“Would you be a doll and make some tea?” James asks, his eyes kind. “Unless you need to rush back to the office?”
I smile. “No, I can stay for a bit. Milk, sugar?”
He waves a hand. “Two sugars. And don’t be shy — I want to hear about how my son has been treating you.”
I laugh, try to hide the choke that nearly escapes, and heading for the kitchen. “Perfect. I’ll make tea. Then I want embarrassing childhood stories.”
“Oh, I’ve got plenty. You’ll be here all day,” he calls back, chuckling.
And he’s not wrong.
The day slips by faster than I expect. We talk for hours, refilling cups of tea and making our way through two packets of biscuits. James tells me about Henry’s childhood — how close he was to his brother, how he could spend hours building intricate Lego cities, determined to make every detail perfect.
Then, more softly, he tells me about Henry’s mum. The car accident. The drunk driver. The loss that changed everything.
My chest aches as he speaks, tears silently streaking down my cheeks. He tells me how Henry withdrew after that, spending hours alone building things — the one space where he could control the outcome, where nothing broke unless he chose to take it apart.
He talks about his pride, too. How Henry grew into the man he always hoped he’d be — determined, loyal, endlessly driven.
By the time I finally look at the clock, the sun is already dipping behind the rooftops.
The man James describes doesn’t sound like the boss I’ve worked for these last four years. But maybe that’s the point.
Maybe the man I know — the guarded, brooding version — is what’s left after the world breaks you.
And maybe, just maybe, the man James remembers is still there, waiting to be seen.
Sixteen
Henry
After abruptly leaving Matilda’s flat this morning, I barely made it two streets before my phone rang. Mr Hamlin. Apparently, there was another email from Gary — the building inspector from Park Lane — who was once again convinced the entire world was out to sabotage him.
Perfect. Just what I needed. More drama that isn’t mine, when mine is already stacked high enough to bury me alive.
Matilda standing in her kitchen in those tiny blue pyjama shorts and a vest top had been enough to knock the breath out of me — let alone the way she looked at me. Soft. Vulnerable. Like she didn’t know if she should thank me or run.
And all I could think about was pulling her into my arms.
Not just to touch her — though God knows I wanted that too — but to protect her. To make her feel safe.
That’s a first for me.
Every other woman in my life has been a temporary distraction. A quick fix for loneliness or boredom. Never more.Never deep. Because I’ve neverwanteddeep — not until now. And I hate that the thought of her smile makes my chest ache.
Which is why I had to get out of there before I did something stupid. Before I kissed her.
A few minutes into my meeting with Hamlin, things go from bad to worse. Gary is throwing accusations, Hamlin is threatening to walk off-site, and I’m standing in the middle like a mediator at a children’s playground.
I send Matilda a quick email, knowing the signal’s crap out here, and prepare myself for a long day of babysitting grown men who can’t stand each other.
And I’m right.
Hours later, covered in dust and sweat, I finally climb into an Uber headed back to the office. It’s 4:15 p.m. — just enough time to make it before my five o’clock meeting with Matilda.
I need to talk to her.
I need to apologise for the last few days — for the way I’ve acted, the things I’ve said, the lines I’ve blurred. She deserves better than the mess I’ve made of this.
