I tell myself the outfit choice was incidental, but even I don’t buy that. The fitted shirt, the trousers that sit just a little too perfectly—yeah, convenient, my arse.
I plan to talk to her today. To gauge where her head’s at. To see if there’s even the smallest chance I’ll get to taste her lips again—or if this thing that’s been brewing in my chest needs to be snuffed out before it burns the whole place down.
Two weeks ago, the idea of me being this reckless would’ve been laughable. I don’t do reckless. Everything in my life has been measured, calculated, low-risk with a high return. But Matilda… she’s the claw machine at the seaside—bright lights,hypnotic music, and youknowyou’re going to lose, yet you play anyway.
I’d picked up my phone half a dozen times over the weekend, hovering over her contact. But what the hell do you say to your assistant after making out with her in a supply cupboard?
Hey, that was great, want to do it again? — Too forward. Creepy.
Hey, how are you? — Too bland.
Hey, you’re fucking sexy and I can’t stop thinking about you. — Stalker material.
So I didn’t text. I told myself I’d talk to her Monday. And now Monday’s here, and I’ve got absolutely nothing.
I pace the office, waiting for the clock to hit nine. On the dot, the elevator chimes—and there she is.
Matilda walks in wearing a mouth-watering purple dress that hugs her hips and the kind of pale-yellow heels that should be illegal. Her hair catches the morning light, bouncing as she walks. Every click of her heels echoes through the marble lobby straight into my bloodstream.
“Morning, Henry. Here’s your coffee.” She sets the cup on my desk with her usual efficiency.
I pretend to be busy, but really, I’m just trying to breathe. Her nearness makes my stomach do this weird fluttering thing I despise.
“Thank you, Matilda,” I say, forcing a small smile. “Oh—Matilda, can we talk?”
She freezes mid-turn. For a second, I want to drag the words back into my mouth.
“Erm… yeah. Sure.” She faces me, expression caught somewhere between dread and something else I can’t quite read.
“Are you okay?” I ask, trying—and failing—to sound casual.
“Yes. Great.” Her hands clasp together in front of her stomach, twisting her rings. Nervous. I take a step around mydesk before I can stop myself. I want to take her hands, reassure her, something—but the flicker of alarm in her eyes stops me cold.
“About Friday—”
“I think we should forget it happened,” she blurts out, and the words hit harder than I expect.
“Really?” The question slips out before I can cage it.
“Yes. I mean, I liked it. Clearly.” She coughs, cheeks flushing pink. “But you’re my boss, and it would be silly to continue… that.”
Right. The responsible answer. The correct one. The one that feels like a bloody knife to the ribs.
“Right. Yes. Okay.” My voice sounds rough, awkward. I turn back to my desk. “That’s probably for the best. Thank you, Matilda. That’ll be all.”
The shift in tone is obvious. Sharp. Cold. A wall going up between us brick by brick. I hate myself for it even as I do it. But it’s easier to hide behind formality than admit that her rejection actually hurts.
I’ve never given a woman the power to hurt me before. Didn’t even think I could. Yet here I am, reeling from two sentences.
“Right. Is that it?” she asks softly. She looks lost, uncertain. Like she’s waiting for me to say something else. Something real.
But I can’t.
“Like you said,” I manage, “I’m your boss. It’s about time I started acting that way again.”
The words taste like ash.
She exhales, nods once, and turns to leave. I should call her back, tell her I didn’t mean it, that I’d give up every ounce of control I have just to kiss her again.
