Chapter 15: Tangled Ties and Table Talks
1787 Words
Emma Quinn hadn’t clocked Julian Harris and Henry Parker as buddies—let alone tight ones. The realization twisted her gut into a knot she couldn’t untangle. She stole a glance at Henry, fishing for a tell, but his poker face gave zilch.
“No memory of me?” Yan Chen grinned, teasing.
Emma frowned, racking her brain. Blank. “Eyesight’s iffy—only cleared up recently,” she said, tapping her temple.
Julian chimed in smooth as silk. “Her vision’s been dicey—surgery patched it, but it’s just okay now. Decent in daylight, hates glare.”
Henry flicked his eyes her way. Sunglasses make sense now. He wondered how Julian knew her so well.
With a legit excuse, Yan Chen dropped it. He’d seen Emma plenty—her popping into Julian’s office, that confession outside his flat (he’d watched from his car), even at the stables with Fang Muhe, catching his eye longer than intended.
When Julian introduced Henry, Emma cut in: “We’ve met.” Henry was chasing her—beyond that, she couldn’t label it, so she left it there.
Henry froze mid-handshake, thrown by her curveball.
Julian didn’t blink—Qin and Han family ties ran deep, business too. No shocker.
Yan Chen laughed. “All one big crew—gotta eat together now.” He waved the waiter, merging his order with Julian’s private room.
To Emma, he smirked, “You call Julian ‘Professor,’ right? Henry and I are his peers—guess we’re your uncles?”
Henry cut in, dry as dust: “Age yourself—leave me out.”
Yan Chen cackled. “Since when do you care?”
Henry’s sidelong glance brushed Emma, dodging the jab.
Julian smirked. “Fair’s fair—‘uncle’ fits.” He nodded upstairs. “Let’s move—this chat’s done.”
They climbed to the room.
“Big Bro Yan, I’m with you,” Emma said, plopping beside Yan Chen.
He chuckled. “Gotta bond—next time, you won’t blank me.”
Julian and Henry sat opposite. Work aside, they had little to gab about—waiters hovering killed shop talk. They traded half-baked takes on finance news, eyes drifting across now and then.
Yan Chen, Mr. Chatty, clicked with Emma fast. She wasn’t a talker—never had been—but needed a lifeline. Julian pressed her silent; Henry’s cool vibe chilled her bones. Yan Chen? Safe harbor.
She avoided looking up—both stares at once felt like ants on a griddle.
Henry sipped tea, casual, eyeing Yan Chen. Julian mirrored him. Yan Chen, yakking away, missed the frosty gazes until he glanced up—caught in a quiet crossfire.
“Uh…” He blinked, stumped.
Food landed just then, breaking the spell. Yan Chen shrugged off Henry’s odd look as plates hit the table.
Eating dulled the edge—Emma exhaled, tension loosening.
Yan Chen knew her confession flop. He loved a quip but had tact—her picking his side? No surprise. Julian stressed her out; Henry’s ice froze her solid. Yan Chen was the breather.
Henry’d pieced it downstairs—Yan Chen’s “your student” line clicked it: Emma’s crush was Julian. Teacher turned boss, investment banking star—fit her type to a T.
All three tiptoed around her, nudging talk to business. Emma picked at her food, half-tuned in, mind wandering.
The table’s auto-turntable spun slow. When her favorite dish rolled by, Henry’s hand stalled it—just long enough for her bite—then let go. Every lap. No one noticed, not even her.
A waiter did, though, sneaking peeks. Henry, a regular, never fussed like this. The turntable barely needed it, yet he pressed each time.
Yan Chen shot Henry a look. “Hey, random—what got you playing piano at the bar that night?”
They’d hit AC Company talk—AC meant Autumn Lan, Henry’s partner. Yan Chen flashed to her sobbing in the club lot.
Henry glanced up. “You know?”
Yan Chen grinned. “Upstairs gaming—word spread you serenaded some girl. Crowd rushed down; you’d just finished.”
He gawked. “Really to cheer a chick?”
Henry’s eyes brushed Emma, then pulled back. “Yeah.”
Yan Chen laughed. “Even you’ve got soft spots.” Then, “No wonder Autumn was bawling outside—on the phone, gutted.”
He smirked. “Said she confessed, you shut her down—picked a family date over her. Now she’s plotting to ‘get’ you while you’re free.”
Henry: “…”
His gaze hit Emma’s—she was staring too.
Julian nudged Yan Chen. “Kid’s here—keep it clean.”
Yan Chen chuckled. “Fine—Peppa Pig’s latest season?”
“…”
Lunch wrapped—no lingering. They headed down.
Yan Chen and Henry peeled off. Julian turned to Emma. “Coffee? Couldn’t talk much with company.”
She nodded after a beat.
They hit a nearby café. Julian and Emma had shared tons of coffees—London days, he’d join her for tea whenever free. “Usual?” he asked.
“Anything—I’m not picky,” she said. Truth? She hated coffee—always had. Used to be her excuse to drag him along.
Those London moments fueled years of nostalgia. Now, face-to-face, that spark was ash.
Coffee landed. Julian eased into chat. “Eyes okay?”
First surgery—junior summer. He’d been in London, popping by the hospital. Her lean on him grew then.
Emma stirred lightly. “Second one later—decent now.” A faint, hollow smile.
He opened his mouth, but his phone buzzed—a client. Apologetic nod, he stepped out.
Emma’s pinged too. Henry: Where at?
Café, she tapped back.
Henry eyed her short reply—loaded—and left it: Cool, later.
Yan Chen smirked. “You zoning too?”
Henry: “Thinking.”
“Your piano girl?” Yan Chen teased.
Henry didn’t bite, just held out a hand. Yan Chen tossed him cigs and a lighter.
At the café, Julian’s call yanked him back—3 p.m. client meet, clock ticking. Coffee barely touched, they paid and split.
“Next one’s on me,” he said. “Three days ‘til work—chill out.”
“Office soon,” she said.
He offered a hand. “To smooth sailing.”
Her cold fingers grazed his—quick grip, gone.
His car rolled off. Emma lingered in hers, lunch’s wild mashup replaying. Too many ghosts colliding.
Henry’s text flashed back. She replied: Leaving café.
He called, voice low, soothing her frayed edges. “Swing by my office—wait ‘til I’m off?”
She’d always found his tone calming. Knowing Julian was her old flame, he still reached out—no fuss. “Sure, half an hour,” she said.
“Drive safe,” he said.
She’d braced for a therapy sesh—he’d promised to untangle her post-Julian vibes. But an hour in his office, and he dodged lunch talk, tossing her twisted math problems instead, diving into his own work.
Emma twirled her pen, eyeing him. He was buried in emails.
“Henry,” she called.
“Hm?” No look up.
“You… got nothing to ask?”
“Nope.” Beat. “Ask what?”
Fair—he’d already pieced it.
“Forget it, keep at it,” she said, back to her equations.
His space steadied her—mind drifted, but snapped back quick.
Henry, mid-file, paused, texting his secretary: Fix all my chairs.
None broken—fix ‘em anyway.
Secretary: …When back?
After hours, he shot back.
Knock soon after. “In,” he said, eyes down.
“Mr. Han,” the secretary chirped, trailed by two maintenance guys. She skipped glancing at Emma. “My slip—chairs weren’t flagged for repair. Crew’s here.”
Henry stood. “No biggie—they work. Take ‘em.”
“I’ll grab a spare—”
“Nah,” he said, nodding at the sofa. “I’ll manage.”
They hauled out, quiet settling.
Emma blinked—chairs breaking in sync? Weird.
Henry slid opposite her, back to emails like it was nothing.
Later, “Water,” he said, passing his cup.
She grinned. “Your tea runner now?” Third pour, and he acted like it was her gig.
“Beyond water, I’ve got it,” he said, deadpan.
She stared, lost.
He didn’t unpack it—yet.
She set the cup down; he met her, placing it on the table. “Two hours in—how’s your head?”
Finally. “Okay,” she said. Just okay.
“Am I too extra?” she asked.
“Extra’s not loyal—you’re the latter,” he said. “It’s good.”
“Thanks,” she murmured, a thin smile.
He stepped closer, eyes locking hers, hesitating. “What’d you see in him?”
Straight as a blade—pure Henry.
What hooked her on Julian? Too much, too messy for words.
“Hot, mature, sharp,” she blurted, blunt.
Henry pocketed his hands, paused. “That it?”
She nodded.
Silence hit, heavy.
Then his low, velvet voice cut through. “If that’s your type, I’ve got it—beat anyone.”
She froze.
When he turned it on, no one could dodge.
He was just into her now—chasing. If it grew, would she drown?
After a beat, she rallied. “Confession?”
His sly eyes met hers, flipping it. “You saying yes?”
She balked—he wasn’t playing.
Answer either way, she’d lose ground. A trap, smooth as silk.
Not folding, she fired back: “You said you’d chase me ‘til graduation.”
“True,” he nodded. “But you can say yes anytime—I’ll keep at it ‘til you’re grinning.” Half-smirk. “So?”
Speechless—again.
He laughed, easing off. “Time to fix your head.”
“Talk?” she asked.
“Shrink stuff—I’m no good.”
“Then how?” she pressed.
He unbuttoned a cuff. “Hold this.” Sleeves up.
She blinked. “You know kung fu healing?”
He snorted, staring ‘til she squirmed, looking away.
“Top shelf—book,” he said, pointing to a towering finance stack.
She followed. Reading therapy?
“Next, we touch,” he said, sleeves rolled.
“Touch?” she echoed.
“Yeah—I lift, you grab.”
She balked. “I’ll climb a chair—”
“Chairs are out,” he said.
She stared, stumped.
- Writer
