Jas laughs again. “I may have stalked her online when you said you’d hired a woman. The moment I saw her, I knew you were doomed.”
“Excellent. Glad to know I’ve been a walking HR risk since day one.”
“So what now?” she asks. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing,” I reply too fast. “She’s my assistant. It’s messy. I don’t do messy.”
“Oh right,” Jas teases, “the great Henry Chase—emotionally unavailable since 1986. Two weeks of hot sex, tops, then straight back to emotional Switzerland.”
“Jesus, who woundyourbowstrings?”
She softens slightly. “You know I’m right. You never let anyone in, Henry. Not properly. It’s about time you did.”
Her words hang heavy between us. She’s right, of course. She always is.
“You’re too good a man to live like a ghost,” she adds quietly. “Stop punishing yourself for something you couldn’t control.”
Her mention of Mum hits like a shard of ice through my ribs. I swallow hard. “Bit harsh,” I mutter.
“Sorry,” she says, her tone gentle now. “I didn’t mean to sound like a bitch. Long day.”
“No—it’s fine. You’re right. Sometimes the truth stings.” I pause. “Anyway, enough about me. How are you?”
“I’ve got to run—new recruit starting tonight, and I’m training her. But before I go—congrats on the RIBA nomination. I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, Jas. Alright, bugger off. Love you.”
“Love you too, shithead.”
The call ends.
I stare at the quiet room, whiskey warming my throat, Pop-Tart crumbs on my knee, and that gnawing feeling of being both restless and completely empty.
And for the first time in years, I can’t stop thinking about a woman.
A woman with a Baby Yoda pen, purple heels, and a laugh that might just be the thing to wake me up.
Eleven
Henry
As my body shifts between the sheets, my mind hovers somewhere between dream and waking. I retrace the fragments of what was, without question, the best damn dream I’ve ever had.
A woman.
Her skin was smooth, almost luminescent, with that soft pink hue that hinted at a natural blush. Her hair — golden curls cascading down her back, catching the light like strands of sunlight itself. Her eyes, deep brown and glinting with mischief, studied me like she already knew too much.
My hands had trailed down the soft fabric of her pink sundress, following the curves beneath, feeling her breath catch. My lips brushed her neck, and I felt her heartbeat race against my mouth. Goosebumps rose under my touch, urging me to taste, to take, tofeel.
But when my mind finally caught up to the image, the realisation hit like cold water. Iknewthe woman in my dream.
Matilda.
Pink sundress. Flushed cheeks. Eyes that always meet mine for a beat too long.
My eyes snap open, and I curse under my breath. I’m not proud to admit that the only way to start my morning is with a cold shower and a solid ten minutes convincing myself that my subconscious hasn’t completely lost the plot.
Walking into the office later, I spot her instantly. Matilda’s at her desk, coat still on, the faintest hint of pink visible beneath it. Her shoes — baby pink heels that match the shade of her lipstick — peek out from under the chair.
