to faint. I thought she might actually clutch her pearls like in those old movies. Does this mean I should start practicing my society laugh? You know—" She demonstrates a delicate, obviously fake titter that somehow makes this whole disaster seem hilarious.
I shake my head, unable to stop grinning at her ability to find humor in this disaster. "Thanks for being such a good sport about all this. Most people would've stormed out after that shitshow."
"Please. Your mother thinking I'm engaged to you is the least of my problems tonight." Monica reaches into her chef coat pocket and pulls out a sleek business card. "Here. You should probably have my contact info, seeing as we're getting married and all." She hands it over with a wink.
My fingers brush against hers as I take the card. The elegant script reads 'Monica West - Executive Chef' with her phone number and email below. The cardstock is thick, professional - a stark contrast to the playful glint in her eyes.
"I better get back before my team thinks I've abandoned them." She adjusts her chef coat and picks at the bandage on her hand. "Those lamb chops won't plate themselves."
I watch her move toward the door, struck by how she commands attention without even trying. The confidence in her stride, the way her curls escape that messy bun, the flash of her smile as she glances back one last time before disappearing into the hallway.
Looking down at her card between my fingers, I know with absolute certainty that I can't let this be our only interaction. Not just because I've royally fucked myself by claiming she's my fiancée in front of Mother - though that's definitely going to come back to bite me in the ass. No, there's something about Monica West that makes me want to know more. The way she handled Mother's snobbery with grace. How she laughed instead of getting angry. The spark I felt every time our eyes met.
I slip her card into my wallet, right behind my driver's license where I won't lose it. Mother will be hunting me down any minute now, demanding explanations I don't have. But all I can think about is when I'll see Monica again.