Chapter 11 #2
“You didn’t do anything wrong. You couldn’t control what happened. What you can do is make your father proud. Fix things with your brother, or else the legacy he built for his sons and your daughters will crumble.”
I watch as his shoulders, previously rigid with defiance, begin to slump.
Their issues stem far beyond this conversation, so it’s impossible for me to fully grasp the moment, but it’s clear Vic is conflicted.
Attempting to sneak away unnoticed, I misstep, my toe colliding painfully with a kitchen stool.
“Oh, shit! Ow, ow, ow,” I hiss, trying to muffle my pain.
Silence falls like a heavy curtain.
“Ms. Kind? Are you there?” Vic’s voice cuts through the stillness, sharp and alert.
Frozen, I consider staying hidden, praying the shadows will conceal my intrusion.
But the echo of his footsteps grows louder, closer.
Might as well face the music.
I step out, my cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
“Uh, hi,” I offer a sheepish wave.
“I promise I wasn’t eavesdropping. I was just checking on the girls, and when I realized you wouldn’t be home in time, I came to put away the food. Then, well, you both walked in, but I swear, I didn’t hear anything.”
They just stare, their expressions unreadable.
“Okay, so maybe I heard everything, ” I admit with a nervous laugh.
“I’m just gonna go now.”
“No,” Ms.
Vicky interjects, her voice warm despite the tension lingering in the air.
She steps toward me, surprising me with a gentle hug.
Leaning in, she whispers, “Take care of him, will you? Don’t let him revert to the man he once was.”
Before I can respond, she pulls back, her bright smile returning as if we hadn’t just shared an intimate secret.
“Well, I’m off. Try to get some rest, Son , and think about what I said. Goodnight, Ms. Kind. You look lovely, by the way.” She tosses a playful wink toward her son before sweeping out the door .
A surprised chuckle escapes him, the tension in his shoulders easing for the first time since he’s been home.
Now alone, we both hesitate, our words caught somewhere between our thoughts and tongues.
Finally, he breaks the silence.
“I’m sorry about today,” he says, his voice quieter, softer.
“I tried to leave the office, but I was swamped with meetings, contracts, and negotiations… while Hudson just…bailed on me. He wants to be CEO, but he doesn’t want to grow up.”
I’m taken aback by his candor, sensing the isolation he must feel, not having had someone to discuss his burdens and frustration with for years.
But before he can continue, I interject.
“Hey,” I say, gently placing my hand on his arm, offering a comforting touch.
“Why don’t you go and give Ari a kiss goodnight while I heat your dinner? Then, we can talk about your day.”
He closes his eyes briefly, exhaling like he’s been holding his breath for hours.
“She waited for me, didn’t she?” His voice is a whisper now, laced with guilt.
“This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen. Exactly who I didn’t want to become again.”
“It’s okay, Mr. Grimes,” I reassure him, gently nudging him toward the hallway.
“I’m sure once you give her a hug and a kiss, she’ll fall right to sleep. Now, go on.”
He nods silently and heads to the girls’ rooms.
Meanwhile, I return to the kitchen, heat his dinner, then pour a glass of wine for me and whiskey for him, ready to ease into the evening with a bit of shared solace.
A few minutes later, I feel a strong, warm hand on my shoulder.
“You should’ve seen her,” Mr.
Grimes says as he settles beside me.
“As soon as she saw me, she just said ‘Hey, Daddy,’ and went straight to sleep.”
We share a laugh and ease into one another’s space.
“See! I told you. No need to worry.” I say, handing him his plate.
His brow lifts in surprise as he stares at the food.
“Wait… is this—?”
“Yes,” I reply, a nervous smile playing on my lips.
“I found one of your old recipe books in the library today. The pages were so delicate. I couldn’t help but run my hands through them, then I saw they were handwritten, and I just—”
“Kerry, please,” he interjects, his tone soft but firm.
“My house is your house, remember? That library is yours too. And that recipe book? It belonged to my grandmother. ”
He reverently traces the notebook’s worn binding, an object that very well may have been the foundation of the legacy he’s now fulfilling.
“Wow, so that’s who you get your love for cooking from? Was she a chef?” I ask, watching him take his first bite.
For a moment, I can’t tell if his reaction is good or bad.
He chews thoughtfully, then swallows, his expression softening.
“This is perfect, Kerry. So damn good. I haven’t tasted this since my grandmother was alive.”
The warmth of his praise blooms in my chest.
“To answer your question, yes. I definitely inherited my love for cooking from her. She passed when I was young, but she was a staple in Harlem. She’d travel nearly two hours every day to Hudson Valley to cook and clean for wealthy white families, making them delicious West Indie dishes.”
I sip my wine, captivated.
“Let me guess. They paid her next to nothing but still wanted her exotic recipes for their fancy parties?”
He chuckles, shaking his head.
“Exactly. But she wasn’t a fool. She’d never give them her real recipes. Swapped ingredients and watered things down. Then she’d go back to Harlem and cook for the real stars—Beauford Delaney, Aaron Douglas, Josephine Baker. Eventually, she met my grandfather. They opened their own restaurant, blending his Southern roots with her Trinidadian flavors.”
“Your family’s like Black history royalty. Now I have to visit one of your restaurants. I want to try every Southern Trini dish you have.”
His smile falters slightly, his fork pausing mid-air.
“Well… the thing is, I don’t have any of those dishes on my menus. Not even one.”
“Oh,” I blurt, unable to hide my surprise or the judgment in my voice.
He sets his fork down, his gaze distant.
“I haven’t thought about those recipes in nearly two decades,” he admits quietly.
“In culinary school, I focused on classical techniques. Then I traveled around the world, building my brand, focusing on fine cuisine.” He exhales sharply, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I abandoned everything that got my family here. You’ll find I tend to do that a lot…abandon people.”
And just like that, I realize we’re no longer talking about food.
The air between us shifts.
He clears his throat, adjusts his already loosened tie, downs his whiskey, and forces a weak smile.
“We should call it a night, huh?” His voice is low, tinged with a hint of regret.
“I think I said too much, felt too much. ”
“Are you sure?” I ask softly, hoping to extend the moment.
“It’s nice, just sitting here and talking. Don’t you think? I mean, I talk to kids all day while you bicker with colleagues and, apparently, your brother, too.”
He lets out a chuckle that he didn’t seem to expect and nods.
“This is relaxing, and I’d like for us to talk more.” I admit, feeling the connection between us strengthening.
“I agree,” he finally says, his gaze softening after a long pause.
“It’s nice to be in your company. Besides, I guess we do need to get to know one another. I have no idea how we’re going to convince the world we’re dating.”
Though he’s stumped, I’m not.
I instantly perk up.
“Leave that to me! I created a formula for success!”
Vic blinks.
“A what now?”
I repeat, grinning as I dramatically pull a folded piece of paper from my pajama shirt’s square pocket and unfold the paper.
“It’s a love syllabus!”
“A love syllabus?” His brows shoot up.
“Like the ones I create for my classes!” I tap the page.
“A step-by-step guide to fooling everyone into thinking we’re in love.”
“Well, that won’t be hard to do. I mean…you’re clearly attracted to me.” He says with a cocky smile.
I playfully roll my eyes, “Just because I think you’re handsome and are well on your way to becoming a sexy silver fox doesn’t mean I’m attracted to you. Besides, don’t the girls always say you’re the one giving me googly eyes?”
He chuckles.
“Alright, professor. Hit me with the curriculum.”
I clear my throat and hold up the paper, reading it dramatically:
The Love Syllabus
Intimate conversations – Get to know each other more, childhood trauma, irrational fears, middle school horror stories.
The whole bonding package.
Build an Online Presence – Couple posts and flirty comments.
Ooze Chemistry – Stolen glances, lingering touches, inside jokes.
Enough tension to make onlookers uncomfortable but intrigued.
Public Appearances – Business dinners, casual brunches, spontaneous dates where we’re just so in sync.
Physical Touch – Seal the illusion!
A well-timed touch, casual hand on my back, whisper something in my ear that makes me laugh.
And a well-timed forehead kiss in public wouldn’t hurt ??
I lower the paper and glance up at him.
“Stick to the syllabus, and we’ll earn our Oscar.”
He nods and reads through the list in amusement, specifically honing in on number five, then hesitates as if he wants to add more but decides against it.
Instead, he stands to clear his dishes.
“Oh, let me help with that, Mr. Grimes.” I offer quickly, standing up as well.
“As much as I enjoy hearing you call me Mr. Grimes,” he starts, a sly smirk playing on his lips as he scans me briefly, “Please call me Vic when you’re off the clock.”
I blush.
“I’ll clean up. The staff’s gone home for the night, and you’ve been off for hours. You’ve done more than enough today, and you certainly shouldn’t be taking care of me.” He adds, his voice warm yet firm.
I playfully hit his chest, “Oh please, I enjoy taking care of people. Besides, you needed to be taken care of tonight after all that huffin’ and puffin’ you were doin’ when you got home. Just a hot, grumpy mess.
We both laugh, but I realize my hand still lingers on his chest. His warmth seeps into my skin, and his domineering presence wraps around me. As he stands over me, I lean into him and find myself melting under the gentle pressure of his touch.
“Well,” he smirks.
“I assure you, I’m not grumpy anymore. So, thank you, Kerry. And I promise to be studious and commit to every task in the syllabus, especially physical touch.”
I gulp loudly, then appreciatively nod, but as I start to pull away, his fingers brush against the silk of my shirt, a touch so light it sends a shiver down my spine.
“Well,” My voice shakes.
“I appreciate your dedication and your thanks.”
“I just wish I could do the same in return.” He says regretfully.
“Do what, Vic ?” My voice is almost a whisper, charged with desire I hadn’t expected to feel.
He moves his hand upward, his fingers tracing a line from my arm up to my cheek, holding my gaze with an intensity that nearly makes my heart beat out of my che st.
“Take care of you like you’ve taken care of me tonight.” He says, his breath warm against my skin.
I swallow hard, trying to maintain a semblance of control.
“I can take care of myself,” I reply, though my voice betrays a hint of breathlessness.
Then, he leans in, his hand still cradling my face, and whispers against my ear.
The sweet heat of his breath ignites a slow, searing burn within me, causing me to tremble with desire.
“There are many things you can do on your own, but I promise there are some things that feel better when someone does them for you… or to you.”
The proximity, the husky timbre of his voice, and the implication of his words dangle in front of me like my favorite dessert, leaving me momentarily lost in the intoxicating sweetness of his pull and the promise of what his care means.
With his entire being threatening to undo me and my body willing to, I look into his eyes and attempt to mask my inexperience with a veneer of confidence, which is flimsy at best.
“Maybe we can discuss this tomorrow evening… over wine and whiskey. And maybe the many nights to follow as well?” I suggest, my voice tinged with a dare.
A devilish smile spreads across his lips, lighting up his handsome face in a way that’s both thrilling and forbidden.
“Early evening, of course. I’ll try my best to come home at a much more reasonable time.”
Pleased by his commitment, I nod in approval.
“It’s a date then. Goodnight, Vic.”
I allow myself a moment of boldness and slide past him, making sure my body brushes against him.
I feel the very hard reality of him beneath his clothes, then slowly saunter to my room, as bubbly, light-headed, and confused as ever.
When I’m finally sprawled on my bed, heart racing and mind spinning, I open my nightstand drawer only to be hit with a wave of disappointment.
I left my damn vibrator at home.
So much for ending my night on a high note, a sweet come down into a peaceful sleep.
Oh well, there will be plenty more wine-filled nights ahead.
And maybe, just maybe, one day soon, I’ll find out exactly what Vic meant by taking care of me.