I can’t finish the sentence. I want to ask what happened, but I’m terrified to know the answer. My memories are hazy after the fourth shot — then nothing but darkness.
The fact that Henry is in my flat, wearing grey jogging bottoms and a black T-shirt, makes one thing painfully clear: I didn’t justbumpinto him at Blox. He came to get me. Which means… I must’ve called him.
Oh God. Did I seriously drunk-dial my boss?
I vaguely remember hovering over his number after the second or third shot — wanting to apologise for nearly kissing him in his office — but I’d had just enough sense to lock my phone and shove it in my bag.
Apparently, by the fifth shot, all sense went out the window.
“I need to get to the office,” Henry says, standing and stretching, the fabric of his T-shirt pulling across his chest. “Do you mind if I grab a quick shower before I go?”
“Y–yes. Sure. Of course. Second door on the left, down the hall.” My voice sounds like it’s been dragged across gravel.
He nods, and disappears down the hallway.
Henry Chase is about to shower in my flat.My boss.My infuriating, gorgeous, successful, maddeningly controlled boss is about to get naked in my bathroom.
What alternate universe did I drink myself into last night?
The moment the bathroom door closes and I hear the shower turn on, I collapse back against my pillow, burying my face in my hair. The sound of the water trickling through the pipes is both soothing and torturous because, of course, my imagination chooses now to picture Henry in the shower. Naked. Water running down that body I’ve seen only hints of through perfectly tailored shirts.
No. Stop. Bad brain.
I force myself upright, groaning as my hangover punches me square in the skull. I peel off yesterday’s dress — which I apparently slept in — and throw on my softest baby-blue pyjama shorts and vest. My pores are literally exhaling tequila, and it’s vile. I stumble into the kitchen, flick the kettle on, and pray coffee can save me.
“Hey,” says a voice behind me.
I turn, and the breath catches in my throat.
Henry stands in the doorway, damp hair falling messily over his forehead, grey joggers hanging low on his hips — low enough to see the waistband of his Calvin Kleins. His T-shirt clings to his shoulders, every defined muscle visible. He looks devastatingly relaxed, like sin in sweatpants.
“Hi,” I croak, my voice still hoarse. “Henry, I… I’m so sorry about last night. I don’t remember much, but the fact you’re here probably means it was a disaster. I’m mortified. This isn’t like me at all.”
He shakes his head. “Matilda, don’t apologise. I’m just glad I called when I did — that I could come get you.”
I frown. “Youcalledme?”
“Yeah,” he says simply, crouching to tie his trainers. “I need to go — I’ve got a meeting soon — but we should talk about last night. At the office. Take your time coming in, alright? I imagine you’re not feeling your best.”
I raise an eyebrow in silent agreement —not even close.The mention of “talking about last night” sends a wave of nausea through me that has nothing to do with tequila. What on earth does he remember? What didIsay?
He stands, and before I can even process it, he’s in front of me — close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his skin. Without heels, I barely reach his chest.
“Stop apologising,” he says softly.
His hand lifts — like he’s going to brush a strand of hair from my cheek — but he stops himself halfway, fingers hovering just above my skin. My breath stutters.
And then he drops his hand. Turns.
A second later, the front door clicks shut behind him.
I stand there in my kitchen, coffee trembling in my hands, replaying every second of what just happened. The sound of the shower still echoes faintly in my head — or maybe that’s just my pulse.
Henry Chase stayed the night.
Henry Chase saw me at my worst.
And Henry Chase is still planning to talk about it.
