Chapter 20 Matilda
Twenty
Matilda
If someone had told me a week ago that I’d end my Friday with a seven-minutes in heaven session with my boss — the same man I’ve repeatedly referred to as the devil — I’d have assumed they were clinically insane.
Yet here I am.
An hour later, still at my desk, still staring blankly at my computer screen, and still replaying that kiss like it’s a scene from a forbidden romance novel.
Emails blur together in front of me, words melting into meaningless squiggles. Normally, I’d find comfort in the label of a Sauvignon Blanc, but there are still two whole hours before I can drown my problems in fermented grapes.
Henry vanished almost immediately after we returned from the supply cupboard — not even a goodbye or a glance. His office stayed empty ever since.
He doesn’t have any meetings booked, which can only mean one thing: he’s mortified. Completely, utterly horrified that he made out with his assistant in a cupboard filled with toner cartridges and paperclips.
Which, in fairness, sounds bad when you say it out loud.
But me? I don’t feel horrified.
I feel… restless. Buzzing. Like every nerve in my body woke up and now refuses to settle. I want to do it again — the kiss, not the toner — just once more to check it wasn’t a fluke. Because that kiss wasn’t like any other kiss I’ve ever had in my life.
It was consuming.
It was real.
The kind of kiss that makes you forget what planet you’re on.
Henry Chase might be infuriating, cold, emotionally unavailable, and allergic to joy, but he’s also — and I can’t believe I’m saying this — the best damn kisser I’ve ever had the misfortune of working under.
Or just… under.
I groan quietly, burying my face in my hands. “Get a grip, Matilda.”
I’m trying, but my body has other ideas. Every time I close my eyes, I see him — his hand gripping my waist, the gravel in his voice when he whispered stop doing that, the way his lips hovered over mine like a dare before finally closing the gap.
How am I supposed to go back to pretending he’s just my boss after that?
I glance at his office again. The blinds are still half-closed, the faint shadow of him moving occasionally past the glass. I wonder if he’s thinking about it too. Or if he’s already compartmentalised the whole thing, filed it neatly under “professional catastrophes,” and moved on.
Because that’s what Henry does. He moves on.
And that’s what I should do too.
I force myself to look back at my inbox. Junk, invoices, internal memos, another email from HR reminding me to complete the mandatory cybersecurity quiz I’ve been ignoring for three months.
Then something new pops up.
Subject: New position in our team!
It’s from Natalie, one of the junior architects in residential. My pulse picks up a little — not from excitement exactly, but because anything is better than sitting here waiting for my shame to catch fire.
I click it open.
To: matildagreen@
From: natalieyoung@
Subject: New position in our team!
Hey Matilda,
Hannah’s looking for someone new to join the residential team — workload’s tripled this quarter. I heard she’s going to start headhunting next week, but honestly, you should submit your CV before she does. You’d be perfect for the role.
— Nat x
My heart does a weird, uneven backflip.
Perfect.
I reread the email twice. The residential department. The team that designs those stunning city lofts and coastal homes with infinity pools and balconies that look straight out of a movie.
That could be me.
And for a moment, the spark of excitement overshadows the lingering ache of confusion from earlier.
Because maybe this — this opportunity — is exactly what I need. A fresh start.
A chance to do what I’ve always wanted to do instead of what I fell into.
I glance again at Henry’s office door, still firmly shut. My chest tightens at the sight.
A week ago, I would have jumped at the chance to leave his shadow, to work under someone who doesn’t make my pulse race every time he walks past.
But now…
Now it feels complicated.
Because despite everything — despite the arguments, the tension, the supply cupboard incident that may or may not have rewired my brain — I like working with Henry. I understand him in ways most people don’t.
And there’s this part of me, small but stubborn, that doesn’t want to walk away from whatever the hell is happening between us — even if it’s completely, utterly doomed.
I lean back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling, the faint hum of the aircon filling the silence.
My reflection stares back at me in the darkened glass of my monitor — red dress, messy curls, lipstick smudged just enough to give me away.
“Perfect,” I whisper to myself.
Still, I can’t help the small smile that creeps across my lips as I draft a new email, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.
To: natalieyoung@
Subject: Re: New position in our team
Hey Nat,
Let’s grab lunch Monday. I’d love to hear more about it.
— M
I hit send before I can talk myself out of it.
Maybe it’s reckless. Maybe it’s impulsive. Maybe it’s the first sensible thing I’ve done all week.
Either way, I know one thing for sure — whether it’s career moves, or kisses in supply cupboards, I’m officially in way over my head.