Matilda
Iwake up Friday morning with my head pounding like I’ve swallowed ten sheets of sandpaper. Damn you, Rachel. Damn you, Sauvignon Blanc.
Normally, Fridays are sacred — my weekly celebration of surviving five full days of Henry-induced stress, topped with the sweet reward of two glorious, Henry-free days ahead. But today feels different.
Today, I can’t stop the fizz of anticipation bubbling in my chest at the thought of seeing him.
It’s ridiculous. I should be cursing his name, not smiling into my pillow like a teenager with a crush. But something changed last night. We connected. On a level. Entered uncharted waters.
I think we became… friends.
A friend I’d very much like to lick in places I’d never tell my mother about, but still — friends nonetheless.
After a long debate with myself, I decide on my red dress. The one that hugs in all the right places and dips just low enough atthe neckline to make me feel dangerous without getting fired. I pair it with the matching red heels — the same pair I wore onthatfateful dinner at Nook. My hair goes up in a loose bun, a few curls left free to frame my face.
I catch my reflection in the mirror and hesitate.
Am I trying too hard?
I’d normally wear this without a second thought, but knowing I’m dressingforhim makes me self-conscious. What if he thinks it’s obvious? What if he doesn’t even notice? What if I’m just the cute assistant playing dress-up, while he walks around looking like a bloody GQ cover?
My head spins with doubt until I finally shake it off. Screw it. I’m wearing the damn dress.
I make it to the office before Henry — a rare miracle — and set his coffee on his desk. My hands are shaking, which is utterly pathetic, so I hide them under the excuse of rearranging his papers.
The elevator chimes, and my stomach flips.
He’s here.
I turn toward the sound, already half-smiling… and freeze.
It’s not Henry.
It’s a tall, dark-haired goddess with the kind of effortless beauty that makes you instantly question your skincare routine. She’s wearing Converse, figure-hugging jeans, and a loose black ACDC shirt that hangs off one shoulder.
“Hi, is Henry here yet?” she asks, her voice lilting with an accent that’s equal parts exotic and posh.
Erm — what now?
“No, sorry,” I manage, trying not to sound like I’ve just swallowed a cactus. “Would you like me to take a message?”
She smiles politely, her olive skin glowing, dark curls cascading down to her waist. Her lashes are long enough to create a breeze.
“No, that’s okay. I’ll wait. Is that his office?”
She points toward Henry’s glass-walled office and — to my horror — starts walking right in.
“Oh, wait!” I blurt, practically tripping over my desk. “He usually prefers meetings to be pre-booked.”
She doesn’t even slow down.
Okay, new plan: don’t throw yourself bodily in front of the door.
She must be a client, I tell myself. Henry has female clients all the time. Gorgeous ones. Graceful ones. The sort who probably don’t hyperventilate when he looks at them.
“Matilda?”
The deep, familiar voice behind me hits like a shockwave.
