22. “Never Forget You” - Zara Larsson MNEK
“Never Forget You” - Zara Larsson + MNEK
If dodging the guy who makes you so mad you can’t see straight was an Olympic sport, I would have a gold medal in it—bronze at the very least. I should also get a trophy for all of the times I’ve wanted to drive over him with my car and refrained.
After our confrontation in the kitchen, I managed to avoid Henry for the rest of the day and all day yesterday. But this morning, I wake with nausea severe enough to send me scurrying to the kitchen without scouting for the enemy first.
The newly hired cook is already there. Musa appears to be in his late twenties, and I learned yesterday that he’s originally from Jaipur, India.
“Of course,” he says after I request a cup of tea. He sets the kettle on to boil.
I’m just about to sink my face into my hands when Henry walks around the corner.
My heart leaps the way it does when someone sneaks up behind you, only now it also sends a sickly sweet chemical through my veins.
His eyes flit over me where I’m seated on the barstool, but he doesn’t say anything, just pulls out a frying pan.
“Can I get you something to eat, Your Majesty?” Musa asks. He apparently doesn’t mind sharing the kitchen with his employer.
“No, thank you,” I say.
He cocks his head, a faint smile on his lips. “Are you sure? Some eggs? Or maybe some of the yogurt you had yesterday?”
“I appreciate the offer, but I’m not feeling well this morning.” I don’t relish the thought of hurling into the garbage bin again, and tea seems like the only safe option at the moment.
“I can make you my yumma’s famous stew. It is said to cure even the most stubborn of ailments.” He waggles his eyebrows.
I offer him a weak smile. “Just the tea for now, thank you.”
He nods and pours the hot water over a bag of jasmine leaves. I’m about to take it and head back to my room when Henry props an elbow on the bar beside me.
“You’re feeling sick again?” His tone is low and concerned.
I take a sip of tea. “Your presence intensifies it.”
“Any more throwing up?”
I turn my head just enough for him to see my scowl. “What are you, my doctor?”
“Just answer the question, Celia.” The ever-present edginess in his voice tickles its way through my belly.
“Not since a few nights ago.” I blow across the surface of the hot beverage. “It’s not that bad. Just mild nausea.” Okay, mild might be a stretch, but Henry doesn’t need to know everything.
“I’ll have your doctor make a house call.” He pushes away from the counter.
I grab his arm before he can walk away. “Absolutely not. I told you, I’m fine.”
He tosses a glance at Musa, who has taken over cooking Henry’s eggs, before lowering his voice. “You’re not eating, and you’re throwing up what you do eat. It’s concerning.”
“You may be in charge of my security, but I’m still in charge of my health.” I dig my nails into his arm. “No doctor.”
He yanks free of my grip. “Fine. Then tell me what you’ve been eating.”
“Well, since you cut off my take-away, not much.”
“You haven’t brought in any food from outside?” He puts a hand on the back of my barstool and hovers over me like a dark storm cloud.
“Not unless you count me sneaking out for the sushi buffet on North Thirty-Third and buying a questionable burrito from a street vendor on the way home.”
“This isn’t funny, C.”
“Glad we agree on something.” I take a long gulp of tea and promptly burn my mouth.
“I have another question, but you have to promise not to get mad,” he says quietly. Musa is still floating around the kitchen, humming show tunes to himself and apparently oblivious to our less-than-friendly conversation.
“Too late.”
Henry closes his eyes and inhales through his nose. Then he leans in close and whispers, “You’re not pregnant, are you?”
My jaw hits the floor, and I jump off the stool. I can’t do this anymore.
Henry grabs my arm this time. “I said not to get mad. It’s a legitimate question.”
“It’s a stupid question.”
He throws his hands up. “Fine. Stupid question. But do you mind answering it anyway?”
I narrow my eyes into the deadliest glare I can. “You’re insane. No, I’m not pregnant. God.”
Until he said it, the thought hadn’t even occurred to me. I quickly scan the calendar in my head. With everything that’s been going on, I’ve completely lost track, but I’m positive this is not pregnancy-induced nausea. “Even if I was, it clearly wouldn’t be yours.”
Lines of confusion cross his brow. “But we just . . .” he whispers.
“That was too recent,” I hiss back. My face must be the shade of a strawberry right now.
“What about London?”
I do some mental gymnastics, but while the timing would work, I’ve had my period since then. I shake my head. “Definitely not.”
His eyes flick back and forth between mine as though he’s wishing he could crawl into my head and know exactly what I’m thinking. “So then . . . you’re definitely not?” Something like disappointment threads through his voice.
I will not dwell on that.
My tea has finally cooled, and I take a long drink before answering. “I guess it could have been one of the others.”
The hand Henry has clamped on the marble countertop turns white. His face is frozen, looking much like the marble itself. “Others?” He doesn’t move his mouth as he says it.
Shrugging, I run a fingertip around the rim of my cup. “Probably not, though. We were careful.”
His face loses its remaining color, and I focus on the delicate china in my hands so he won’t notice how much I’m enjoying watching him squirm. From the corner of my eye, I can see him rake his fingers through his hair. He blows out a long breath and finally walks back into the kitchen.
Does he actually think I’ve been sleeping around? I’m the queen of Wesbourne, for god’s sake. And more importantly, did he actually think I was carrying his baby?
Sunday passes much like the day before, which means avoiding the common areas for fear I’ll run into Henry and eating at odd hours—if I can get any food down at all. I miss Bea. As annoying as she can be, at least she was a good distraction.
I’m planning to slip into the library with a book because, beautiful as it may be, I’m getting tired of spending all my time here in the master bedroom. When I open the door, Tundra barrels past me before I can stop him, straight into the great room.
Unfortunately, Henry’s also in the great room, along with a spruce so massive it nearly hits the chandelier. When I join them, Tundra is standing beside him, looking up at the tree with a mixture of awe and joy. He probably thinks Henry brought him his own territory to mark.
I finally find my voice. “What are you doing?”
Henry looks over at me, a boyish smile tugging at the sides of his mouth, and my stomach dips. He stretches out a hand to steady the tree as Tundra leans closer for a sniff. “Happy Christmas.”
“You got a Christmas tree? How did you get that thing on the lift?”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “You don’t want to know.” Evidently deciding Tundra can be trusted, he releases his hold on the trunk and walks toward me. “Consider it my peace offering.”
Cocking a brow, I glance over his shoulder at the incredibly large spruce. It must be over ten feet tall and probably just as wide. “Chocolate would have worked, too.”
His face splits into a grin. “Yeah, but that wouldn’t have done anything for my reputation as Scrooge.” Stopping a few paces away, he jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “My mum sent over some old ornaments. Wanna help me put them up?”
Of course I want to. The tree is the epitome of holiday decorating. But my stomach clenches at the thought of spending time with Henry, of making myself even more vulnerable than I already am.
His brows flick upward slightly. “I thought we could talk about the plans for the Royal Estate while we do it. Kind of a two birds, one stone deal.” He sticks his hands in the front pockets of his jeans.
I try unsuccessfully to look away from the way his T-shirt is fitting so perfectly over that wall of muscle.
We do need to discuss his ideas, and I did decide to trust him with this. “Sure,” I say. “I’ll help.”
The grin that takes over his face is infectious, and I find myself smiling in return. I inspect the tree, which Tundra has already claimed as his own, while Henry grabs the boxes Olivia sent over. He sets them down and leaves the room, probably to get food.
The staff had to move several of the sofas just to fit the tree. It’s the biggest I’ve ever decorated. A thrill races up my spine at the thought of a real Christmas, even if it is spent in Henry’s sky-high castle.
I open the first box of ornaments, expecting to find those plastic-y balls that were popular in the early 2000s. At this point, I don’t care if Olivia sent over one hundred inflatable Santas. I’m too excited by the prospect of actually having a little holiday cheer around this place.
I’m not prepared, however, for the tediously packaged antique ornaments that greet me. They are hand-painted and made of a thin, fragile glass I know from experience breaks with hardly any effort at all.
Henry walks back into the room carrying a plate of tiny sliders and sweet and savory tarts.
“I should have hired a chef a long time ago,” he says, popping one of the pastries in his mouth.
He sets the food on the coffee table and peers over my shoulder.
The skin on my neck is suddenly three times as sensitive as usual. “Are the ornaments any good?”
I move a bit to the left and away from his warmth, even though sinking backward into him sounds like heaven. “They’re incredible.” I gently pry a blue-and-gold dreidel from the packing foam and hold it up. It spins between my fingers. “They look like they’re from the thirties.”
“She said they were my great-grandmum’s, so that would make sense.”
“Are you sure this is a good idea? These are family heirlooms, and”—I glance at Tundra, who’s currently fascinated by a piece of tissue paper that has floated out of the box—“well, one of your houseguests isn’t known for gentleness.”