The look I give her must saydon’t joke about that, because her smirk fades instantly.
“Wait. Did she?”
“No. Not yet. But she might.” I exhale, rubbing the back of my neck. “I may have pulled her into a supply cupboard and kissed her.”
Jas spits coffee across the table, narrowly missing my shirt.
“¡Vete a la mierda!” she hisses, trying not to laugh. I’ve learned enough Spanish from her over the years to know that translates roughly toyou’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
I drop my head into my hands. “What do I do?”
Silence.
When I finally peek through my fingers, she’s staring at me like I’ve just told her I joined a boy band.
“Well,” she says eventually, “that depends.” She takes her time lifting the cup to her lips, just to torture me.
“On?”
“On whether it was a mistake.”
“It wasn’t a mistake,” I say too quickly, and her smirk deepens.
“So,” she continues, unfazed, “if it was one of those heat-of-the-moment, I-tripped-and-fell-on-her-lips type mistakes, then you need to talk to her Monday morning. Apologise. Promise it won’t happen again. And pray she doesn’t sue you for harassment.”
I glare at her.
“Or,” she adds, eyes glinting, “you actuallywantit to happen again. Which, let’s be honest, you do. In that case, you need to put some effort in. Show her you’re not just her broody, emotionally constipated boss.”
“How the hell am I supposed to do that?” I mutter, taking a bitter sip of my coffee.
“For starters,” she says sweetly, “drop the resting bitch face.”
My cup hits the table with a thud. “Remind me why I’m friends with you?”
“Because I’m right ninety-nine percent of the time,” she fires back. “Henry, you walk around with this permanentI hate peopleaura. It’s your whole brand. But if you want this woman to see you differently, you’re going to have to let her. Money and mood swings won’t win her over.”
“Who said I want to date her?” I snap, defensive before I can stop myself.
Jas tilts her head, unimpressed. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the fact you’ve brought her uptwicein two days? That you called an emergency coffee meeting over a kiss? That yourmouth nearly hit the floor when you saw her in that red dress yesterday? And that you, Mr Emotional Restraint himself, are sitting here acting like a love-struck teenager.”
I groan.
She smirks. “Los hombres pueden ser tan estúpidos.”
I don’t need a translation. I’ve heard that one enough times.
“So what do I do?” I ask finally. “Because I think she feels like it was a mistake.”
“Then you give her space,” Jas says simply. “If she’s into you, you’ll feel it. And when you do — show her who you really are. Slowly. Don’t scare her off with all this broody control freak energy.”
She laughs as I toss a napkin at her.
“Show her who I really am,” I repeat, sighing. “Right. I can do that… I think.”
She grins. “That’s the spirit. Maybe start by smiling once in a while — without it looking like you’re in pain.”
I shake my head, but I can’t help the small, traitorous smirk that tugs at my mouth.
