Chapter 39
Thirty Nine
Henry
“Are you going to finally tell me where we’re going?”
Matilda’s voice breaks through the hum of the engine as she stares out the window. We’ve been driving for two hours, and so far I’ve managed to keep the location a surprise — though her pleading eyes are starting to wear me down.
“We’re nearly there. Promise,” I say.
She lets out an exasperated huff. “You said that an hour ago.”
I chuckle. She’s like an impatient child on Christmas Eve, and I kind of love it. I make a mental note to surprise her more often.
She keeps her gaze fixed on the trees whipping past outside, as though she might guess where we’re headed if she just stares hard enough. But she won’t. No one could.
I was five years old the first time my family came here — a tiny log cabin buried deep in the forest. I fell in love with it instantly.
Not because of the scenery, but because it was quiet.
No city noise, no phones, no work — just us.
For the first time in my life, I’d understood what silence felt like. Pure, easy silence.
When I bought the place from the old owners years later, I told myself I’d use it as a retreat, but I never did.
Too many ghosts tied to these walls. But now, with Matilda, it feels right to come back.
She needs space to breathe before her big presentation next week.
And, selfishly, I want time — time with her, just us.
When I pull into the clearing, she’s out of the car before I’ve even switched off the engine.
“Henry—this place is incredible!” She beams, rounding the bonnet to stand beside me.
Her excitement is infectious. I wrap an arm around her waist and pull her close.
“This is where my family used to come when I was a kid,” I tell her, looking up at the weathered log walls. “It was home away from home.”
“I love it,” she sighs, eyes bright with wonder.
It’s been years since I’ve stepped foot here.
The memories hit like a punch — my mum in the kitchen humming as she cooked, my dad and I building puzzles by the fire.
We’d frame the hard ones and hang them on the wall, little trophies of time well spent.
Ben was too young to sit still long enough for puzzles, so he’d stay with Mum, probably breaking something while she laughed and fixed it again.
“Does the fireplace work?” Matilda asks, running a finger along the mantle.
“I hope so. The heating’s a bit unpredictable out here,” I say, earning that easy smile I’ve grown addicted to.
She drops her bag onto the floor with a soft thud. “So, what do we do first?”
“Whatever you want,” I tell her. “There are walking trails nearby, a few old board games in the cupboard. I had groceries delivered this morning — Jenny, the cleaner, put everything away for us. We don’t have to leave until Sunday if we don’t want to.”
Her head tilts, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “So you’re telling me we have this entire cabin to ourselves for three days. No work, no emails, no interruptions?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
Before I can say another word, she strides toward me with that devilish grin that never fails to undo me. I grab her by the waist, pulling her down onto the sofa with me, and her laugh fills the cabin — light, infectious, and so damn beautiful.
“Hello, Miss Green.”
“Hello, Mr Chase.”
She’s been calling me that for days now. I pretend it annoys me, but the truth is I love the way it sounds when she says it — like a secret between us.
I brush a curl behind her ear, and before I can talk myself out of it, my mouth is on hers. She tastes like strawberries and honey — soft, warm, addictive. Every breath, every sound she makes drives me closer to the edge.
Before long, clothes are an afterthought.
We move together, slow at first, then urgent.
Her skin is soft beneath my hands, her laughter breathless against my neck.
By the time we collapse onto the rug in front of the fire, we’re both spent, tangled under a blanket and wrapped in the kind of silence I haven’t felt in years.
“I’m dead,” she mumbles into my chest, and I laugh quietly, pressing a kiss to her hair.
“Do you want me to light the fire?”
She hums a sleepy “yes,” so I slip away and get to work. Soon, the flames crackle and dance, painting her skin in shades of gold.
When she comes back from the bathroom, she’s wrapped in the blanket, clutching a box to her chest and grinning.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Monopoly,” she says, beaming.
“Oh, God.”
“What?” she laughs. “You don’t like Monopoly?”
“I love it,” I say. “But I’m ridiculously competitive. I’d rather not scare you off just yet.”
“Oh really?” She smirks, sitting cross-legged on the rug. “Well, I happen to be very competitive too. And I don’t scare easily, Mr Chase.”
Her playful tone makes me grin, but her words sting a little. For a second, I remember how awful I used to be to her — sharp words, cold glares, pushing her away for no reason other than I didn’t know how to let anyone in.
I can’t remember the last time I felt that kind of anger. Maybe she took it with her when she walked into my life.
We play for hours — the fire roaring, her laughter echoing through the cabin, the sun melting into dusk. She beats me mercilessly, and I don’t even care. Watching her grin, wild curls tumbling into her face, I realise something monumental.
This is the happiest I’ve been in years. And it terrifies me how much I don’t want to lose it.
The next morning drifts by in a haze of quiet contentment. We eat croissants on the porch, coffee steaming in the cool air, the forest stretching endlessly around us. She’s radiant in the sunlight, hair tangled, eyes sleepy, wrapped in my jumper.
For a while, it’s easy to forget who I am outside this place — the man with deadlines, with pressure, with a reputation for keeping people at arm’s length.
But Matilda sees right through all that.
She doesn’t push, doesn’t pry — she just sees me. And that’s far more dangerous than anything else.
Later, she agrees to a hike — reluctantly. I promise her it’ll be worth it. Halfway in, she’s panting and muttering curses under her breath, which makes me laugh.
“My legs don’t work anymore,” she groans. “Go on without me.”
“We’ve only walked four miles,” I tease.
“Exactly! Four miles is insane. I’m dying.”
I laugh and press a kiss to her head. “Ten more minutes and there’s a bottle of Chardonnay waiting for you.”
She perks up instantly. “Oh, thank the heavens.”
“Good to know what motivates you.”
“Wine and a hot bath and I’m yours,” she fires back.
I grin, catching her hand and spinning her around to face me. “So you’re not mine already?”
Her breath catches. For a moment, she doesn’t answer — her eyes wide, searching mine like she’s trying to read the truth there. The air between us shifts, heavier, realer.
She opens her mouth to speak, but I brush a strand of hair behind her ear before she can — my usual escape when things start feeling too real.
“Come on,” I say softly. “Let’s get you back. I’ll run you that bath.”
I lace my fingers through hers as we walk the last stretch back to the cabin, and for once, I don’t want to let go.