“Too much?”
“Are you kidding? It’s perfect,” she says, eyes sparkling. “Thank you. Can I help with anything?”
“You could pick the wine,” I tell her. “Wasn’t sure if you were feeling red or white tonight.”
“Oh, red — definitely red. You have to with cheese.” She grins, then adds, “My diet’s completely out the window this weekend.”
That word —diet— sends a flicker of irritation up my spine. Before she can move, I catch her wrist gently and turn her to face me.
“Listen,” I say, voice low. “If you want to lose weight because it makesyoufeel good, then fine. But if you ever think you need to change because you’re not already perfect…” I shake my head. “You’re wrong, Matilda Green. Your body is fucking perfect.”
Her breath catches, and her cheeks flush pink. The air between us thickens, charged. I trace my thumb over her bottom lip, aching to taste her again.
She blinks up at me, words hovering unspoken, and then swallows them back.
“Go on,” I say softly. “Pick the wine. I’ll get the fire started.”
She nods, eyes lingering on mine a second longer before turning away. There’s something in her hesitation — something she wants to say but can’t — and I hate myself for not asking what it is. Instead, I take the coward’s way out and head for the deck.
The sun’s dipping below the trees now, washing the sky in orange and pink. The scent of pine and smoke fills the air, and for a moment, I just breathe it in. It’s so far removed from the chaos of London — no deadlines, no meetings, no noise. Just us.
When Matilda joins me, wrapped in a blanket, holding two glasses of wine, she looks utterly content. We sit by the firepit, eating and talking about nothing. She’s sitting sideways in her chair, dunking a chip into hummus with a scandalous ratio that makes me laugh.
It’s stupid how happy this makes me — watching her be so effortlessly herself.
“I don’t want to leave,” I admit before I can stop myself.
She exhales a soft laugh. “Me either. It’s been pretty amazing, hasn’t it?”
When she turns to look at me, her eyes catch the firelight — big, brown, full of warmth — and my chest aches. How the hell did I not see it before? How did I not realise, from the very first day she walked into my office, that I was in love with her?
“Matilda, I—” I start, then falter. My pulse stutters.
I stare down at my glass, trying to summon the words, but they tangle in my throat. “I don’t know what you want to happen when we get back,” I manage, “but I don’t think I can go back to how things were. Us… hiding.”
Her brow furrows slightly. “What are you saying?”
I take a breath — and for once, I stop running from the truth.
“I’m saying I want you, Matilda. All of you. In every way I can have you. I don’t want to go back to just being your boss, or some guy who stays over sometimes. I want more.”
I turn fully to face her. The firelight paints her skin in gold, and I swear I could drown in the sight of her. I pull her chair closer until our knees touch, and she gasps softly — the sound curling through my chest.
“I’m fucking crazy about you,” I say, the words rushing out now. “And I can’t pretend anymore that I’m not. Not to you. Not to anyone. I know it’s messy, and it could blow up in both our faces, and I know it’s selfish — but I need you to know I’m falling for you, Matilda. And I can’t hide it anymore.”
For a moment, silence. Her eyes widen, and my stomach twists, convinced I’ve just ruined everything.
But then she says, voice trembling and sure all at once, “I feel the same. I’m falling for you too. And I don’t want to hide this. I want you, Henry Chase — all of you.”
My breath leaves me in one heavy rush, and I swear my chest might burst.
“You do?” I ask, half laughing, half disbelieving.
“Of course, you idiot.”
And then she’s in my arms — warm, alive, everything I never knew I needed — and for the first time in my life, every broken piece of me finally fits back together.
Forty One
