That’s it.
“Matilda, listen to me,” I say firmly, already grabbing my keys. “Go to the front of Blox. Stand with the bouncer. I’m coming to get you.”
“Wait, what? No, I’m fine—”
“Matilda,” I cut her off. “Do as I say. I’m coming.”
I hang up before she can argue, shoving my phone in my pocket and heading for the door. My grip on the steering wheel is white-knuckled the entire drive. Every red light feels like a personal attack. Fifteen minutes later, I pull up outside the club, heart hammering.
She’s there.
Leaning against the brick wall, head tilted back, eyes half-closed. Her pink dress from earlier now crumpled, hair falling around her face. She looks exhausted — fragile, even.
At least she listened. She’s with the bouncers.
I nod at one of them as I approach, and he steps aside without a word.
“Matilda, are you okay?” I ask, touching her arm gently.
Her eyes flutter open, unfocused at first — then light up. “Henry,” she beams, throwing both arms around my neck.
The scent of tequila and red wine hits me hard. “You came,” she hums, voice soft against my skin.
“Of course I came,” I murmur, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”
She stumbles as we walk, leaning into me like she’s trying to fuse herself to my side.
Once we reach the car, she flops gracelessly into the passenger seat with a dramatic sigh. I lean over to fasten her seatbelt — her hair brushing my cheek, her perfume wrapping around me — and she shakes her head.
“You always smell so good,” she says, pouting like a child.
I can’t help the small laugh that escapes me. “You’re drunk.”
“Yep,” she grins. “Didn’t mean to be. Thomas wanted to do shots and I’ve never been good with shots.”
Thomas. My grip on the wheel tightens again. “Thomas?” I say, voice colder than I intend.
“I know, you said he wasn’t any good for me.” She sighs, rubbing her forehead. “I went to tell him I wasn’t interested. He took it well. Then we did shots. Lots of shots. Too many shots.”
Relief rushes through me — hot and shameful. I shouldn’t feel this way, but I do.
“I’m glad you told him,” I say quietly.
She hums in response, head lolling against the window.
After a few moments, I try to clear the air, “You said it was my fault earlier… I’m—”
I glance over, ready to apologise for everything — for today, for every mixed signal I’ve ever sent — but she suddenly groans, covering her face with both hands.
“I’m so sorry. Please don’t fire me,” she mumbles into her palms.
“What? Matilda, why would I fire you?”
“Because I’m an idiot. And you smell so good. And you were looking at me with those big beautiful eyes and I wanted to kiss you, and I nearly messed everything up.” Her voice breaks, small and slurred. “I came out tonight to try and forget about you… and how much I want to smush your face.”
“Smush my face?” I repeat, incredulous.
She lets out a sleepy laugh. “Yep. Smush it.” Then her head lolls to the side again, eyes fluttering closed.
