Chapter 40
Brody
“Why is this dough so… Doughy?” I glance up from where I’ve been waging war on what’s supposed to be cookie dough.
I managed to distract her enough to get out of making cookies yesterday.
I also distracted her all night, so we both barely got any shut-eye.
Today, however, there’s no escape.
She insisted we spend our first Christmas as a married couple baking cookies. Which, I’m realizing, is more difficult than running a billion-dollar company.
Lark’s laughing so hard she’s doubled over, hands on her knees, a smear of flour streaking her cheek like war paint.
Christ, she’s gorgeous. I fix the image in my mind, something to return to when I need a reminder of what happiness looks like.
Damn, she’s making me sentimental.
We’d raided the kitchen and found the ingredients as well as the equipment she needed to bake. Whew! Disaster averted.
She’s also making me worry about things other than conference calls and budget projections. It’s a whole new world for me.
She takes in my flour-streaked T-shirt. “You’re supposed to mix in the flour, not bathe in it.” She wheezes between giggles.
I drag the back of my hand down my face, which grinds more flour into my jaw. “Next time, don’t hand the whisk to a former Marine and say beat it gently.”
That sets her off again. Her laugh fills the kitchen, bright and contagious, and for a second, I forget this is supposed to be about Christmas cookies. I feel like I’ve been given my very own Christmas surprise.
She’s wiping her eyes when I grab a spoon, dip it into the bowl, and hold it up like a weapon.
“Mock your CO again, and you’ll be eating dough straight from the source.”
She looks up, eyes wide. “You wouldn’t.”
“I absolutely would.” I launch a dollop of dough at her, and it lands right on her cheek. Direct hit.
Her mouth drops open. “You—”
“Careful,” I warn, grinning now. “Retaliation is futile.”
“Futile, huh?” She snatches a handful of flour and flings it at me. A cloud of white bursts between us.
Now we’re both covered. Me, her, the countertop, the floor. Every surface in sight, actually.
She steps closer, brandishing the rolling pin like a sword. “Say sorry.”
“Never.”
“Say it!”
I catch her wrist mid-swing, and everything stops.
She’s so close, I can smell vanilla and cinnamon on her skin, see the fine dusting of flour clinging to her lashes.
Her breathing’s fast. So is mine.
There’s cookie dough on her chin. I swipe it away with my thumb before I can think better of it.
Her lips part a little, and my brain short-circuits. “You missed a spot,” I murmur.
She swallows. “Where?”
I lean in, slow enough that she could move if she wanted. She doesn’t. Right before our mouths meet, the oven timer beeps.
We both jump.
She clears her throat, turns and yanks open the door. “Saved by the bell.”
Or not.
She pulls out the spiced ginger loaf she put in to bake.
“That smells delicious.” My mouth waters.
“It tastes even better.”
I reach over and am about to touch it when she slaps my wrist. “Hey, not yet. It needs to rest and then cool before we can eat it.”
“Damn.” I look at it longingly.
“Patience, Grasshopper.” Her eyes shine. “Meanwhile, let’s roll out the cookie dough.”
I stare at her. “You’re going to have to do better than that.”
She chuckles, then walks over and bumps me with her hip. “Move.”
I step back.
“First, prepare your surface.” She wipes down a section of the countertop.
I move back far enough to watch her hips sway as she works. She’s wearing a pair of jeans that squeeze her butt, and goddamn, my fingers tingle to squeeze them.
“Then lightly dust it with flour; just enough to prevent sticking, not so much that the dough dries out.”
“Mm-hmm.”
I soak up the sweetness in her voice and can’t take my gaze off her hourglass figure.
“Are you listening?”
“Oh, yeah.”
With the smattering of sugar on her cheek and the scent of butter clinging to her, she looks good enough to eat.
“Next, shape the dough.” She grabs a portion of the cookie dough and presses it into a flat disc.
Unable to stop myself, I reach over and squeeze her fleshy butt cheeks.
“Hey!” She stares over my shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“Shaping the dough.”
She giggles. “I meant, this one.” She slides the flattened circle of dough over to me then pats out another. “Now we roll it out.” She nods to the space next to her and offers me a wine bottle.
With a sigh, I release her hips and move up next to her to accept it.
She uses a rolling pin. Starting from the center, she rolls it outward in every direction, turning the dough a quarter-turn after every few rolls.
I copy her actions, and to my surprise, end up with a wider circle.
“That’s good.”
“I’m a natural.” I smirk.
She dips the cookie cutters in flour, offers me one then uses the other to cut out the shape from the dough.
Within minutes we have a dozen Christmas trees, stars and heart-shaped cookies.
“Ooh, these are adorable.” She transfers them to a baking tray, walks over to slide them in the oven.
“That needs to be in for twenty-minutes.” She sets the timer.
Then she transfers the spiced gingerbread onto a cooling rack.
She turns and gasps for I’m standing right in front of her. “I know the way to pass the time.”
“Ooh.” She tips up her chin. “I wonder what you have in mind.”
I drop a quick kiss on her nose. “That too, but first I have a present for you."
"You already gave me a Christmas present." I glance at the now smooth skin on her wrist where the marks from the ties have faded.
"Is there a rule that I can give you only one?"
I hold out my hand. When she places her palm in mine, I bring her fingers to my mouth and kiss the tips.
Her breath hitches.
She’s so damn responsive. It’s the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
With a small smile, I lead her out of the kitchen and to the living room where the firelight casts a golden glow on the space. The late afternoon sun streams in through the window.
"Sit." I push her onto the sofa, then sit down next to her.
I pick up a slim, bow-wrapped package from the coffee table and hold it out to her.
She eyes it cautiously. "If you’d told me that you planned to give me Christmas gifts, I’d have come prepared."
"I told you, you’re my Christmas gift." I curve my lips.
“Aww.” She flushes. “You’re so sweet.”
A warm sensation fills my chest. I feel rather pleased with myself, so I allow myself a small smirk. “I think you’re going to find me even sweeter when you open your gift.” I wave the package under her nose.
Her expression turns curious. "What is it?"
"Open it. Go on. You know you want to."
She reaches for it, weighs it in her hand.
“What’s inside it? Is it a book? No, it feels too light for that.”
She tugs on the ribbon, which loosens. She pauses. Then, as if consumed by curiosity, she pulls off the wrapping to reveal an envelope.
“It’s a document?” She looks at me from under her eyes, then slides the flap open. She pulls out a sheet of paper and glances through it.
Her eyes widen. "What’s this?"
"That is the agreement handing over majority ownership of the shares and confirming you as the CEO of Davenport Capital."
She pales. "You’re making it official? So soon?" Her fingers tremble. The papers begin to slip from her grasp, but I catch them. Then place them on the table.
"I did say I want you to be CEO," I remind her.
"And I said I’d think about it."
"Well, this is me showing how serious I am about it.
" I take her hands in mine. Finding her fingers cold, I begin to rub them.
"As part of the arrangement, once we were married, Arthur instructed his legal counsel to hand over the majority shares to me.
It seemed right that they were made out to you. "
She pulls her hand from mine, then jumps up and begins to pace. "To say that you're making me CEO is one thing. But handing the shares over to me… It’s going to take me a minute to absorb that."
I watch her pace the floor in front of the fire. The light teases out the honeyed highlights in her hair and paints her skin in glowing shades of pink. She’s so beautiful, my wife. And smart. And gorgeous in every way. And she’s a wonderful human being too. I lucked out that she agreed to marry me.
Too bad, I’m not able to commit my love to her. But this… The handover of the shares should make up for it, surely?
She spins on me and slaps her hands on her hips. "This arrangement started out as a way for me to redeem myself in front of my family and friends."
"Which has been done. Your parents came to our wedding. And they were happy that you were marrying me."
"Apparently." She seems a little taken aback by it.
I allow myself a small smirk. "We must have put on such a convincing performance that they bought it."
She purses her lips. "So how did we go from your needing to get married to placate your grandfather to this?" She stares at the sheaf of papers. "It’s become so very complicated."
And if I had my way, I’d tie you even more strongly to me, so you’d never let me go. Especially since I can’t use my love to bind you to me.
I pat the seat next to me. "Sit down, so we can talk it over."
She hesitates then approaches me and sinks down on the settee, keeping the length of it between us. I’m not happy about that, but I let her for now.
"I told you this marriage was real for me."
She nods.
"But that I could never let myself fall in love with you?"
"Because of some stupid idea you have that you’re incapable of love," she huffs.
"It’s the truth."
"Why is that?" She leans forward. "Why are you so against the idea of falling in love. You did love your parents, I assume? And you care for your brothers and your friends, don’t you?”
"I did and yes, I do." I drum my fingers on my thigh. "I lost…first my father, and then my mother, relatively early. Then saw friends killed in combat."
"That must not have been easy." Sympathy laces her expression. The softness in her features is like a balm to my soul. I shouldn’t feel it so keenly. But it’s as if another layer has dissolved between me and the world.
She’s chipping away at my defenses. Bringing me closer to a version of me that can’t hide.
It makes me feel exposed. And it’s not altogether a comfortable feeling.
"It wasn’t." I lower my chin. "It made me realize emotions like love don’t have a place in my world. It’s why, when I left the Royal Marines and focused on building up the company, things finally began to make sense. As long as I didn’t get my feelings involved, I’d be safe."
She regards me with something like shrewdness and, also, pity. Discomfort slithers under my skin. I resist the urge to say or do something in response. That’d be a sign of weakness. Only this isn’t a game.
It’s not one of my corporate power plays. I don’t need to put on an act here. This is me and my wife having a conversation. And it’s okay to be myself with her. Right?
"You are one of the most astute people I know. It’s nothing short of a miracle that you managed a turnaround of your company in such a short period of time. But for someone so smart, you can be really dumb."
I reel back. "Ex-fucking-cuse me?"
"You know what I’m talking about. You’re letting the events of your past hold you back. You’re using what happened to you as an excuse to not take risks."
"Not take risks?" I snort. "Without taking them, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t have been on the Forbes forty-under-forty list without taking risks at every stage of my career, both in the boardroom and in the war room."
She gazes at me steadily. "I’m not undermining all of your accomplishments in either space. And of course, it would have taken guts to do what you did. But when it comes to your personal life, you’ve given up before you’ve even started."
The back of my neck heats. "You’d better explain yourself."
She must hear the edge in my voice and the threat that has the hair on my arms standing on end. She swallows and looks a little shaken, but does she back down? Of course not.
"You’ve decided you’re never going to fall in love because you’re too scared of being hurt.
" She firms her jaw. "You, who’ve not flinched from an enemy’s bullets or from navigating the hostile terrain of corporate takeovers, are unable to come to terms with your own emotions.
You don’t even want to try because you’ve decided you’re going to get hurt.
" She throws up her hands. "It’s cowardly and so bloody frustrating.
" She looks about ready to tear her hair out. "On the face of it, you’re the most macho man I’ve come across, but you lack courage. "
"I lack courage?" I try hard to keep my voice even, but it emerges as if I have razor blades lining my throat.
She stiffens further. "Facing your internal fears is a sign of true courage. And that, you don’t have."
A fine anger pinches the sides of my vision. It’s as if a haze of red has descended on my brain. "You have no idea what you’re talking about."
She scoffs. "You thought you could buy me with your agreement and handing the shares over to me. You thought you could distract me from the fact that you’ve decided you can’t fall in love with me."
"It’s not a distraction."
It is a distraction. And my wife is smart enough to have seen through it.
And she’s right. I did want to, somehow, make up for my inability to fall in love with her.
I wanted to give her what she most wants.
I recognized the burning ambition in her, that hunger for achievement, backed by the need to be acknowledged for her efforts.
"What else do you call it?" She folds her arms across her chest. Her stance is both belligerent and defensive. There seems to be this wall between us, replacing the defenses which have collapsed around my heart. And I’m finding I don’t like it at all. And that confuses the fuck out of me.
"Look, this is how I can show you that I’m dedicated to this marriage. I want you to have the shares in good faith. I see you as my successor. It’s why I had the shares made out to you. I believe in you, Lark.”
She swallows hard.
“Once you become CEO, I’m free to pursue the things that give me the most joy."
Her eyebrows knit. "Which is focusing on veterans’ affairs and startups?”
Not only.
I’m happiest when I focus on you. Why am I not able to say that aloud? Instead, I firm my lips.
"Yes,” I manage. “That’s what’s most important to me."
"I see." A stark expression filters across her face. She draws in a few sharp breaths.
Then seems to come to a decision.
She marches over to the table, grabs the contract. “I’ll accept the CEO position.” She shoots me a sideways glance. “At least, I’m honest about what I want. Unlike you.”
“What do you mean?”
She sets her jaw. “I wish you’d be honest about your feelings for me.”