Chapter 21 Henry
Twenty One
Henry
Isomehow managed to avoid Matilda for the rest of the day on Friday. Not because I regretted what had happened in the supply cupboard — far from it — but because I didn’t trust myself not to do it again if we were left alone for more than thirty seconds.
She’d been the one to pull away, the one with enough sense left to say it couldn’t happen again. I didn’t argue, mostly because if I opened my mouth, I would’ve kissed her again instead of agreeing.
So I went home. Had a very long shower. Then called Jas. If anyone could help me make sense of my scrambled head, it was her.
Which leds me to this morning, I’m sitting in a north London café, ordering two americanos and a brownie for Jas — because I knew she’d complain otherwise.
Fifteen minutes pass before she storms in like she’s late for a revolution.
“What time do you call this?” I ask, deadpan.
“Sorry, I got held up.”
She looks flustered, hair loose, sunglasses shoved on top of her head like she’s been running.
“You okay?” I ask, frowning.
“Yeah, fine. Just had a weird morning.” She must see the alarm flicker in my eyes, because she adds quickly, “Nothing serious. My brother’s got a new flatmate. He’s… hard work.”
“Lukas got a flatmate?” I raise a brow. “He doesn’t need the money. Plus, who could live with him for more than a day without losing their mind? The man’s unnaturally cheerful.”
“It’s one of his old army buddies,” she says, waving it off. “The guy’s going through a divorce. Needed somewhere to crash.”
“Damn.”
“Exactly,” she mutters. “Anyway—” she waves a manicured hand, “—you didn’t drag me halfway across London to discuss Lukas’s charity work. What’s going on?”
I hesitate, lowering my voice. “It’s… Matilda.”
Her brows lift. “What, she finally filed that HR complaint?”
The look I give her must say don’t joke about that, because her smirk fades instantly.
“Wait. Did she?”
“No. Not yet. But she might.” I exhale, rubbing the back of my neck. “I may have pulled her into a supply cupboard and kissed her.”
Jas spits coffee across the table, narrowly missing my shirt.
“?Vete a la mierda!” she hisses, trying not to laugh. I’ve learned enough Spanish from her over the years to know that translates roughly to you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
I drop my head into my hands. “What do I do?”
Silence.
When I finally peek through my fingers, she’s staring at me like I’ve just told her I joined a boy band.
“Well,” she says eventually, “that depends.” She takes her time lifting the cup to her lips, just to torture me.
“On?”
“On whether it was a mistake.”
“It wasn’t a mistake,” I say too quickly, and her smirk deepens.
“So,” she continues, unfazed, “if it was one of those heat-of-the-moment, I-tripped-and-fell-on-her-lips type mistakes, then you need to talk to her Monday morning. Apologise. Promise it won’t happen again. And pray she doesn’t sue you for harassment.”
I glare at her.
“Or,” she adds, eyes glinting, “you actually want it to happen again. Which, let’s be honest, you do. In that case, you need to put some effort in. Show her you’re not just her broody, emotionally constipated boss.”
“How the hell am I supposed to do that?” I mutter, taking a bitter sip of my coffee.
“For starters,” she says sweetly, “drop the resting bitch face.”
My cup hits the table with a thud. “Remind me why I’m friends with you?”
“Because I’m right ninety-nine percent of the time,” she fires back. “Henry, you walk around with this permanent I hate people aura. It’s your whole brand. But if you want this woman to see you differently, you’re going to have to let her. Money and mood swings won’t win her over.”
“Who said I want to date her?” I snap, defensive before I can stop myself.
Jas tilts her head, unimpressed. “Oh, I don’t know.
Maybe the fact you’ve brought her up twice in two days?
That you called an emergency coffee meeting over a kiss?
That your mouth nearly hit the floor when you saw her in that red dress yesterday?
And that you, Mr Emotional Restraint himself, are sitting here acting like a love-struck teenager. ”
I groan.
She smirks. “Los hombres pueden ser tan estúpidos.”
I don’t need a translation. I’ve heard that one enough times.
“So what do I do?” I ask finally. “Because I think she feels like it was a mistake.”
“Then you give her space,” Jas says simply. “If she’s into you, you’ll feel it. And when you do — show her who you really are. Slowly. Don’t scare her off with all this broody control freak energy.”
She laughs as I toss a napkin at her.
“Show her who I really am,” I repeat, sighing. “Right. I can do that… I think.”
She grins. “That’s the spirit. Maybe start by smiling once in a while — without it looking like you’re in pain.”
I shake my head, but I can’t help the small, traitorous smirk that tugs at my mouth.
God help me — I think I’m actually in trouble.