Chapter 17 Matilda
Seventeen
Matilda
“Matty.”
My sister’s voice crackles through the speaker as I pace the living room, clutching my phone like it’s a lifeline.
“Rachel, I’m in trouble.” My voice wobbles, and I immediately hear the frantic jingling of keys on her end.
“What? What happened—?”
“No! I mean— I’m okay. I mean my heart is in trouble.”
There’s a pause. “What, like I need to call an ambulance, or you need a tub of ice cream and a Matthew McConaughey marathon?”
“Like a tub of ice cream, a bottle of wine, and a Hugh Grant marathon,” I say, collapsing onto the sofa.
Rachel sighs. “Okay, I’m coming. Give me twenty minutes.”
“I have work in the morning, I should really—”
“Sod that,” she cuts in. “Tell your dickhead boss we’ve got boy troubles to discuss, and I’ve got a fabulous bottle of Sauvignon waiting to solve them.”
Despite the chaos swirling in my chest, I can’t help but smile. My sister’s no-bullshit tone has always been one of my favourite things about her. That, and the fact that she’s a hurricane of loyalty — though it’s also why she hasn’t kept a steady job for three years.
“He’s not a dickhead,” I mutter.
“Sorry, what was that?” Her voice sharpens. “If Voldemort and Darth Vader had a love child, it would be Henry bloody Chase.”
A laugh bursts out of me — partly because she’s ridiculous, partly because she’s not entirely wrong — but the sound still dies somewhere inside me.
“Well, Darth Vader did turn good in the end. Kind of. Anyway, you’ve never even seen Star Wars, how do you know who’s bad?”
“I don’t live under a rock,” she huffs. “Anyway! Who’s this man who’s breaking my sister’s heart? It better not be that twat from Tinder again. I swear to God, if you end up on Catfish—”
“Rachel!”
Her car door slams, and I know there’s no point trying to talk her out of it. “I’ll tell you everything when you get here,” I say, giving in.
Fifteen minutes later, her keys jingle in the lock and she bursts through the door like a storm — wine in one hand, ice cream in the other. She’s the physical embodiment of a romcom best friend, and I love her for it.
“Big or little spoon?” she asks, already heading for the kitchen.
“Big!” I call, pulling my fluffiest pyjamas tighter around me.
She joins me on the sofa, handing me a glass of wine before tucking her legs beneath her. “Talk.”
I take a deep breath, a big gulp of Sauvignon, and begin. “Do you remember that work dinner I had last Friday?”
“Yes. The one where you bailed on speed dating because of the devil’s offspring.”
I roll my eyes. “Right, well… something happened, and now my brain’s a mess.”
Rachel’s eyes light up as she curls tighter into the sofa. “Did you hook up with the client?!”
“What? No! God, no.” I grimace at the thought of the cowboy wannabe client. “It was Henry.”
The spray of white wine hits me before I can blink. Rachel splutters, coughing between words. “I’m sorry — you did what?”
“Technically, I didn’t do anything,” I say quickly. “He drove me home, and he was… surprisingly nice to me.”
“Henry Chase doesn’t do nice.” Her lips flatten into a hard line.
“He did! He asked about my life. We talked about dating — past disasters, all of it — and it was… nice. Then, when we got to my flat, he almost kissed me.”
Rachel’s face twists in disbelief. “I’m sorry — what the fuck is he playing at?”
“He didn’t! He pulled away. It just got weird after that. But since then, things have… escalated.”
“Escalated how?” she presses, eyes narrowing like an interrogator on caffeine.
“Well, he got me involved in the new residential project, and he’s been so supportive about it.
Then there was another… moment… in his office.
And then Thomas asked me out in the break room, and Henry looked ready to kill him.
After that, he leaned over me — like, really close — gave me this look, and told me Thomas wasn’t good enough for me. ”
Rachel’s jaw drops. “Oh. Shit.”
“Exactly.”
“And?” she prompts.
“And, of course, in true Matilda fashion, I went out, got ridiculously drunk to forget about him, and the night ended with Henry picking up my drunk arse from the bar and taking me home.”
Rachel freezes, wine glass halfway to her mouth. “He didn’t sleep with you like that, did he?”
I shake my head quickly before she tracks him down and commits a felony. “No! He was a perfect gentleman. Slept in my armchair because he thought I might be sick. I was mortified. And then this morning he was standing in my kitchen, in grey sweatpants, hair all messy, looking — well — sinful.”
Rachel stares at me for a long moment. “So… let me get this straight. He’s been kind, protective, and weirdly sexy, but hasn’t actually kissed you?”
“Pretty much.”
Her face falls into a dramatic pout. “Well, that’s anticlimactic.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “We had dinner tonight with his dad — who, by the way, is the most adorable man alive — and when you called earlier, he was dropping me off. I think we were finally about to kiss.”
Rachel gasps. “And I ruined it?”
“Ruined it? Five minutes ago he was Darth Vader Junior, and now you want me to kiss him?” I snort, laughing so hard I nearly spill my wine.
She grins, completely unapologetic. “People can change.”
“Rachel!”
We dissolve into giggles, and for a moment it feels like we’re sixteen again, gossiping about crushes instead of grown men who drive us insane.
Then the laughter fades, and I sigh, dragging a hand through my hair. “What the hell do I do? He’s my boss. My boss, Rachel. For four years he’s made my life hell, and now all I can think about is how much I want to see him naked.”
Rachel refills our glasses and pops the lid off the ice cream. “We’re going to need the whole tub for this one.”
She scoops out two spoons, passes me one, and clinks hers against my wine glass. “Alright, baby sis,” she says, eyes gleaming. “Let’s unpack this man-shaped disaster.”
And she’s not wrong. We have a lot to unpack.