“Yes, actually. I made it to the final round,” I say cautiously. “The interview’s next week. It’s between me and someone else. How did you hear about it?”
“Natalie mentioned it,” he says, shrugging. “Said she put your name forward. The other candidate’s supposed to be pretty good, from what I hear.”
My pulse stumbles. “Oh?”
“Matilda, your order!” Luke calls.
“Thanks, Luke. See you tomorrow!” I say quickly, taking the drinks and pastries — anything to break the tension.
When I turn back, Thomas is collecting his own coffee.
“So,” I ask, trying to sound casual, “how do you know who the other candidate is?”
He shrugs again, that irritatingly smug grin on his face. “You know how this business is. People talk. Nothing stays quiet for long.”
Something in his tone makes my stomach clench. Is he hinting at the interview — or something else? Does heknow?
“Right… yeah,” I say, forcing a laugh that comes out strangled.
He tilts his head. “Want to walk back together?”
The last thing I want is company, but I can’t exactly say no without looking suspicious. “Sure,” I manage.
We walk back to the office making small talk, but my earlier good mood has evaporated. Every word Thomas says feels loaded, like he’s testing me, and the mention of “the other guy” gnaws at my confidence. According to Thomas, he’s got years of experience designing sustainable residential projects across London. Environmentally conscious, cost-effective — exactly the kind of architect Henry always praises.
Perfect.
By the time we reach the building, my chest feels tight with anxiety.
“So,” Thomas says suddenly, “what’s going on with Henry lately?”
The mention of his name snaps me out of my spiral. “What do you mean?” I ask — maybe too defensively.
“I don’t know,” he says with a laugh. “He’s… different. Happier. More approachable. Everyone’s noticed it. I figured you’d know why.”
My pulse spikes. “Why would I know?”
He looks at me like I’ve just confessed something. “Because you spend all day together. I figured you’d know if he was… seeing someone.”
I choke mid-sip, hot coffee spluttering everywhere. Thomas jumps back, startled.
“Jesus, Matilda — you okay?”
I cough, patting my chest. “Wrong hole.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, brow raised. “I just mean, people don’t usually go from brooding workaholic to actual human being unless they’re having really good sex.”
“Oh,” I manage weakly. “Right. Of course.”
Henry’s already in a client meeting by the time I get back, which gives me the perfect excuse to bury myself in work. I throw myself into researching my competition, and the more I read, the worse I feel. The guy’s talented. Experienced. Impressive.
And I’m… me.
There’s only one solution — my presentation has to be flawless. Every line, every drawing, every word. Which means absolutelyno distractions.
No Henry.
Not for the next nine days.
