Page 14 of No Strings Attached
I chew slowly, giving myself a moment to think. “No. It doesn’t change anything. You’re still the same Henson I met. Just as infuriating.”
A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I’m glad.”
I shake my head, pushing my plate aside. “People are more than their titles or their bank accounts. I see you, Henson. You can be more than whatever the headlines have to say.”
For a moment, the air between us is charged, the kind of silence that says more than words ever could. Then, he clears his throat and shifts in his seat.
He picks up his glass of wine, swirling the liquid thoughtfully before taking a sip. “You know, for someone who claims to find me infuriating, you’re pretty good at making me feel not so terrible about myself.”
I laugh. “Well, don’t get used to it.”
Henson pours some more wine, topping off both of our glasses, and then grabs the bottle, motioning toward the couch. “Come on. Let’s get more comfortable.”
I follow him, glass in hand, a slight warmth creeping into my cheeks from the alcohol. The meal was incredible, but the conversation, surprisingly, was even better. It’s rare to connect with someone like this—especially a total stranger—and I’m trying not to overthink it.
We settle on the oversized seat, Henson sprawling out as I tuck my legs under me, keeping my glass balanced in one hand. He sets the bottle on the coffee table and leans back, his arm draping casually along the back of the sofa.
“So, tell me something funny from your childhood. Even better if it’s embarrassing.”
“Okay, but no judgment,” I reply.
“No promises.”
I roll my eyes, stifling a smile.
“When I was about seven, I thought I could teach myself how to ice skate... in my socks. On the kitchen floor.”
Henson arches a brow, intrigued. “Oh, this sounds promising already.”
“It gets better. So, I put on my dad’s old socks—because clearly, bigger socks meant better skating—and I’m gliding around the kitchen, imagining I’m in the Olympics. Everything’s going great until I decide to do a spin.”
He winces, already anticipating the ending. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes,” I say, giggling. “I spun too hard, lost my balance, and slammed right into the fridge. The door flew open, and a carton of orange juice came crashing down on my head. Mymom walks in just as I’m lying on the floor, covered in juice, crying about how I’ll never be a figure skater.”
Henson bursts out laughing, his shoulders shaking. “I can just picture it. Did you at least get a medal for effort?”
“Not even a sympathy hug.”
He shakes his head, still chuckling. “That’s amazing. I needed that visual.”
“Your turn. Don’t leave me hanging.”
He pauses, thinking. “Okay. When I was ten, my brother dared me to climb the tree in our backyard and jump down onto the trampoline.”
“Oh, no,” I say, mimicking him.
“Oh, yes,” he echoes, smirking. “I climbed up, no problem. But when it was time to jump, I chickened out. Worth started yelling at me, calling me a baby, so I decided to prove him wrong. I jumped.”
“And?”
“And... I missed the trampoline entirely. Landed in a bush.”
I burst out laughing, clutching my stomach. “Please tell me you weren’t hurt.”
“My pride… and my ankle,” he says with a grin. “I had to spend the night at the emergency room and wore a cast for almost three months. Worth never let me live it down.”
We both laugh, and it feels easy and natural. The wine loosens me up even more, and before I realize it, the words slip out. “Why are you single?”
