He leans back in his chair, watching me taking another enthusiastic bite. “Careful,” he teases. “You’re going to set unrealistic expectations for my cooking skills.”
I smile, dabbing the corner of my mouth with a napkin. “If this is your version of ‘unrealistic,’ I think I can live with it. Colt tried to make macaroni and cheese once and almost burned down our kitchen. It was the kind you make from the box with step-by-step directions.”
Henry laughs, shaking his head. “That’s a special kind of talent.”
“You have no idea. Smoke was everywhere, a fire alarm was blaring, and he was yelling about the stove being ‘possessed.’ I had to rescue the pot before it melted.”
“Well, at least he didn’t try to convince you hemeantto do it. I once ate an entire burnt lasagna because the woman I was seeing told me that’s what it was supposed to look like.”
“That’s actually kind of sweet,” I say, taking a sip of the wine in front of me.
“I don’t know about sweet. I was much more naïve back then, so I probably would’ve eaten ten more burnt lasagnas to make her happy.”
Henry’s words hang in the air, and I catch a flicker of something in his expression—fondness tinged with amusement, maybe even a hint of self-awareness.
“Well, here’s to growth,” I say, raising my glass. “No more burnt lasagnas for anyone.”
“I’ll drink to that.” He clinks his glass against mine, his smile sending a wave of warmth to my core.
I take another sip and set my glass down. Curiosity nudges at the edges of my thoughts. Henry knew about my complicated past relationship, but I didn’t know much about his.
Henry had mentioned an ex a few times. It was brief, but I still remember the sadness in his eyes when he talked about it. I wanted to know more, and this felt like the perfect opportunity.
I take another sip for courage and say, “So, was she at least a good cook when she wasn’t torching pasta?”
He looks at me, and hesitation is buried beneath his unwavering smile. “Not really. Cooking wasn’t her thing, but she made up for it in other ways. She had this big personality, knew what she wanted, and wasn’t afraid to go after it. Sometimes, it felt like I was just trying to keep up.”
There’s no anger in his tone, just a quiet honesty that makes me lean in closer. “Sounds like she kept you on your toes.”
“She did,” he admits, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Sometimes in a good way, sometimes not so much.”
“Is this the ex you talked about that night at the brewery?”
Henry exhales, running a hand through his hair in a way that makes him look younger. “Yes,” he pauses while pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, “I feel like I need to come clean about something.”
My pulse starts to thump against my chest like an unrelenting warning bell. Instinct takes over, and a tidal wave of doubt crashes through me. Questions like,I knew he was too good to be trueanddid I miss a red flag, swirl in my mind like the annoying throb of a growing headache.
I’m tempted to get up and leave before I’m forced to taint any pleasant memories of the man in front of me. But I can’t move. My body is cemented in place, waiting for his confession. "What is it?"
He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “My ex is still in my life. Kind of.”
The flip in my stomach turns into a somersault. “Still in your life?”
Henry’s forehead creases as he rubs his hand over his face. “Yes. She’s my agent. Well, she was anyway.”
“Your literary agent? The one helping you with your books?” I swallow hard and feel the room tilt to the left.
He nods slowly. An almost apologetic smile warps his face into someone I barely recognize. “Yes. She’s been with me since the beginning. An old professor of mine connected me with Jenn when I started querying my manuscript. She loved my novel and took me on as a client, but our relationship became more intimate. I was only twenty then, and she was five or six years older, so I let her control my life for two years.”
“She controlled your life?” I repeat, struggling to keep my voice steady.
He exhales sharply. “Yeah. Jenn is a force of nature. She knows what she wants and doesn’t stop until she gets it. At first, I thought it was impressive and maybe even exciting. But it wasn’t long until I realized she was steering everything—my career, social life, even my writing. Everything she did was what she wanted, not what I wanted.”
“And you stayed with her for two years?” I cross my arms, trying to process it all.
“I was young and naïve,” he admits, nervously rubbing his palms under the table. “I thought I loved her. And maybe I did, in some messed-up way. But looking back, I see it for what it was. She used me, Emma. My writing and ambition became tools for her to further her agenda.”
There’s a tight feeling in my chest that feels like it could snap at any moment. “I’m confused. It seems like you ended things, but she’s still your agent. What happened in-between then and now?”
