Chapter 14
James
"You posted it.” My voice is a low, dangerous rasp that cuts through the hum of the cooling fans.
Ross, the junior chef who shot the entire exchange with Harper, swallows. He is also the The Edge’s Social Media Manager. He has half a million followers on his Chef-Life vlog.
He also added an additional million followers on The Edge’s official accounts. He’s young, hungry, and is not bad at cooking.
Even though he sometimes mistakes online engagement with excellence.
I have made it clear to him that he cannot shoot during the service. But I've allowed him to post snippets at other times. His content has often gone viral and brought us new customers.
"James, look at the metrics!" he chirps, though his hand is shaking. "The clip of you and Harper at the pass…the way you're leaning over her, the tension. It’s already hit ten thousand views. People are calling it #TheKitchenColdWar. It’s the best publicity we’ve had since the third star."
I step around the counter. The movement is slow, winding, like the tattoo on my forearm.
"You recorded a private moment in my kitchen." I step into his space. "You prioritized a viral moment over the sanctity of my service. You brought the noise of the outside world into my sanctuary."
"Think of the publicity. The wave of new bookings. This has the potential to be big, really big.” He waves his hand in the air.
Fuck. That’s what I’m afraid of.
I glower at him.
He deflates.
I hold out my hand. "The phone. It belongs to the restaurant.”
He hands it over.
I glance at the video. It’s high-definition, perfectly framed. It captures the exact moment Harper stabs her finger into my chest. She’s flushed, breathing heavily, scowling up at me. I’m so much taller than her. And broader. I dwarf her. My features are controlled. But the look in my eyes. Fuck.
There’s excitement, tenderness, and a touch of lust I haven’t been able to hide. The camera captures just how taken I am with her.
I look like a man who’s on the verge of losing control. A few more moments, and I’d have thrown her over my shoulder and walked out of there… Or so, the camera implies.
And it might well have happened. If I’d let things take their course. Which I hadn’t. Or rather, she hadn’t.
Because Harper pivoted and walked out, down the short corridor and into the secondary refrigerator unit.
I need to go and check on her, but first, I glare at Ross.
"You're fired. Get out of my sight before I decide to make sure you never work in this city again."
He pales, opening his mouth to, I presume, protest.
I arch an eyebrow. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. Then, he turns and flees.
I turn back to the phone screen. The number of views keeps ticking up. And further up.
We’re up to fifty thousand, in just a few minutes. Fuck.
I blow out a breath and look around the kitchen at the curious faces of my team. Instantly, they go back to their workstations. Good thing, I’ve trained them well. I nod at Mark to take over my counter and Harper’s.
Then stalk out of the kitchen.
I head past the walk-in refrigerator I saw Harper enter, then into my office. I shut the door, just as the mobile phone on my desk buzzes.
I reach my desk, place Ross’s phone down and pick up mine.
It’s Alfie Whittington III. Chairman of the board of directors of my restaurant, and a good friend of Margot’s.
Looks like the board already spotted the video. I’m not surprised. They’re a bunch of old farts but they run a tight ship.
"Hamilton," I answer the call.
"Hullo, ol’ chap. It seems we’re in a bit of a pickle here." Good ol’ Alfie. Comes straight to the point.
"If you mean the video uploaded a few minutes ago—"
"—on your social media handles, and which is already at a hundred thousand, so my social media expert tells me." Someone speaks off camera. "What’s that?" he asks.
"Oh right, it’s already at a hundred twenty…no, a hundred and twenty-five thousand now. If my money could multiply as quickly, we’d all be trillionaires, har har."
My stomach tightens. This kind of publicity might be seen as a godsend for many. But for my board of directors, it carries the whiff of scandal. Something that is anathema to them.
"I’ll have it taken down."
"The damage is done ol’ chap. By the time you take it down, it’ll have gone viral—" He coughs. "As the kids would say."
"What do you want?"
"What I always want. Return on my investment.”
"Which you’ve got from day one, which is a rarity in the restaurant business," I growl.
"And protection of our reputation." He pauses to let that sink in.
I don’t react. I know there’s more to come.
"We invested in your business because you’re Margot’s grandson. We were confident our money was in good hands. Now we’re not so sure."
"What are you getting at?" I ask slowly.
"The video shows you and your assistant—"
"Sous chef."
"Exactly, you and your assistant engaged in a war of words which seems to be more than that." He coughs again. "If you know what I mean."
Wanker is calling Harper my assistant when she’s a chef in her own right.
“Her name is Harper. And she’s my sous chef, not my assistant,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Ah, yes, of course. Semantics, eh?”
Not.
I decide to pick my battles with this chap. I know what he means. It looks like Harper and I are having a lover’s quarrel.
He clears his throat again. "The ramifications from this will, no doubt, be far-reaching. There's bound to be blowback; our credibility is at stake here. You need to salvage the situation, or we’ll have to pull out our investments."
I stiffen. "Did you just threaten to pull out of my business?"
"Nothing that crude. I’m merely painting the picture, so you have time to plan."
I set my jaw. "Aren’t you being hasty?"
"It’s the digital age. Even we old fogeys must move with the times and react quickly. If you don’t come up with a way to salvage the situation, I’m afraid we don’t have a choice."
I stay ramrod stiff. My heartbeat rises marginally, but I keep the rest of my vitals under control. I feel myself retreating from the miasma of emotions threatening to rush forward. I manage to shove them back down. Take a detached, cool view of the proceedings.
I tap my fingers three times on my desk. Then fall back into the thinking on my feet mode; I often had to use when I was a sniper.
I need to save my restaurant.
I also need to keep Harper in my life. She talked back to me in front of the brigade. There will need to be consequences for that.
I’m not surprised she snapped. I’ve spent months pushing her, baiting her with impossible demands just to see if she’d fold. I expected her to quit, breaking under the weight of my expectations.
Instead, she surprised me by confronting me. She excelled at the test I set for her.
She showed me her fire. Showed she wasn’t afraid of going toe to toe with me. She showed she has the potential to be truly great. And now, I can put the pieces back together; rebuilding her into the perfect sous chef, shaped exactly to my design.
“You there, James?” Whittington asks.
“Thinking things through; give me a few seconds,” I say honestly.
The video. The viral fallout. The online vultures. Variables I didn’t account for.
But watching her on that screen, eyes blazing, face unguarded, and seeing myself respond in kind, stirred something dark and restless in me.
It also proved that she’s capable. That she might be the only person alive who might survive me.
Unfortunately, I still have to deal with the consequences. The board is terrified of scandal. But they love profit even more. If I can reframe the video in a way that benefits the restaurant, they’ll accept it.
A disaster is just an opportunity in a different light.
I calm my senses, focusing on the problem at hand. The Marine in me shifts the map.
What if I don’t fight the rumor?
If the world believes my sous chef and I are involved, curiosity alone will fill the dining room. People will come just to see the sparks.
And why would Harper agree?
Simple. I make her an offer.
We pretend to be together. In return, once she proves herself, I give her the head chef position at one of my new ventures. She’s too professional to accept anything she hasn’t earned.
And the chemistry between us would make the story believable.
Then there’s Margot’s condition.
Marry or lose the inheritance.
With that money I could fund my expansion plans. Buy out the board. Make decisions without answering to anyone.
Freedom.
But for that, I’d need a wife.
My mind pauses on the thought.
Ember? My wife? My marrying her?
No.
I mentally step back. That’s absurd.
Still… The attraction between us is undeniable. It wouldn’t be difficult to convince the public we’re having a passionate affair.
The video could simply be the moment we were discovered.
And if we were married… A dangerous thought forms.
Ember in my house. In my space.
Her scent drifting through the rooms when she walks past me. Her voice carrying down the hall from the kitchen. The two of us alone after service, the tension between us finally snapping.
Ember in my bed.
Her hair spread across my pillow. Her eyes dark and defiant as I pin her wrists above her head. My mouth at her throat. Her breath catching when I move between her legs and—
I drag in a sharp breath. No. The familiar coldness creeps into my chest. That way lies disaster.
She’s fire and passion. I’m icy control. I can barely stand near her without wanting her.
Living with her would melt every barrier I’ve built. And that cannot happen.
“James, you there?” Whittington asks.
“Yes.” I clear my throat. “Give me a minute.”
The sensible thing would be to admit and accept the loss. Cancel expansion plans. Hope the restaurant survives the scandal.
But that won’t work. It leaves too much up to chance. There’s only one way out.
“She’s my fiancée.”