Right. Back to work.
The day drifts on as usual — me juggling Henry’s endless workload, darting back and forth with files and messages from clients. Honestly, I have no idea how he keeps all these plates spinning without collapsing, though it probably explains his permanent state of irritation.
As lunch approaches, I head out to grab his usual: chicken salad, no dressing. I mean, what kind of monster eats salad without dressing? I, on the other hand, go for a chicken, bacon and avocado wrap. One of the perks of my job — Henry always pays. He’s got a tab at the deli, pays it off once a month. For someone who’s moody 90% of the time, he’s surprisingly generous. Gentlemanly, even. A grumpy gentleman.
At least tonight’s dinner is on him too. One less thing to stress about when we’re headed to one of the most expensive restaurants in London.
“Are you ready?” Henry’s voice cuts through at 6:30 p.m. as he strides out of his office, swinging a navy coat over his shoulders. The deep blue makes his crisp white shirt pop — all broad shoulders and understated strength. I might notlikethe man most days, but I can still appreciate good tailoring.
I pretend to be finishing up, even though I wrapped everything forty-five minutes ago. “Yep, all done. Shall we?”
I stand, smoothing down my pencil skirt and straightening my shirt. I’d managed to sneak to the bathroom earlier to touch up my makeup and tame my hair, hoping to look halfway professional. Henry pauses mid-step, eyes flicking over me for a moment. I freeze, unsure whether I’ve got lipstick on my teeth or committed a capital offence. Then he simply turns, presses the elevator button, and gestures for me to follow.
He raises a hand, letting me step in first. No eye contact. Classic Henry. My heels click on the marble floor and soften against the carpet as we ride down in silence. I stare at my red stilettos, resisting the urge to fidget. For someone I spend forty hours a week with, he still manages to make me feel like I’m waiting outside the headmaster’s office.
When the elevator dings at the basement, I realise we’ll be sharing afifteen-minutecar journey together. If we can’t handle one minute in a lift, this is going to be torture.
His Maserati waits, glossy and intimidating. And to my surprise, Henry opens the passenger door for me.What alternate universe is this?
“Thank you,” I say, sliding in.
He circles the car and gets in beside me.
“Thanks for the lift. The train wouldn’t have been ideal in these heels.”
He glances down at my bright red shoes, gaze skimming up my legs before he catches himself. His jaw tightens. “I can imagine,” he mutters, clipped.
His tone makes me shrink slightly. If it pains him this much to be civil, why bother? They’re just shoes, not a moral crisis.
He fires up the engine, and we glide out of the car park.
Come on, Matilda, make conversation. Anything but awkward silence.
“So, which client are we meeting tonight?” I ask brightly.
“The American one who wanted the fully solar-powered tower with voice activation,” he says, tone calm and businesslike.
“Oh, the guy from Nashville who kept calling mesweetheartover the phone?”
“The very same.” I swear I see the corner of his mouth twitch. “He’s finally become more reasonable with his budget, so we’re meeting him while he’s in town.”
“Oh, great,” I reply, unable to keep the sarcasm out.
His smirk almost breaks through. “I’ll try to make it a quick meal. I had plans tonight.”
“Anything nice?” I ask before my brain can intervene. Abort. Abort.
“Just meeting a friend,” he says smoothly, no elaboration.
A friend. My stomach twists — ridiculous, really, but still.A tall, leggy blonde,my mind supplies helpfully.
“That’s a shame,” I say lightly. The lie tastes strange on my tongue.
“It’s fine. I’ll see them another day,” he replies, then glances my way. “What about you? Big Friday night plans before I ruined them?”
“Oh — I was meant to meet my sister. We were going to a speed dating event, but it’s been rearranged, so all good. Nothing ruined.”
His hands tighten on the wheel. Just a flicker. Then it’s gone. “Speed dating?” he repeats, like the words themselves offend him. “You’ve never eaten at Nook before?”
