He motions me closer for a hug, and I go, swallowing hard as warmth floods through my chest. I don’t let myself feel proud often — it’s dangerous — but for a second, I do.
“About coming along,” he says, pulling back. “I can’t make it, son. Not strong enough yet. But Matilda said I can stream it, so I’ll be watching and cheering you on.”
I blink. “You spoke to Matilda?”
“Oh, yes.” His voice is a touch too casual. His eyes flick away — a tell I’ve known since childhood.
“When did you speak to her?” My tone’s sharper than I mean it to be, but something in me bristles.
“She’s called a few times since I came home from hospital,” he admits. “Just to check in. She’s a dear like that. You know, that woman’s a good one. You’d better buck your ideas up if you want to keep her.”
“I neverhadher to keep,” I mutter. “She made that clear last Monday.”
The words taste bitter even as I say them.
“Probably for the best anyway,” I add quickly, lying to him — and to myself.
Dad fixes me with a look that could strip paint. “Don’t be a fool, son. That woman has feelings for you. Even a blind man could see it. Stop being a stubborn twat and ask her to the damn awards ceremony.”
I can’t help but laugh. “I may have already asked her, actually. But as a work thing, not a date.”
Dad groans and drags a hand down his face. “Jesus, help me.”
I grin despite myself.
“Alright, here’s some advice from an old man who knows better,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Do whatever you can to turn that work thing into a date. Because that woman’s a firecracker, and if you let her slip through your fingers, then you reallywillneed a lobotomy — because you’ll have lost your bloody mind.”
Twenty Six
Matilda
Something feels off this morning, and I can’t quite put my finger on why. It’s as if the world is spinning a fraction slower, throwing everything slightly out of rhythm. It took me three attempts to get my lipstick right, and my usual joy of matching outfits to shoes has turned into a chaotic rainbow explosion across my bedroom floor.
I finally settle on a baby-blue trouser suit with lime-green heels — bold enough to fake confidence, even if I don’t feel it.
Everything else about my morning is routine: the coffee shop on the corner, the comforting hum of steaming milk, the chatter of the usual staff. But something monumental is different today.
Henry is standing in the queue.
Back to me.
“Henry?” I say, squeezing past a few caffeine-deprived zombies who clearly hate me now.
He turns, and just like that — the earth catches up with itself again.
“Good morning, Matilda. Soya latte?” His mouth curves into that soft, dangerous smile.
“Yes, but… I normally get the coffees,” I say, heat already climbing my neck as his gaze trails down my outfit and back up again. Doesn’t he realise he’s not allowed to look at me like that anymore?
“I know,” he says, voice low. “But I thought I’d get them for us this morning. My treat. I’m trying one of those almond croissants — want one?”
“Oh, no thanks. Too many calories for me.”
Something sharp flashes in his eyes. His brows draw together.
“Matilda, please tell me you don’t think there’s anything wrong with the way you look.”
“What?” I stammer. “Well—”
