The Unwilling Bride (The Hamiltons #1)

Chapter 1

Harper

“Stop. Right now.”

The command is not aimed at me, but the authority in the voice freezes me mid-step.

It’s been five years since I heard that voice, but it makes my stomach twist. My palms begin to sweat.

James Hamilton.

Former Royal Marine. My best friend’s brother. Now Head Chef of The Edge, one of London’s most celebrated restaurants.

I’m here to interview with him for a chef de partie role.

I stand in the hallway outside the entrance to the kitchen, hair wet, coat drenched. I forgot my umbrella and got caught in the rain.

But that’s the least of my problems.

I haven’t even seen his face, but hearing his growly, velvety voice is like being dropped in a vat of hot chocolate and melted from the inside out. I feel warm and gooey and…weightless.

All the memories from that one evening we spent together five years ago come rushing back.

The way he held my hand and looked into my eyes made me feel like the only woman in the world.

Conversation flowed between us. We laughed easily. He understood me without my having to explain myself.

For those few hours, I felt completely seen.

When he kissed me, it felt like I’d found my soulmate.

So, when he walked away without giving us a chance, it made me angry.

Had I read too much into every look, every charged moment, between us?

I told myself I shouldn’t be upset. He was upfront that he didn’t want a relationship.

But knowing that didn’t stop the heartbreak.

It felt like I had lost something meaningful before it ever had the chance to exist.

I curl my fingers around my handbag and force myself to swallow past the tight knot rising in my throat.

My blood thumps at my temples. My chest hurts.

I convinced myself that I never wanted to see him again.

So, when The Edge called to invite me to interview with him, my first instinct was to refuse. Even though, in a moment of desperation, I sent my resume to them.

The restaurant where I worked closed down. I’ve been out of work for months. My savings are almost gone.

I needed a job, like, yesterday to pay the bills and help support my sister and my niece.

I wrote to hundreds of restaurants, asking for an interview. Only The Edge called back.

Then there’s the small matter of James being the rock star of the London culinary scene.

Even a few months of working with him means I’ll have the pedigree, the experience, to open my own restaurant. It’s an opportunity I’d be a fool to pass on.

Now, I wonder if I was too hasty.

If this is how I’m reacting when I’ve not even seen his face, how am I going to interview with him?

I can’t fall apart in front of him. Maybe I should go… I spin around, when a crash from the kitchen stops me.

“I will reduce you to crumbs and serve you with custard,” a man’s voice screeches in a French accent.

"I’ll roast you over a spit like a duck’s hind end," a deeper voice growls.

Ooh. It’s a fight. Chefs are temperamental. And nosy. None more than me. I pause. I want to find out what’s happening.

Surely, I can peek in without being noticed by James?

I turn back and look inside the kitchen. Just as the pastry chef grabs the saucepan from the burner and heaves it at the sous chef. I gasp. As does the watching brigade.

The sous chef steps aside.

The saucepan crashes to the floor. Burnt caramel splashes over his white pants.

He snarls, snatches up the carrots on the counter and flings them at the pastry chef.

The two lunge at each other. They grapple and crash into the counter, knocking off a glass bowl causing it to hit the floor and shatter.

I flinch.

“You’re both fired.” James grabs the two men by their collars and pulls them apart.

Instantly, my gaze flies to his face. Mistake. My senses jangle. The breath is punched out of me.

He looks so masculine. So strong. Every inch of him is tempered by the missions he undertook when he was a Royal Marine.

My stomach drops. My throat closes. The humiliation at how easily he walked away from me singes the backs of my eyelids.

His chest stretches his chef coat, hinting at sculpted planes. The sleeves rolled up to the elbows of his veiny forearms.

A tattoo scrolls up one of them.

That wasn’t there when I last saw him.

I felt the strength of those sculpted arms. Moaned as they tightened around me like they were bands of steel. His touch was possessive, demanding…tender. Like he never wanted to let me go.

But he did.

He holds the two chefs by their coats now.

The sous chef glowers at James. "He started it.”

"No, he did," the pastry chef yells.

"I don’t care. No one disrupts my kitchen. No one. I’ll have your final checks to you tomorrow.” James nods at his staff.

Instantly, two of the tallest, broadest guys among his crew spring forwards. They begin to hustle the two men away.

"I’ll get you for this, James Hamilton. You’re not invincible." The sous chef shakes his fist at James before being pushed out by his staff.

I frown.

He sounded serious about making good on his threat. But James doesn’t seem worried about it. He claps his hands.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

As if it’s a rehearsed signal, two more of the crew step forward to clean up the mess. The rest turn back to their work.

I take the opportunity to peruse his features unnoticed. High forehead, thick eyebrows drawn down. His eyelids are lowered. His jaw is set. His lips pressed together in straight lines which hint at his uncompromising spirit.

That scar over his cheekbone only adds to the sense of danger about him.

He looks like a knight engaged in battle, brandishing a sword with such fury, no one can get within arm's length of him without losing a head or a limb.

Yet, there’s an air of control about him. He’s the calm at the center of the storm.

He’s…terrifying.

Goosebumps pop on my skin. My stomach bottoms out. The intensity of my reaction to him makes my head spin.

I thought the years gave me perspective. But watching him command a room without raising his voice, I’m not so sure.

I want to run my fingers over his chin and feel the roughness.

I want to step into his space and sniff him to find out if he still smells of everything dark and sinful. I want to test whether the heat between us is as potent as I remember.

I curl my fingers into fists. This is a mistake. There’s no way I can work here and stay unaffected. No way, I can stand this close to him every day and not unravel.

He heads to his workstation, picks up a knife and begins to chop an onion.

He hasn’t seen me yet. This is my chance to slip away unnoticed. I angle my body, wanting to leave, but my feet refuse to move.

Anger squeezes my chest. The hurt and humiliation that I thought I’d gotten over roars forward again.

I haven’t done anything wrong. So why should I slip away like a thief?

I set my jaw. I am owed an interview. So, I’m going through with it. And I do need the money. If I get the job, that is.

James lifts the knife and brings it down. Again. And again. The rhythm is steady, controlled. Each cube that drops is identical. They’re the same size, same shape. At the same angle.

It’s like he isn't working from skill alone, but from a…compulsion?

James has developed a reputation for being demanding, heartless, so emotionless in his quest for perfection in the kitchen that his nickname is The Ice Commander.

Doesn’t mean his actions aren’t mesmerizing, almost tantalizing. Like making love. A ripple of heat squeezes my belly.

I ignore my jittery pulse and head past the line of busy chefs toward him.

I reach him, and he still hasn’t looked up. That’s how engrossed he is on what he’s doing.

I envy his focus. But I’m also pissed that he hasn’t noticed me yet.

“James Hamilton,” I say loudly enough to be heard over the din of the kitchen.

He stills. Then puts his knife down slowly and turns to me.

His eyes flash. His expression changes from surprise to wariness to nothing.

Around me, a vessel clatters, steam hisses from a pressure cooker. The heat seems to build and press down on me. Sweat beads my forehead.

He watches me silently. I don’t have a clue to what’s going on behind his eyes.

Then, “Harper Richie,” he rumbles in that gravelly voice of his.

There’s a command hidden in those words which makes me shudder. My toes curl. I want to give him whatever he wants. I want to hear his praise. The hair on the back of my neck rises. Ridiculous.

I can’t let him affect me so. I shove my reaction to him aside and tip up my chin.

“I’m here to interview for the role of chef de partie.”

His forehead furrows. His gaze drifts past me, unfocused, like I’m not a woman standing three feet away but a thought he hasn’t decided what to do with.

He won’t even properly look at me?

Heat floods my neck. My pulse stutters, too fast, too loud. Around us, the kitchen roars. Metal strikes metal; someone barks for service.

But the air between us feels vacuum-sealed, dense and breathless.

I’ve rehearsed this moment a hundred times. Running into James Hamilton again.

In every version, I am composed. Cutting. Unimpressed. And of course, he apologizes. Profusely.

I never imagined I’d be the one asking him for a job.

The silence stretches. My heart sinks. My shoulders slump. Maybe I should leave, after all?

That’s when he growls, “You’re here for the role of chef de partie?”

Now, he speaks.

I have a good mind to walk away. But…the thought of my niece, and of how the money I earn could make a difference to her future, stops me.

“I have a culinary degree from Westminster Kingsway, staged at El Celler de Can Roca in Girona, and spent three years at Claridge's under Marcus Wareing before moving to The Ledbury and—"

He holds up his hand. I stop talking.

Like he only has to command me, and I rush to obey. Like I did when we last met. When he insisted on dropping me home, and I let him. Gah!

I should have learned my lesson. I should not let him order me around. But this is James Hamilton. His charisma is such that I must obey him.

He snaps his fingers.

As if by magic, one of his team tosses a white chef jacket at James, who flicks it at me.

I catch it with my chest and hold it there. “Wha... What’s the meaning of this?”

The look on his face says, 'don’t waste my time.'

But the words that emerge from his mouth are, “I’m offering you the role of sous chef.”

“Eh?” Did I just hear him say sous chef? Not possible. I’m here to interview for a more junior position.

I must be dreaming.

“I… I don’t understand.”

He folds his arms across his chest and fixes me with his cold blue eyes. “You’re hired.”