30. Warren
30
WARREN
M y chest ached as I watched Addi prance around my kitchen in a light white sweater and gray shorts.
She had multiple burners going. She’d stop, stir something, then move quickly onto the next with a hurried grace that had me unable to tear my eyes away.
I hadn’t originally meant to stay; I’d just wanted to check on what she was doing after working non-stop for a few hours without a peep from her. Apparently, she’d taken up a home base in the kitchen, and I found myself inching closer and closer until I was taking a seat at the island so I could watch her even more closely.
I wanted to tell her I had private chefs who could cook us anything, and there were thousands of restaurants that would gladly free up a table for us at a moment’s notice.
But I didn’t want to discourage her. Not when she looked so… happy.
She had the same expression on her face as when she had been shopping with her friends that one day. The friendship bracelet still shone on her wrist as she cooked.
It had never left her wrist after I’d put it back on.
The small jewelry box burned in my pocket. It had been days, and I still hadn’t gotten the courage to give it to her.
“The paintings match the kitchen nicely,” she said without turning around. I had a feeling she was giving me time to react.
My eyes fell to the other side of the open kitchen where the two paintings from the charity event hung.
I wasn’t an art person.
“In all honesty, I don’t know how they got there.”
She turned to me, giving me a disbelieving look.
“That was not what I meant. I bought them, I’m not denying that,” I said, a smile playing on my own lips. “It’s just they were supposed to be dropped off here. Not hung .”
Her eyes darted to the paintings again.
“By the man in glasses.” She pursed her lips and went back to stirring her sauce.
I waited for a reaction. For her to say more, maybe curse his name, but there was nothing.
Doesn’t she remember him?
She would soon. I wasn’t looking forward to when she finally did. He wasn’t a caring guy, and I knew firsthand that he had a million enemies out there just because of how uncaring he could be.
“Thank you for your patience.” Her tone was playful as she turned her head and shot me a grin. Her blonde hair was pulled up into a messy bun, her dark roots showing through. There was no makeup on her face, and yet it was shining with a light I’d never seen before.
She’s breathtaking.
I lost my train of thought, the box in my pocket feeling heavier and heavier as she walked toward me with a plate of food.
“Homemade poulet basquaise,” she announced with another winning smile. “And I have a ballotine de poulet in the oven. You keep a lot of chicken in the house.”
I couldn’t help but smile back.
“It’s a lean meat,” I muttered and took a look at the plate in front of me. It smelled good but looked like chicken cooked in a sauce with a few vegetables here and there served over rice.
Honestly, I didn’t expect much from somebody who grew up in a wealthy household. She hadn’t had to cook—her father made sure of that.
“Go on,” she said and gave me a fork. I took it hesitantly. “It won’t bite.”
Swallowing my fear, I dove in and took a rather large bite. Immediately, the flavors washed across my taste buds. My eyes shot to her.
“Why is this good?”
Her eyes lit up as she glowered at me.
“I’m trying really hard to let that question slide, Mr. King,” she started. “I had a nanny who studied culinary in France. She even took me there once for the summer. I spent far too much time with her, and Dad wasn’t exactly happy I was in the kitchen a lot, but if it kept me out of his and Mom’s hair, they couldn’t complain too much.”
My heart ached for her. It was far too easy to imagine her alone with a nanny, wishing her parents were around.
Is that why she worked so hard, even back when she had everything?
I pressed my lips into a thin line.
“Thank you,” I said in a low voice. “Let me return the favor.”
Her eyes widened.
“Oh no, I already have another thing in the oven. Please don’t coo?—”
She stopped talking when I brought out the box and placed it on the counter next to the plate.
“This hardly seems like a fair trade,” she murmured, her delicate hand coming to trace the edges of the box.
“On the contrary,” I said and took another bite of the delicious dish. “I think presents that come from labor are more significant than those bought with money.”
“Food isn’t a present.”
“It is to me.” My mind wandered back to when I was a kid. The times when I hadn’t had someone to cook me meals versus the times I did. It made all the difference. “No one has willingly cooked for me since my father passed.”
Her eyes shot to mine.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Open it.”
Hesitantly, she pried the box open, a small gasp escaping her lips as she took in the oval sapphire surrounded by small marquise and pear-shaped diamonds.
“This is too much.” Her eyes met mine. She didn’t want to accept it, but I saw how much it meant to her, so I grabbed the necklace from the box and moved to stand behind her.
“Nothing’s too much for you, Addi.” She didn’t know how true those words were. “All of this. The two million spent on you. The thousands spent on your outfits. The necklace. The money doesn’t matter to me.”
I gently placed it around her neck, clasping it at the back. Her hand came up to lightly touch the stone.
“What does matter to you then, Warren?”
She turned around, her unwavering gaze making me want to fall to my knees for her all over again.
You.
I couldn’t say it, but she must have seen what I meant because she was already lifting herself on her tiptoes and placing a light kiss to my mouth.
“Thank you, Warren.”
This time, when she whispered it, my heart sang.