Chapter 10 Henry
Ten
Henry
I’m not sure when something shifted in me—when I started looking at Matilda Green in a completely different light.
Maybe it was the night I dropped her home, the flash of her red heels against the car floor, her bare legs crossed at the knees.
Maybe it was her wide-eyed look when she thought I was going to kiss her—or maybe it was the fullness of her mouth that made the idea so damn tempting.
Or maybe it was this morning, when she took my hand without hesitation. No overthinking, no words—just quiet understanding. The warmth of her skin seeped into me, steadying something that’s been off-kilter for a long time.
Whenever it happened, it’s completely screwed with my head.
Every time I glance through the glass now, she’s already looking back. Those blue eyes—wide, curious, unfiltered.
Her calendar invite pings for Thursday’s meeting, and I stare at it longer than necessary. I’ll probably have to cancel since Dad’s being discharged tomorrow, but truthfully, I don’t want to. I want the time alone with her. To figure her out. To figure us out—whatever this is.
The once bouncy, overly cheerful assistant has turned into this quiet puzzle of floral heels and ridiculous pens. When did she get that Baby Yoda pen? How did I never notice?
Hours slip by, and I try to focus on work, but my brain refuses to cooperate. Then I see her rise from her desk, slipping on her coat, blonde curls falling over her shoulders. I check the time—5 p.m. She’s leaving. My eyes drift down to her legs, then the heels.
Jesus, get a grip, Henry.
I quickly look away just as she knocks on my door.
“I’m heading home—unless you need anything else?”
I manage a neutral tone. “No, all good here. Thank you. Have a nice evening.”
She gives me a small, sweet smile, one that lingers longer than it should. “You too.”
I fix my eyes on the file in front of me, pretending to read, even though the words blur. I don’t look up until I hear the elevator doors close and know she’s gone. Only then do I realise I’ve been holding my breath. The exhale leaves me heavy, deflated.
I try to get back to work, but after five minutes of shuffling papers and opening meaningless emails, I give up. I shut down my computer, grab my jacket, and head out.
As I pass her desk, something makes me pause.
Her workspace is tidy but warm—soft touches everywhere.
There’s a framed photo of her and a woman who’s clearly her sister.
Something dark and possessive twists inside me when I realise it’s not a boyfriend.
They look alike—the same smile, the same eyes—but her sister’s hair is a wild mess of dark curls, whereas Matilda’s are soft, golden, neat.
Then I notice her computer mouse. It’s not company issue—there’s a little blue gem in the middle and faint engraved writing around it. I lean closer.
Proof that Tony Stark has a heart.
Of course it does.
In two minutes of snooping, I’ve learned more about her than I have in four years. She has a sister, she’s clearly a Star Wars nerd, and she’s apparently into Marvel too. Matilda Green—geek, optimist, and apparently the kind of woman who’s been hiding right under my nose all this time.
And damn it, I find that incredibly hot.
By the time I get home, my head’s a mess.
“Hey, can you hear me alright?” I say, settling deeper into the sofa. Whiskey in hand. Pop-Tart balanced on my knee.
“Loud and clear,” Jas’s voice crackles through the laptop. “And I can hear you slurping something. What’s your poison tonight?”
I take a sip. “1926 Macallan. My personal favourite.”
There’s a beat of silence. “The Macallan? Jesus, Henry, what the hell happened?”
I huff a laugh, half amused, half tired. “I’m fine.”
Jas doesn’t answer, just lets the ice clink in my glass do the talking.
“Okay, fine,” I admit, “maybe not fine. I might’ve developed… weird feelings for my assistant. And today I may have promoted her, so now we’re working closely together, and I’m starting to realise that might’ve been a catastrophic decision. I can practically see the HR complaint already.”
There’s silence—and then Jas bursts out laughing. Proper, unrestrained laughter that lasts far too long.
“Jesus Christ, Henry! Are you that stupid?”
My annoyance ticks up a notch. “I’m aware of how bad it sounds, thank you. And for the record, I haven’t crossed any lines. I may have just… blurred them slightly.”
“Uh-huh. She’s not married, is she?”
“God, no.” I answer too quickly. Too defensive.
“Then relax. Dating your assistant isn’t illegal. I’m just stunned it’s taken you this long to notice she’s gorgeous. Four years, Henry. Four. Years.”
I want to argue, but she’s right. My mouth opens, then closes again.
“Okay, ‘feelings’ is a bit of an overstatement,” I mutter.
“It’s not like I’ve suddenly realised she’s beautiful.
I always knew that. I just… didn’t see her properly before.
She was the hot assistant who smiled too much and wore questionable shades of pink.
” I pause. “Wait—how do you know she’s gorgeous? ”
Jas laughs again. “I may have stalked her online when you said you’d hired a woman. The moment I saw her, I knew you were doomed.”
“Excellent. Glad to know I’ve been a walking HR risk since day one.”
“So what now?” she asks. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing,” I reply too fast. “She’s my assistant. It’s messy. I don’t do messy.”
“Oh right,” Jas teases, “the great Henry Chase—emotionally unavailable since 1986. Two weeks of hot sex, tops, then straight back to emotional Switzerland.”
“Jesus, who wound your bowstrings?”
She softens slightly. “You know I’m right. You never let anyone in, Henry. Not properly. It’s about time you did.”
Her words hang heavy between us. She’s right, of course. She always is.
“You’re too good a man to live like a ghost,” she adds quietly. “Stop punishing yourself for something you couldn’t control.”
Her mention of Mum hits like a shard of ice through my ribs. I swallow hard. “Bit harsh,” I mutter.
“Sorry,” she says, her tone gentle now. “I didn’t mean to sound like a bitch. Long day.”
“No—it’s fine. You’re right. Sometimes the truth stings.” I pause. “Anyway, enough about me. How are you?”
“I’ve got to run—new recruit starting tonight, and I’m training her. But before I go—congrats on the RIBA nomination. I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, Jas. Alright, bugger off. Love you.”
“Love you too, shithead.”
The call ends.
I stare at the quiet room, whiskey warming my throat, Pop-Tart crumbs on my knee, and that gnawing feeling of being both restless and completely empty.
And for the first time in years, I can’t stop thinking about a woman.
A woman with a Baby Yoda pen, purple heels, and a laugh that might just be the thing to wake me up.