11. Emma
11
EMMA
T he resort's private tasting room, like every other space in this building, was stunning. Dark wood panels lined the walls, framing massive windows that stretched from the hardwood floors to the exposed beams above. Winter light spilled across elegant place settings, making the crystal glasses and fine china sparkle against crisp white tablecloths. Outside, snow-dusted pines swayed in the morning breeze, completing the picture-perfect mountain retreat atmosphere.
I glanced down at my phone, which had been buzzing all morning with texts from Maggie. So far, I hadn’t wanted to step into that rabbit hole. She’d sense drama in the air the moment I spoke to her. Hell, she’d probably sense it via text. I wasn’t quite ready to unload the whole situation on her. Not this morning, at least.
I left the room while James was getting ready, deciding less contact was better. I’d hoped to avoid him all day. Considering I had some critical elements of wedding planning to handle in person today, I hardly needed him around looking distractingly good and causing chaos.
"Everything okay?"
I looked up to find James sliding into the chair beside me, and my breath caught despite myself. He'd dressed in a charcoal sweater that hugged his broad shoulders and dark jeans that made his legs look impossibly long. His dark hair was still slightly damp from his shower, falling across his forehead in twisted black clumps I was tempted to reach up and touch. Between that and his stubbled jaw and those intense blue eyes, he looked like he belonged in this luxurious setting—dangerous and refined all at once.
Not that I was noticing.
“How the hell did you find me here?” I asked.
I was sitting at an empty table with plans to meet the head chef of the whole resort to talk about the menu. I hadn’t told anyone—especially James—where to find me.
“Easy enough,” James said. “First, I asked if anyone had seen a pretty girl who was probably glaring and stomping her away around the hotel. It took a few tries, but that got me close. After that, I just followed the scent of your shampoo.” He made me flinch by reaching to grab the ends of my hair, lifting it to his nose and sniffing softly. “Strawberry and vanilla. The scent left an impression on me back in…” He paused, making a lip-zipping motion. “Rule number three prevents me from finishing that thought.
I blushed furiously and shifted my chair away from him, which only made him grin.
“So, you never answered my question,” James said, leaning his elbows on his knees and tilting his head slightly, eyes piercing as ever. “Everything okay?”
"It’s fine," I said, pushing my phone away slightly. “Just a nosy friend.”
“Ah, I see. So you told her about the sleep-mounting this morning?” he asked, voice all mock seriousness and concern.
I fixed him with my best death glare, trying to ignore how good he smelled. How did someone manage to smell like a mountain forest and sin at the same time? Mountain forests didn’t sin, and they certainly weren’t sexy. So why? Just why?
"We agreed never to speak of that again."
"No, you agreed. I was perfectly happy to talk about it. Frequently. Hell, I think I’ll be telling the other old-timers at the retirement home about the time this woman pretended she didn’t want me so hard she cornered herself into a wet dream."
I opened my mouth to tell him exactly where he could shove his comments, but Chef Antoine chose that moment to sweep into the room, his crisp white uniform gleaming under the chandeliers. He was in his forties with olive skin, brown eyes, and a dreamy expression on his face.
"Ah, young love!" He clapped his hands together. "Nothing makes food taste better, no?"
James' hand found my knee under the table. I tried to shake it off, but he just squeezed harder.
"Now," Chef Antoine continued, "we have, how you say, a small conflict to resolve?"
Right. The reason we were here. I pulled out my tablet, trying to ignore how James' thumb was now tracing circles on my knee. I was fairly sure touching me under the table was a clear violation of rule number one, but I was learning sometimes it was easier to avoid the fight with James.
"Lily and Marcus have different visions for the menu," I explained. "Marcus wants a traditional reception dinner—heavy on the luxury items. Wagyu beef, lobster, caviar. Lily wants something lighter that won't keep people from dancing."
Most couples would want to be here for this kind of thing, but Lily preferred to do as little planning as possible. She trusted me to make everything perfect, and liked the idea of being surprised here and there. No pressure, right?
My phone buzzed again. James glanced at the screen.
Maggie: BITCH ANSWER ME. DID YOU SLEEP WITH THE WEDDING WRECKER AGAIN???
I snatched the phone away, face burning. I made the mistake of looking at James, who’s eyebrows had risen nearly to his hairline. He raised a hand to cover the growing smile on his face, and when his eyes found mine again, they were absolutely scorching.
"Quite the problem," Chef Antoine agreed. “I am sure I could make both options delicious. But we must discover how to make both the bride and the groom happy, no?”
"I think Lily’s right," I said. "A five-course luxury menu might sound impressive, but people will be in food comas by the time the dancing starts. A night of sleepy-eyed people passed out at their dinner tables with no dancing hardly sounds like a wedding to remember."
"What if we did both?"
We both turned to look at James.
"Both?" Chef Antoine raised an eyebrow.
"A progressive menu," James said, leaning forward. "Start with the luxury items, but in smaller portions. Perfect bites that let people taste everything without getting overwhelmed. Then as the night progresses, transition to lighter dishes that keep people energized."
The chef's eyes lit up. "Ah! Like the mini wagyu sliders with truffle aioli I created last season?—"
“Sure,” James said. “And maybe the lobster as a small ravioli instead of a full tail. Keep the luxury but make it danceable."
I stared at James. Since when did he know anything about food?
"We could do seafood towers during cocktail hour," Chef Antoine was saying, scribbling notes. "Then for the seated course?—"
"What about doing stations later in the night?" James suggested. "Let people graze between dances. Light but elegant options."
"Oui! And we could do mini versions of comfort foods. Upscale but fun."
I watched in amazement as they bounced ideas back and forth. James actually knew what he was talking about. More than that, he'd found a perfect solution that would make both Lily and Marcus happy.
All I’d really seen him do before now was wreck things, from my trust in him, to the wedding in Ireland, and now my hopes of a smooth wedding for my sister.
Watching him now, I realized the whole wrecking thing may have been a choice. When he wanted, he was perfectly capable of fixing things. He was damn good at it, in fact. It was... kind of hot.
But it also made me wonder why the hell he did what he did for a living. Why wreck weddings? Why not just investigate and quietly resolve the issues behind closed doors like a normal, sane human being? I’d wondered as much for years now, but something made me not want to ask him.
My phone buzzed again.
Maggie: I KNOW YOU'RE READING THESE. DO NOT MAKE ME DRAG MY CURVY ASS TO COLORADO TO KICK YOURS. WE WILL BOTH BE OUT OF brEATH, BUT ONLY ONE OF US WILL HAVE brUISES ON THEIR BUTT CHEEKS!
"Your man has excellent taste," Chef Antoine told me with a wink. "Now, shall we sample some options?"
The next hour was torture. Not because the food wasn't amazing—it was—but because watching James taste things should be illegal. The way his lips wrapped around each forkful, how his throat moved when he swallowed…
"You have to try this." He held out a bite of golden-brown potato crisped to perfection, then filled with a herb and chive cream.
"I can feed myself,” I said, forcing a smile as I reached for the fork.
"But where's the romance?" Chef Antoine clutched his chest dramatically. "Young love demands sharing bites!"
James' eyes danced with mischief as he moved the fork closer to my mouth. "Open up, darling. Open your mouth for me ,” he added, lips twisted with wicked intent.
I was going to kill him.
I let him feed me the bite, then immediately regretted it as flavor exploded across my tongue. A small moan escaped before I could stop it.
James' eyes darkened. "Good?"
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Especially when he slowly licked a drop of sauce from his thumb while maintaining eye contact.
"Perfect," Chef Antoine declared. "Now, for the next course?—"
The door burst open. Dick sauntered in, because of course he did.
"Heard there was a tasting happening." His eyes raked over me as the creepiness tried to ooze out of him like a living thing. "Room for one more?"
“We’re almost finished here,” James said coldly.
Dick smiled in a way that was more like a grimace. “Oh, come on. Your girl wants me to join. I can see it in her eyes.”
Dick winked at me, and I briefly considered sticking a fork in his eye to give him a permanent wink.
“Maybe you should get glasses,” James suggested.
Dick snorted, eyes lingering on James with hatred. “Emma,” he said, looking at me and reaching his hand out. “Why don’t you let me take you for a little walk. Get some air from this loser.”
“I’m happy right where I am,” I said, laying a palm on James’ chest and letting my fingertips run down the hard shape of his muscle. I locked eyes with him. “So happy,” I whispered.
James’ smile was the stuff of dreams as he came closer, eyes practically sparkling. “Let’s show him how happy we are, then.”
Before I could answer, James inched his face toward mine. His lips found mine in a kiss that started as possessive but quickly turned into something else entirely.
I forgot about Dick. Forgot about the chef. Forgot about everything except how James tasted and the way his hands felt on my hips.
Someone cleared their throat.
I jerked back, mortified to find I'd threaded my hands into James’ hair and just kissed him like that in front of two people.
Chef Antoine was dabbing his eyes with a napkin. "Magnifique! The passion, the heat!" He sighed happily.
Dick had vanished, thankfully. But now I had a bigger problem.
I'd just had my tongue in James Carter's mouth. Again. And I liked it. Again.
In fact, of all the Michelin-star-level bites I’d tasted in the last hour, James was the one I found myself wanting seconds of. And that was a very, very bad thing.
"We should go," I managed, extracting myself from James' lap on shaky legs. "Thank you for everything, Chef."
"Of course! I will prepare the full proposal." He grinned. "Perhaps some aphrodisiacs, yes? Though it seems you two will not be needing any assistance in that department."
I grabbed my tablet and practically ran for the door. James caught up to me in the hallway.
"Emma—"
"No." I held up a hand. "That was just for show. Like everything else about this fake relationship."
"Was it?" He stepped closer, backing me against the wall. "Because it felt pretty real to me."
My heart hammered against my ribs. "James..."
"Tell me you didn't feel it too."
I opened my mouth to lie, to tell him I felt nothing?—
"There you are!"
We jumped apart as Lily rounded the corner. "Mom's been looking everywhere for you, Em. She says it's important."
Right. My mother. Who had hired James to investigate my sister's fiancé.
And I'd just been about to kiss him. Again.
What the hell was wrong with me?