“What can I get for you?” the barista interrupts.
“Two lattes — one with soya — and two almond croissants, please,” Henry says smoothly. “Oh, and two brownies.”
He gives me that devilishI’m-the-boss-herelook. I roll my eyes. It should irritate me. It doesn’t. It’s infuriatingly attractive.
“I’m pretty sure I said I didn’t want one,” I mutter as we walk toward the office.
“And I’m pretty sure your body is perfect and shouldn’t be denied French patisseries,” he replies without missing a beat.
My pulse skips. His smirk says he knows it. We walk the rest of the way in silence, the kind that hums with unspoken tension.
I need to get to my desk — fast — before I do something stupid.
Henry’s behaviour is completely throwing me today. Instead of barking orders, he’saskingquestions. He’s fetching me coffee, filling the paper tray himself, even asking how my day’s going.
The logical part of my brain assumes he’s preparing for life without me — practising self-sufficiency in case I get the promotion. A part of me is touched that he has that much faith in me.
The other part wants to unwrap this new, softer Henry like a present, layer by layer, just to see what’s underneath.
Then my sister’s voice echoes in my head like a nagging conscience:Keep your eyes on the prize, Matty. Don’t get distracted by penis.
The next two weeks fall into a rhythm — morning coffee runs together, unspoken but consistent.
It’s strange how easily it’s becomeourthing. Seeing him before the rush of the day feels… intimate. The conversations are lighter, easier. We talk about our evenings, the shows we’re watching, which pastry will ruin our diet that day.
I’m absolutely not developing chest flutters when I catch a bit of latte froth resting on his top lip.
And I definitely don’t want to lick it off.
Absolutely not.
At the office, things aren’t any easier. Stolen glances, soft smiles. Every meeting feels like balancing on a wire between professionalism and desire. Each time his green eyes meet mine, my self-control evaporates a little more.
Tonight’s our last meeting before the awards ceremony — the final review of the Wright project.
I meet Henry in his office at 5 p.m., our usual time.
“So, I’ve been thinking,” I say, rolling out the blueprints. “What if we move this interface here to open up the living area more? The kitchen could sit where the office was meant to be — more north-facing light, better views of the tree line for natural shade.”
I trace my finger along the page and look up at him, waiting.
“I like it,” he says after a moment. “But we’d need to shift this beam here, maybe reinforce this wall.”
He reaches across, sliding my hand slightly to the side, and my breath catches. His touch is light, brief, but it’s enough to send a ripple through me. He leans closer, and I catch the scent of his aftershave — sandalwood and sea salt.
I should tell him to move.
I don’t.
By the time we order Chinese takeaway, we look like the classic office cliché — late-night meeting, takeout boxes, too much eye contact.
The only difference is we haven’t acted on the tension that’s practically setting the air on fire.
That night, I try to distract myself. I text Rachel — she’s busy writing. I pick upHarry Potteragain, hoping to drown in fiction instead of Henry Chase’s voice echoing in my head.
Three pages in, I’m asleep. Not a single word sticks. All I can think about is him.
“My dear!”
