It’s hot, messy, desperate. Years of restraint burning away in seconds.
My hands find her hips, her waist, her back. It’s like touching someone for the first time, and it’s chaos. Beautiful, terrifying chaos.
Then — the door opens.
Matilda shoves off me, grabbing a handful of folders and a stack of post-it notes as a young employee walks in, stammering an apology before reaching for a pack of pencils.
“These are the residential files,” Matilda says, breathless, thrusting them at me. “And these are for commercial.”
I can’t help the low laugh that escapes me, even as she straightens her hair and dress. The the young girl leaves.
“Matilda—”
“Henry, we can’t do this here,” she interrupts, refusing to meet my eye.
“Here?” I repeat, glancing around the cramped cupboard. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”
She gestures frantically between us. “I’m your assistant. You’re my boss. We’re in a supply cupboard. If Kelly had moved even remotely faster than her usual snail’s pace, she’d have caught us like—” she waves her hands— “this.”
“You’re right,” I sigh. “You’re my assistant, I’m your boss, and this—” I mirror her wild hand gestures, “—is completely inappropriate.”
I run a hand through my hair, trying to find the part of me that still believes what I’m saying.
“Come on,” I mutter. “We’d better get out of here.”
Even as I say it, I know I don’t mean it. Because walking away from Matilda Green is quickly becoming the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.
Twenty
Matilda
If someone had told me a week ago that I’d end my Friday with a seven-minutes in heaven session with my boss — the same man I’ve repeatedly referred to asthe devil— I’d have assumed they were clinically insane.
Yet here I am.
An hour later, still at my desk, still staring blankly at my computer screen, and still replaying that kiss like it’s a scene from a forbidden romance novel.
Emails blur together in front of me, words melting into meaningless squiggles. Normally, I’d find comfort in the label of a Sauvignon Blanc, but there are still two whole hours before I can drown my problems in fermented grapes.
Henry vanished almost immediately after we returned from the supply cupboard — not even a goodbye or a glance. His office stayed empty ever since.
He doesn’t have any meetings booked, which can only mean one thing: he’s mortified. Completely, utterly horrified that hemade out with his assistant in a cupboard filled with toner cartridges and paperclips.
Which, in fairness, sounds bad when you say it out loud.
But me? I don’t feel horrified.
I feel… restless. Buzzing. Like every nerve in my body woke up and now refuses to settle. I want to do it again — the kiss, not the toner — just once more to check it wasn’t a fluke. Because that kiss wasn’t like any other kiss I’ve ever had in my life.
It was consuming.
It wasreal.
The kind of kiss that makes you forget what planet you’re on.
Henry Chase might be infuriating, cold, emotionally unavailable, and allergic to joy, but he’s also — and I can’t believe I’m saying this — the best damn kisser I’ve ever had the misfortune of working under.
Or just… under.
