Chapter 21
Istep into Henry’s apartment, and the smell of simmering spices and roasting vegetables immediately wraps around me like a warm embrace. The air is rich with the aroma of onions, garlic, and something faintly citrusy. Thankfully, Henry isn’t close enough to hear my stomach rumble.
“Something smells amazing,” I say, letting the door click shut behind me.
Henry appears from the kitchen, a towel slung over his shoulder and a tiny shadow at his feet. I smile when I see a dark green apron wrapped around his body, emphasizing his broad shoulders. Add that to the list of things I now find attractive.
“Hello, Mr. Darcy,” I say, crouching to pet the cat sprawled at my feet. The creature’s purring is comforting as I glide my hand across its thick coat.
“I should’ve named him Gatsby. He loves attention.”
“I’m going to pretend I recognize that reference.” I smirk before standing up. Mr. Darcy curls around my feet in protest, trying to trip me as I move farther into the room.
“You never read The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald? I feel like that’s a staple in most high school English courses,” Henry says, crossing his arms and leaning against the door frame.
“I might have, but I don’t remember. I told you I’m not much of a reader,” I shrug. “But I did finally finish Pride and Prejudice. I would return it to you tonight, but I forgot it downstairs.”
I still couldn’t believe I finished it, but the look on Henry’s face made it all worth it.
Henry’s brows lift, a mix of surprise and approval flashing across his face. “You did? And what did you think?”
I bite my lip, knowing he’s waiting for some grand declaration about how much I loved it. I might never be as passionate about literature as he is, but I would try. “It was good. Mr. Darcy grew on me, but I still think Elizabeth could’ve done better.”
He gasps in horror, placing his hand over his heart. “Better than Darcy? You’re breaking my heart.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “He was a jerk for most of the book! Sure, he redeemed himself, but still. Elizabeth deserved someone who wasn’t so broody.”
“Broody?” Henry echoes, his lips twitching. “That’s harsh. He was misunderstood, not broody. There’s a difference.”
I cross my arms, leaning against the back of his couch. “Whatever you say, professor. Anyways, I’m starving. What did you make?”
“Fine, but I’m going to convince you that Darcy is the ultimate love interest one day,” Henry smirks before turning back toward the kitchen. “I made pollo en mole poblano. It’s a recipe I learned from my mamá.”
I walk toward him and enter into the small kitchen. It was a replica of my kitchen on the floor below us. The same outdated cabinets and countertops decorated the space. “Sounds fancy. What’s in it?”
Henry glances over his shoulder as he stirs something on the stove. “Mainly chicken, but the real magic is the sauce. It has chiles, chocolate, and a bunch of spices. It can be difficult to get the flavor just right.”
“Chocolate?” I raise an eyebrow, moving closer to peer into the pot. The rich, dark sauce bubbling away smells incredible. “I’ve never had anything like that before.”
“Then you’re in for a treat,” he says, flashing me a smile. “It’s one of my mom’s favorites. She used to say mole is like life—you’ve got to embrace the messy parts to appreciate the sweetness.”
My body leans against the counter, watching him work. There’s an ease to how he moves in the kitchen, a confidence that’s hard not to admire. “Your mom sounds wise.”
“She is,” Henry says with pride. “She taught me everything I know about cooking. She said taking care of yourself and the people you care about was important.”
“That’s sweet.” I smile. “Did she show you how to make it?”
“Not at first. She made me figure it out on my own.” He laughs, shaking his head at a memory I wish I could see. “She always said you don’t know a recipe until you’ve messed it up a few times.”
A smile spreads as I try to picture a younger Henry in the kitchen with a cute little apron wrapped around his waist. “Sounds like she knew what she was doing.”
“She did. She still does,” he says, a wistful smile tugging at his lips. “She has this way of making everything feel intentional. Like even the mistakes mattered.”
“Do you still cook with her?”
“When I’m home. Yes,” he admits. “But it’s been a while. She still lives in Pittsburg with my stepmom, and I try to visit when I can. I usually stay with them for a few weeks during the summer, but this year looked slightly different.”
Henry's lips pressed into a thin line. I can tell he misses his mom by the longing in his eyes. Before I can respond, he says, “When I told her I was making you mole tonight, she was excited.”
My cheeks heat at the thought of Henry talking about me with his mother. “You told her about me?”
“You might have come up once or twice,” he says casually while moving to the cupboard to get some plates. “Don’t worry. It’s all good things.”
“I should hope so,” I joke, feeling a weird tug on my heart. Henry flashes a smug smile before he continues to plate our meal.
When he sets our plates on the counter, I look down. They look like something from a cooking show: tender chicken smothered in a glossy, dark sauce, sprinkled with sesame seeds, and warm tortillas and rice. I could get used to this.
“Wow,” I say. “This looks amazing.”
“Wait until you taste it,” he says, motioning to the small dining room table in the corner. “But no pressure.”
I pick up one of the plates and follow him to the table before sitting next to him. As soon as I’m settled in, I take a bite. The flavors explode on my tongue—sweet, smoky, a hint of bitterness from the chocolate, and a gentle heat that lingers.
“Oh my God,” I practically moan.
Henry’s lips tilt into a lazy smirk. “If that’s the sound you make when you taste my cooking, we should’ve done this sooner.”
I glance at him, my cheeks flushing as I lower my fork for another bite. “You might be onto something.”
He leans back in his chair, watching me taking another enthusiastic bite. “Careful,” he teases. “You’re going to set unrealistic expectations for my cooking skills.”
I smile, dabbing the corner of my mouth with a napkin. “If this is your version of ‘unrealistic,’ I think I can live with it. Colt tried to make macaroni and cheese once and almost burned down our kitchen. It was the kind you make from the box with step-by-step directions.”
Henry laughs, shaking his head. “That’s a special kind of talent.”
“You have no idea. Smoke was everywhere, a fire alarm was blaring, and he was yelling about the stove being ‘possessed.’ I had to rescue the pot before it melted.”
“Well, at least he didn’t try to convince you he meant to do it. I once ate an entire burnt lasagna because the woman I was seeing told me that’s what it was supposed to look like.”
“That’s actually kind of sweet,” I say, taking a sip of the wine in front of me.
“I don’t know about sweet. I was much more na?ve back then, so I probably would’ve eaten ten more burnt lasagnas to make her happy.”
Henry’s words hang in the air, and I catch a flicker of something in his expression—fondness tinged with amusement, maybe even a hint of self-awareness.
“Well, here’s to growth,” I say, raising my glass. “No more burnt lasagnas for anyone.”
“I’ll drink to that.” He clinks his glass against mine, his smile sending a wave of warmth to my core.
I take another sip and set my glass down. Curiosity nudges at the edges of my thoughts. Henry knew about my complicated past relationship, but I didn’t know much about his.
Henry had mentioned an ex a few times. It was brief, but I still remember the sadness in his eyes when he talked about it. I wanted to know more, and this felt like the perfect opportunity.
I take another sip for courage and say, “So, was she at least a good cook when she wasn’t torching pasta?”
He looks at me, and hesitation is buried beneath his unwavering smile. “Not really. Cooking wasn’t her thing, but she made up for it in other ways. She had this big personality, knew what she wanted, and wasn’t afraid to go after it. Sometimes, it felt like I was just trying to keep up.”
There’s no anger in his tone, just a quiet honesty that makes me lean in closer. “Sounds like she kept you on your toes.”
“She did,” he admits, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Sometimes in a good way, sometimes not so much.”
“Is this the ex you talked about that night at the brewery?”
Henry exhales, running a hand through his hair in a way that makes him look younger. “Yes,” he pauses while pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, “I feel like I need to come clean about something.”
My pulse starts to thump against my chest like an unrelenting warning bell. Instinct takes over, and a tidal wave of doubt crashes through me. Questions like, I knew he was too good to be true and did I miss a red flag, swirl in my mind like the annoying throb of a growing headache.
I’m tempted to get up and leave before I’m forced to taint any pleasant memories of the man in front of me. But I can’t move. My body is cemented in place, waiting for his confession. "What is it?"
He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “My ex is still in my life. Kind of.”
The flip in my stomach turns into a somersault. “Still in your life?”
Henry’s forehead creases as he rubs his hand over his face. “Yes. She’s my agent. Well, she was anyway.”
“Your literary agent? The one helping you with your books?” I swallow hard and feel the room tilt to the left.
He nods slowly. An almost apologetic smile warps his face into someone I barely recognize.
“Yes. She’s been with me since the beginning.
An old professor of mine connected me with Jenn when I started querying my manuscript.
She loved my novel and took me on as a client, but our relationship became more intimate.
I was only twenty then, and she was five or six years older, so I let her control my life for two years. ”