Chapter 15
TOWN CAR CONFESSIONS
VICTOR
Two hours later, I sit in the back of my town car with Harper, trying to process the fact that I just spent Sunday dinner with her family.
And beside me, Harper sits in the G-wagon’s spacious back seat. Still beautiful. Still wearing the soft sweater that smells like her mother's kitchen—cinnamon and butter and warm conversation.
As for me, I’m still processing.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been around family—any family, that is.
My own back in Chicago barely qualify, and it doesn’t help that Jean-Luc and Céline Beaumont treated me like one of the gang.
Jean-Luc made terrible puns. So many puns.
About everything.
The tourtière was "to-die-for" (his words, complete with finger guns).
When Margot's husband Philippe finally arrived, Jean-Luc announced he was "just in time to be late."
And Harper’s mother Céline tried to feed me until I physically couldn't eat another bite, then offered dessert anyway. "You are too skinny," she'd declared in her French-accented English. "Harper, you must feed him better!"
And Amelia. God.
The youngest of the Beaumont had shown me Harper’s and my wedding memes. All of them. Including the one that superimposed our pixelated faces onto a Mario Kart game with the caption "Married Speedrun Any%."
"That one has two million views," she'd said proudly, showing me her phone.
Harper had buried her face in her hands. "Please stop."
"Never. This is my contribution to art."
It was chaos. Overwhelming. I’d found myself smack dab in the middle of a family dinner where everyone talks over each other and there are at least three conversations happening simultaneously and you're never quite sure if the yelling is affectionate or an actual argument.
And I loved every goddamned minute of it.
"You're quiet," Harper says now, pulling me from my thoughts.
I don't respond immediately. Instead, I let my gaze travel over her—the way her sweater has slipped slightly off one shoulder, the flush still visible on her cheeks from the warmth of her parents' house, the way she's tucked one leg underneath her on the seat.
"Observing," I say finally.
"That's your polite way of saying you're traumatized."
"I'm not traumatized."
"Amelia showed you the memes. You're definitely traumatized."
I shift slightly, closing some of the distance between us. Not touching her. Not yet. But enough that she notices, her breath catching slightly.
"Your sister is very... enthusiastic."
"That's one word for it." Her voice has gone quieter.
"Your father made approximately a thousand bad Dad jokes during dinner."
"One thousand and one. You missed the one about the potatoes."
"What was it?"
"'These are very a-peeling.' While gesturing at the mashed potatoes. Which aren't even the same type of potato as the ones with peels."
"That's some God-awful joking.”
"I know."
"I liked it."
Harper turns to look at me, and in the dim light of the car, I can see her surprise. "You liked my dad's dumb jokes?”
"They were so bad they were good. And he was so pleased with himself." I pause, my eyes dropping to her mouth. "You look like him when you smile like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're about to say something you know will make me laugh."
"I didn't realize I had that effect on you."
"You have several effects on me, Harper."
The air in the car heats, charges—electrifies.
Harper swallows. "Victor—"
"Thank you for inviting me tonight."
"I didn't exactly invite you. Amelia stole my phone."
"But you wanted me there."
It's not a question. And I can see her answer in the way she's looking at me now, can read it in the slight parting of her lips.
"Yes," she admits quietly. "I wanted you there."
"Good." I let the word hang between us. "Because I wanted to be there."
"You said you had a fitting."
"I finished early. Told Roman his groomsmen could handle the final decisions without me."
"You blew off your best friend's wedding fitting for my family dinner?"
"I did."
"Why?"
I could give her the easy answer. The safe one. The one that establishes appropriate work boundaries between us.
Instead, I lean closer, my voice dropping. "Because the thought of you sitting at that table without me bothered me more than it should have."
Harper's eyes widen. "That's surprisingly—“
"Honest. Which I'm trying to be with you." I reach out, my fingers finding a strand of her hair that's escaped her ponytail. "Even when it's inconvenient."
She doesn't pull away. If anything, she leans into my touch as I tuck the strand of hair behind her ear, my fingers lingering against her jaw.
"I don't do things halfway, Harper. You should know that by now."
"I'm starting to figure that out."
"Are you?"
She nods, and I can feel her pulse racing under my fingertips. The car hits a pothole, and Harper sways toward me. I catch her waist, steadying her, but I don't let go.
"Victor," she breathes.
"Yes?"
"We're—This—You do know that we’re in the back of your fancy car?"
“Yes, I am.”
“And that your driver is right there."
"The partition is down. I can fix that." I press the button, and the privacy screen rises smoothly. "Better?"
Her golden-green eyes have gone dark. "That depends."
"On what?"
"On what you plan to do now that we have privacy."
It’s a test. To see whether I’ll pull back, throw up the icy shields along with every other frosty wall I’ve ever erected between us.
Instead, I pull Harper closer, my hand tightening just below her ribs.
"I need to tell you something first," I say.
"That sounds ominous."
"It's business. Mostly." I pause, watching her carefully. "I'm flying to Vegas on Wednesday."
Her expression shifts. "Vegas?"
"To meet with Richard Francis and the CulinaryVision board. The acquisition is hanging by a thread after his arrest. I need to convince them I can still close this deal."
"How long will you be gone?"
"Overnight. Back Thursday evening." I lean forward slightly, my voice dropping. "And you're coming with me."
She blinks. "I am?"
"Yes, you am.”
"That sounded like a statement, not a question."
"That's because it was."
"Victor, you can't just—"
"I can. And I am." I slide my hand from her waist to her hip, my thumb brushing against the bare skin where her sweater has ridden up. "The board needs to see stability. A CEO who honors his commitments. Who brings his wife to important meetings."
"The fake wife you're planning to divorce by year’s end.”
"The wife who's helping me save a hundred-million-dollar acquisition." I tilt her chin up with my free hand, forcing her to meet my eyes. "I need you there, Harper."
"For the optics."
"For more than that."
"What does that mean?"
This is the moment, the point where I can retreat back into my CEO bubble, keep this arrangement exactly what it was supposed to be.
But I'm done pretending.
"It means," I say slowly, deliberately, "that when I'm with you, I don't feel like the Ice Prince everyone thinks I am. It means I'm tired of fighting this. Whatever this is between us."
My hand slides higher on her waist, and she shivers. "It means I want you in Vegas with me. Not for the board. Not for Rachel's strategic plan. For me."
Harper is staring at me, her pink lips parted, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
"That's a lot," she whispers.
"I know."
"We're supposed to be keeping this professional."
"We failed at that the moment I kissed you in that dressing room.”
"This complicates everything."
"It does." I lean closer, my mouth hovering just above hers. "Tell me you don't want this and I'll stop. Tell me you want to keep pretending there's nothing here, and I'll back off."
She doesn't say anything.
"Harper." My voice comes out gritty, each syllable sandpaper as it leaves my mouth. "I need to hear you say it."
"I can't," she breathes.
"Can't what?"
"Can't tell you I don't want this." Her hands come up to my chest, fisting in my shirt. "Can't pretend there's nothing here when you look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're about to devour me."
I smile against her mouth. "That's because I am."
Then I kiss her.
Not soft. Not tentative. Not like we're testing the waters.
I kiss her like I've been wanting to since the moment she walked into my office in that navy dress and called me Mr. Kade with her chin up and her eyes challenging.
She makes a sound—half gasp, half moan—and opens for me immediately. Her hands slide up to my hair, tugging hard enough to sting, and I groan against her mouth.
"Come here," I command, pulling her onto my lap.
She straddles me without hesitation, her dress riding up, and Christ, this woman is going to destroy me.
"Victor," she breathes, rolling her hips.
I grip her waist hard, holding her still. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't move like that unless you want this to be over embarrassingly quickly."
She looks down at me with those hot hazel eyes, a shy smile curving on her gorgeous face. "What if I do?"
"Then you're going to have to wait." I slide one hand up her back, into her hair, and pull her head back slightly. "Because when I make you come, Harper, it's not going to be in the back of a car where we have twenty minutes before we reach my building."
Her eyes go wide. "When you—"
"When. Not if." I kiss her neck, finding a sensitive spot just below her jaw that makes her gasp. "I'm going to take my time with you. I'm going to learn exactly what makes you tick, what makes you moan, what makes you wet. And I'm going to enjoy every single second of it."
"Oh my God," she whispers.
"But not tonight." I pull back to look at her, and she looks thoroughly debauched—lips swollen, cheeks flushed, eyes dark with want.
"Tonight I'm going to kiss you until we get to my building.
And then I'm going to walk you to the door.
And then I'm going to go back to the office and suffer through a conference call while thinking about all the things I'm going to do to you when I have more than twenty minutes. "
"That's cruel."