Chapter 35
THIRTY-FIVE
brANDON
I ’m still fumbling with my shirt buttons when Elijah and Gemma’s voices drift in from the entryway. My fingers freeze, my heart lurching as Naomi’s casual response floats back. The ease in her tone, so different from our first awkward fake-dating disaster, makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
This is actually happening.
My reflection stares back from the mirror, collar crooked like a drunk frat boy’s.
Naomi appears in the doorway, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror. “Ready?”
“Does it look like I’m ready?” I gesture at my disheveled state, fingers still tangled in these damn buttons. The fabric feels wrong against my skin, too tight around my throat.
She crosses the room and swats my hands aside, taking over the buttons with ease. “You’re making this more complicated than it needs to be.” Her fingers work their way up my shirt before straightening and smoothing the collar.
“Story of my life.”
“There.” She steps back, admiring her handiwork. My shirt sits perfectly, the collar framing my neck. “Now you look like someone who might actually know his way around a kitchen.”
“Might?” I raise an eyebrow at her reflection.
Her lips quirk up. “Well, that remains to be seen, doesn’t it?”
I follow Naomi into the dining room where Elijah and Gemma wait. The table’s set with gleaming silverware, two little flowerpots, and wine glasses catching the light.
“Brandon.” Gemma rises, wrapping me in a warm hug. “The kitchen smells amazing.”
“Let’s hope it tastes as good as it smells.” I catch Elijah’s calculating gaze over her shoulder. He’s traded his usual suit for a casual button-down, but the assessment in his eyes remains razor-sharp.
“I’m sure it will,” Gemma says, the same diplomatic touch Mom always had. Maybe that’s why Elijah is obsessed with her.
“Well.” I clap my hands together. “Who’s ready for the first course?”
“Do you need help?” Naomi asks.
“No, cupcake. I’ve got this.” I squeeze her shoulder, drawing strength from her presence. “Just keep my brother entertained.”
“Okay.” She grazes my lower back with her hand as she moves past me to take her seat.
Back in the kitchen, I plate the appetizers with careful precision, each arancini ball perfectly golden, nestled against a swirl of vibrant basil pesto. My hands stay steady now, unlike that fucking steak fiasco.
I step back, studying the plates. They’re good. Really good. But Elijah’s standards have always been impossibly high.
I sneak a peek at him, and not that I’ve guessed otherwise, he’s watching me like a hawk.
Here we go.
“First course.” The plates wobble slightly as I carry them over to the table. “Sicilian arancini with wild mushroom risotto filling.”
Naomi’s eyes light up at the presentation, and something in my chest loosens. Gemma lets out a soft ‘oh’ of appreciation. Elijah says nothing, picks up his fork, and dissects his portion.
I hover, watching as they take their first bites.
“Oh my god.” Gemma covers her mouth with her hand, nodding enthusiastically. “Brandon, this is incredible.”
“Thank you.” I incline my head, taking my seat.
My brother is still chewing with maddening deliberation while my whole body coils tight, every muscle bracing for the inevitable verdict that might make or break me. I resist rambling about techniques or cracking jokes to fill the silence.
Instead, I focus on Naomi beside me, who savors a tiny bite, eyes closed in pleasure. After her last purge, she’s been more hesitant again, but these small victories mean everything. And knowing my food helps is the best talent I could have wished for. Even if the restaurant crashes and burns, I’ll keep cooking for her.
“It’s delicious,” Elijah finally says. “Crisp exterior and creamy inside. You made the risotto from scratch?”
“Yesterday.” I keep my voice steady. “Let it rest overnight to develop the flavors.”
He nods, continuing to eat and not leaving a single crumb on his plate.
Gemma scrapes her plate clean, dragging the last bite through the vibrant sauce. “It’s really good. You should take some lessons from your brother, Elijah.”
He shoots her a look. “And you said you love the breakfast I make.”
“Who doesn’t love breakfast in bed? Even if it’s just coffee and toast,” Gemma teases, her eyes sparkling. “Remember that time you tried to make pancakes?”
His stern facade cracks, just barely. “The smoke alarm was oversensitive.”
I bite back a grin, collecting the empty plates. “Main course coming up.”
“Need help?” Naomi asks quietly.
“Worried I’ll mess it up, cupcake?”
“Worried you’ll take too long perfecting each plate.”
Her words echo through my mind. Your food doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be yours. That’s what makes it perfect.
I couldn’t have done this without my lovely cupcake. But this I need to do alone.
“Stay,” I say.
She nods, turning to Gemma. “How’s the new collection coming along?”
One down, two to go.
In the kitchen, I lose myself in the plating. Each chop positioned precisely, sauce drizzled in elegant arcs, vegetables arranged in a colorful mosaic.
When I set down the plates, conversation dies. Even Elijah’s perpetual scowl softens.
“This looks…” he starts.
“Herb-crusted rack of lamb with roasted vegetables and a red wine reduction.” I take my place. “Mom’s recipe. With tweaks.”
Something flickers across his face as he cuts into the perfectly pink and juicy meat.
He takes a bite and closes his eyes. “This is exactly how she made it.”
I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear that until now.
Gemma reaches across the table to squeeze Elijah’s hand before trying it herself.
Watching them eat, seeing their reactions, something shifts inside me. The kitchen feels right again. Natural. Like coming home after being away too long.
“Fuck,” Elijah pushes away his empty plate. “I missed your cooking.”
“But?” I brace myself for criticism.
“But nothing.” He dabs his mouth with a napkin. “So, about the?—”
“Let him finish serving first,” Gemma interrupts gently. “Dessert?”
I throw her a grateful look. “Coming right up.”
I plate the dark chocolate soufflés with the same carefulness. Molten centers waiting to burst, dusted with powdered sugar and vanilla bean ice cream. Hot meets cold, bitter meets sweet.
Just like mom taught me. Contrast makes the greatest things.
Her recipe book lies open nearby, its pages stained and dog-eared, her handwriting dancing across the margins. Add more vanilla, one note reads. Brandon likes it sweeter.
“Dessert is served.” I set the last course down. “Best eaten while hot.”
Gemma’s eyes widen at the presentation. Even Elijah looks impressed, though he tries to hide it behind his usual stoic expression.
Elijah breaks into the soufflé. “You haven’t made this since…”
The chocolate center flows out, rich and decadent. He takes a bite, and for a moment, I see the brother I grew up with, not the CEO who took Dad’s place.
“I know,” I say.
That first attempt after Mom died, I burned every single one. Dad and Elijah found me at 3 AM, surrounded by failures, chocolate-smeared and defeated. Some things, Dad said, are better left in the past.
But he was wrong. Some things need to be carried forward, transformed, but not forgotten.
Because this isn’t just the past, it’s the future, too. It’s taking what she left behind and making it my own.
The soufflé was never about getting it perfect.
It was about remembering.
“Brandon.” Elijah sets down his spoon, fixing me with that intense stare. “I was wrong.”
I stare at him, spoon halfway to my mouth, my pulse a drumbeat in my ears, and waiting for the punchline. The condition. The backpedal that always follows.
But it doesn’t come.
Elijah Milton, the brother who has never second-guessed himself, just admitted he was wrong.
I don’t know what to do with it.
“I was wrong.” He gestures at the empty plates. “I shouldn’t have let you join the company. Should have kicked you out way sooner.”
I let out a short laugh. “You always did love telling me to fuck off.”
“Because this is where you belong. Not in some boardroom. Not buried in an office.” He taps on the table. “Here. In a kitchen, creating things like this.”
It should piss me off that he’s saying what I’ve already figured out for myself. But it doesn’t. Because it doesn’t feel like a dismissal.
It feels like respect.
Naomi’s hand finds mine under the table.
“She’d be proud,” he continues. “I am. Dad would?—”
“Eli,” I cut him off, my voice sharp. “He made his opinions pretty clear.”
His jaw tightens. “Brandon.”
“No.” I snatch up the plates, stacking them. “I don’t want to hear it.”
Naomi starts to rise, but I shoot her a look that keeps her seated. This is my mess to clean up.
“You’re right,” Elijah says, his voice softening in that calculated way he uses to close million-dollar deals. I swear if he— “It’s about you. And your future.”
I pause at the sink, my back to them. “My future?”
“I’ve been thinking.” The sound of his chair scraping back. “The other building you were looking at back then… it’s still available.”
My hands grip the edge of the counter.
“Corner location, foot traffic.” His footsteps approach. “And a recently renovated kitchen.”
I turn slowly. “What’s your angle?”
“Let me invest. Silent partner.”
“You want in on my restaurant?”
“After tonight?” He gestures at the empty plates. “I’d be an idiot not to.”
I study his face, looking for the catch, the strings attached. But all I see is my brother, the same asshole who taught me to ride a bike and throw a punch, offering an olive branch in the only way he knows how—through business and a checkbook. You could say it’s his love language.
“I’ll think about it,” I say finally.
Gemma rises, social grace personified. “We should head out. It’s late.”
Elijah nods, accepting my non-answer with unusual grace. “The offer stands.”
“Tonight was incredible.” Gemma hooks her arm through his. “You’ve got a gift.”
I walk them out, clicking the door shut behind them. The silence settles like a blanket, broken only by Naomi loading the dishwasher, and me slumping against the wall, letting out a deep breath.
“You alive over there?” Naomi calls out.
“Barely.” I push off the wall and join her in the kitchen. “Just… processing.”
She passes me Gemma’s unused wine glass. “Which part? His offer or him admitting he was wrong?”
“Both.” The glass clinks as I set it down. “Hell might be freezing over.”
“People can surprise you.” She closes the dishwasher. “Sometimes in good ways.”
I pull her against me, breathing in vanilla and something uniquely her. “Like you changing your stance on dessert?”
“The soufflé earned it.” She jabs my chest. “Don’t get cocky.”
“Me? Never.” I kiss the top of her head. “But you did eat everything.”
“Because it was perfect.”
“It wasn’t perfect.” I think of Mom’s recipe and the little adjustments I made. “But it was mine.”
“You were amazing.”
“Thank you.” Two simple words that don’t begin to cover the depth of what I’m feeling. Gratitude, sure. But also something more, that bone-deep certainty that she’s got my back no matter how big the shit-storm gets.
“Always.” Her smile is soft, understanding everything I’m not saying. “We’re here for each other.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“About Elijah’s offer?”
I nod.
“I think…” She pulls back slightly, meeting my eyes. “You should do what feels right. Not what you think your dad would want or what Elijah expects. What do you want?”
The truth rises easily. “To prove I can do this on my own.”
“Then there’s your answer.” She dances out of my grasp. “Except that you’re not alone anymore.”
I tilt my head. “No?”
“We’ll need to scout locations, draft a business plan, and?—”
“We?” I stalk toward her.
“Unless you’re planning to do all the accounting yourself.”
My lips twitch into a grin, unbidden. “You’d do that? Help me with this?”
“That’s what partners do.” She says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Right?”
“Just partners?” I catch her wrist, pulling her back against me. “And here I thought we were more than that, cupcake. After last night. How you screamed my name.”
Color floods her cheeks. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?” I spin her to face me. “You wound me.”
“Poor baby.” She pats my chest. “How will you ever recover?”
“I can think of a few ways.” I lean down, my lips ghosting over the shell of her ear. “Starting with you admitting we’re more than just business partners.”
She shivers slightly. “What would you call this?”
“Well…” I pretend to think about it. “There’s this amazing woman who helps me cook, supports my dreams, and somehow makes me want to be better. What would you call that?”
Her fingers curl into my shirt. “Sounds complicated.”
“It’s actually pretty simple.” I cup her face. “I’m yours, Naomi. Have been since that first night at college.”
“Brandon…”
“And you’re mine.” I brush my thumb across her lower lip. “Aren’t you?”
“You haven’t seen my hourly rate yet.”
A laugh rumbles through my chest. “Guess I’ll have to find other ways to compensate you.”
Her breath catches. “I’m sure we can negotiate terms.”