16. Natalie
NATALIE
Iwake up in Henry’s bed on Sunday morning. So much for just this once.
I’m not even sure how it happened. He stayed over after bowling, and somehow Saturday blurred into today. Now we’ve spent the whole weekend together.
I roll into the empty space beside me, still tangled in his sheets. His scent clings to my skin and I hate how much I like it. From the kitchen, I hear off-key humming and the unmistakable sizzle of something burning.
Henry still can’t cook. It hasn’t stopped him.
He burns toast like it’s an art form, over-salts everything with the confidence of someone who’s never read a recipe all the way through.
Every time, he rolls up his sleeves like it will be the time it’ll all click.
Like sheer determination might unlock whatever culinary gene skipped him.
I like that about him. He doesn’t quit. Not with breakfast. Not with anything.
All weekend, he’s been relentless. Pulling every last reaction from my body until I’m left shaking, undone, completely wrecked. I don’t know how much more I can take. At this point, it’s starting to feel like teasing.
He clearly wants to have sex. I feel the press of him when we’re close, the way his eyes go dark when I touch him. But still, he holds back.
I sink deeper into his pillow. I’m not supposed to want him. I’m not even supposed to like him. But I do.
Being with him is easy. It’s fun. And last night, I fell asleep on his chest while some action movie played in the background. He teased me when I stirred. Then he carried me to bed like I weighed nothing and pulled the blanket over me without saying a word.
I’m supposed to act like the time we spend together doesn’t mean anything. That I’m not falling for him. But I am.
I roll out of bed and pull on one of his T-shirts.
It hangs loose on me, soft and oversized, falling mid-thigh.
When I find him at the stove, the pancakes are already charred.
Not just overcooked. They’re blackened, tragic, and vaguely smoking.
It’s honestly impressive how badly he’s managed to burn them.
I slide onto a stool at the kitchen island, trying not to laugh.
He glances over his shoulder and grins. “How do you look even better in the morning?”
“Don’t,” I say, already fighting a smile.
“I mean it. It’s criminal, actually.”
He flips something that definitely isn’t edible and sets a plate down between us. “They’re not as burnt as last time.”
That’s debatable. But I smile anyway.
I cut off a bite, chew, and make an encouraging sound. He does the same, then grimaces.
“These are dreadful,” he says.
“They are better,” I lie.
“I’m working on it,” he says, mouth curving with that stubborn little tilt he gets when he decides to fix something. “If I could just get the temperature right. I will get it right.”
His cheeks flush slightly, and for some reason, that gets me. It lands low in my chest and settles there. Just like that, all my carefully constructed common sense starts slipping further out of reach.
I set my fork down.
“I want to have sex,” I say.
His brows lift. His mouth twitches. “They’re that good, huh?”
I roll my eyes. “You don’t want to?”
“I do,” he says. “The thing is…I only sleep with women who are my girlfriend.”
“You do not.”
“I do now.” He shrugs like it’s nothing. Like he hasn’t just tossed a bomb into the middle of our very delicate mess. “So…we making this official or—”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, but he doesn’t have to. The word is already hanging in the air.
Official.
It rattles around in my head like a warning bell. I don’t let myself think like that. It’s absurd. Dangerous. A fantasy I can’t afford.
“We can’t do that,” I say too quickly.
“We can.” His voice is calm, certain. “We’re adults.”
“Maybe your career could survive it. But if it comes out that I’m sleeping with my competitor, who’s going to hire me after that?”
“If Cosmo has a problem, you can come work for us.”
“I can’t work for Carter.” The words come out sharper than I mean. But I don’t take them back.
“Why not?”
“Because if I work at Carter, no one’s going to see me. They’ll see your girlfriend in an office, playing dress-up. They’ll think I got the job because of who I’m sleeping with, not because I earned it. And I’m not working for you.”
“You’d work with me, not for me.”
“Oh yeah? Whose name is on the building?”
“One day,” he says, casual, almost light, “it could be yours too.”
“Don’t say that.” My voice cracks a little. “We’re not even supposed to be a thing, Henry.”
“Says who?”
I hate the way he says it. Like I’m the one pulling away. Like I’m the coward.
“Says logic. Says reality. Says my career. My reputation.” I gesture between us, pulse thudding in my throat. “This only works as long as no one knows. That’s the deal.”
His jaw tightens, barely, but I see it.
“That’s your deal. Not mine.”
I drag a hand through my hair. I feel as though we’ve stepped over a line we won’t be able to cross back.
“I should go,” I say.
“Natalie—”
“I have things to do.” I push back the stool and stand.
He doesn’t stop me. He just watches as I gather my phone, my bag, whatever scraps of confidence I have left.
I change quickly and head for the door, telling myself I’m just buying time.
That stepping back doesn’t mean I’m running.
But the truth is, I’m not ready for what he’s asking. I’m not sure I ever will be.
Late that night, I sit in the bath long after the water’s gone cold. My skin is pruned, my hair is damp and curling at the edges, and I still can’t bring myself to move.
I like Henry. Too much. That’s the problem. Somewhere along the way, something shifted, and I let it. I should’ve held the line, drawn a clean boundary, stuck to the rules but I didn’t. Now, I don’t know what to do.
He wants more and I can’t give it to him. My career is everything, I can’t risk it all on a man. And working for Carter? That’s not a safety net. It’s a trap. If I step into his world there’s no walking out clean. We break up, and I’m done for.
The truth settles somewhere heavy in my chest: I have to end this.
I picture my younger self. Exhausted, hungry, showing up early, staying late, measuring every choice like it would tip the scale between making it and vanishing. Would that girl forgive me for trading everything she worked for just to fall asleep in his bed? Would she even recognize me now?
Henry’s history speaks for itself. He doesn’t keep women. He’s been with models, heiresses, women who’ve been on magazine covers and red carpets. Women who walk into rooms and make them stop. I’ve let myself believe I’m different. That we’re different. But statistically, I’m not.
Eventually, he’ll move on. And if he does, what’s left of me? Just another woman who traded ambition for a man who didn’t stay.
Then there’s the other thing. He doesn’t even know the truth about me.
I like to believe he wouldn’t care if he knew about my parents, the neighborhood I grew up in, the version of me I’ve spent years sanding down.
But what if I’m wrong? What if he sees the mess, the grit, the gaps I’ve worked so hard to cover, and it changes everything? What if he stops seeing me at all?
If I let him in and it all falls apart, I lose everything. Not just him. Everything.
I hear his voice in my head. We’re adults. He said it like reassurance. But honestly, that’s what scares me most. Adults are supposed to know better. We’re supposed to recognize a bad idea before we let it our apartment and let it make us pancakes.
And this? This is one giant, blinking red flag. People talk. People assume. And in this industry, no one gives you the benefit of the doubt. They give you a label and move on.
I sink lower into the water, close my eyes, and try to press the thought into something solid.
Tomorrow, I’ll end it. I’ll send a message. I’ll say it’s been fun, but I choose me. I choose my work. My future. The life I’ve built.
I push myself upright and nod, like that makes it real. It’s the right choice. The smart one. But even as I repeat it, over and over, the heaviness in my chest doesn’t move.