I hover my mouse over the email, my stomach twisted into knots. The longer I stare, the sicker I feel. Out of the corner of my eye, Henry looks up from his computer, studying me with that concerned tilt of his brow. A second later, he’s standing beside my desk.
Claire from HR is in the glass conference room opposite, so he keeps a careful distance — close enough to show he’s there, far enough not to raise suspicion.
“What’s the matter?” he asks quietly, concern softening his face.
“Sharon’s emailed me.”
His expression shifts instantly — from curiosity to tension. “Don’t tell me you didn’t get it,” he says, voice already edged with frustration. “Let me call her.”
He starts to turn away, and I practically leap out of my chair, grabbing his arm. “No! I haven’t opened it yet,” I hiss. “I don’t know what it says.”
“Jesus, Matilda, you’re killing me here.” His lips twitch into that infuriating, devastating smirk — the one that turns my knees to jelly. “Open the bloody email.”
“I can’t,” I groan. “You do it.”
“What, open it for you?”
“Yes. I can’t handle watching my dreams crash and burn in real time.”
He laughs softly, sliding into my chair. “Move over.”
I scoot aside, eyes squeezed shut as he clicks the mouse. The silence that follows is deafening. He says nothing. My heart pounds harder with every passing second.
“Well?” I whisper.
“Okay,” he says finally, tone unreadable. “This is… manageable.”
My eyes snap open. “Manageable? What does that mean?”
Leaning closer, he scrolls through the email. “You’ve made it to the final round. It’s between you and one other architect. You both have to present your projects on the twentieth — ten days from now. Sharon wants you to showcase how your designs reflect the company’s values.”
“Ten days?” My voice pitches somewhere between panic and disbelief. A rush of excitement floods me, followed immediately by terror. Final round. Competition. Pressure.
I’ve never competed for anything in my life — and I’ve certainly neverwon.
Henry must sense the meltdown brewing because he turns my chair slightly toward him, lowering his voice.
“You’ve got this,” he says firmly. Then his gaze dips to my mouth. “Now stop biting that lip before Claire from HR gets an eyeful of me bending you over this desk.”
My pulse spikes. His tone is low, wicked, and my brain completely short-circuits. I open my mouth to say something clever, but what comes out is… a noise. A very embarrassing noise.
He chuckles quietly and straightens up. “My place or yours tonight?”
“Mine,” I manage to breathe.
“Perfect. Seven o’clock,” he says, that devilish grin spreading before he walks back to his office.
“Congratulations, by the way,” he calls over his shoulder just before the door closes.
The moment he’s gone, I slap a hand over my mouth to hide the ridiculous grin stretching across my face.
I used to count down the hours until the end of the workday just to escape Henry’s impossible moods. Now I count them so I canseehim again. To be near him. To feel his hands, his warmth, his everything.
And now I’m sitting on my sofa, checking the clock every thirty seconds, waiting for the knock at my door. It’s 7:11 p.m. — and Henry Chase islate.The man who runs his schedule like a military operation islate.
I tell myself I’m not being clingy — justconcerned.
In the last hour, I’ve redone my makeup twice, changed outfits three times, then panicked and put on soft loungewear that hugs me in all the right places. Casual. Comfortable. Effortlessly hot. (Hopefully.)
