Chapter 16
Harper
"I’ll have a shot of tequila please."
I’m at The Famous Cock pub on Primrose Hill.
The bartender grabs the bottle of José, pours me a shot and slides it over. "Rough day?" he asks sympathetically.
"You have no idea,” I choke out, the words catching in my throat.
My boss—the man who makes my life a living hell—just asked me to marry him.
He’s, clearly, lost his mind. Or maybe, this is just another one of his twisted games. Part of me wonders what being his wife would actually feel like, but I shut that thought down instantly. No. Not going there.
This has to be a joke. He’s probably laughing right now, relishing how he caught me off guard. That’s why he wanted to meet here; to tell me it was just another one of his sick little experiments to see how I’d react. Keeping people off-balance is exactly how James Hamilton operates.
It’s his favorite way to maintain control. And I'm not falling for it.
The alcohol burns its way down my throat. When it hits my stomach, it sets off a warmth that relaxes my muscles. I lower my shoulders. Only now, do I realize how tense I've been all day.
"Top me up, please." I nod at the bartender.
He obliges me.
“Thank you.”
I curl my fingers around the shot glass and roll my neck from side to side. As I bring the glass to my lips, the hair on the back of my neck rises. Warmth reaches out to me. And when I turn my head, I’m not surprised to find it’s James who’s slid onto the barstool next to mine.
He changed out of his chef whites after closing The Edge, but I'm still wearing the same clothes that smell faintly of the jacket he wrapped around my shoulders, even though I was cooking for hours after the cold storage debacle.
The rhythm of the kitchen was enough to distract me from his mad proposal, but when he asked me to meet him here at the end of service, the shock came roaring back.
I'm glad I arrived before him to get that fortifying shot in my belly before having to see him again. Wait, why am I even here in the first place? Why did I agree to do what he asked of me, again?
I stiffen, then force myself to relax. I take a sip of the tequila, realizing I need to keep my wits about me.
He nods at the bartender, who grabs a bottle of Jameson, and pours him a healthy portion, before placing the tumbler in front of him.
The bartender knew what he wanted. He must come here often.
He takes a sip of his whiskey and sighs. His muscles are wound tight. Tension radiates off him.
After a few seconds of both of us not speaking, he turns to me. "I didn’t mean to spring that on you."
"That crazy proposal, you mean?" I take another sip of my tequila and refuse to look at him. If I do, I’m going to be drawn into those glacier-blue eyes of his and, likely, find myself drowning. Or at least, losing my train of thought.
"You understand why I did it?"
“Because you’re messing with me?” I’m hopeful that his answer will be a yes.
“I’m not messing with you.”
My heart begins to race. This can’t be a real proposal. “Tell me you’re kidding.”
He looks at me strangely. “I meant what I said. I need you to marry me.”
This is not about love. This is about an arrangement. Not quite how I imagined a proposal.
My ill-timed sense of humor wants me to chuckle. Instead, I toss back the remaining tequila and cough.
My eyes water. Damn, I’m a mess. I slam the shot glass on the table, and wheeze.
A glass of water appears at my elbow. “Drink up,” he orders.
Damn. Once again, I reach for the glass before I can stop myself. I’ve got to stop obeying what this guy asks of me. For example, just because he proposed doesn’t mean I’m going to marry him. I snatch the glass of water and drain half of it.
Let’s try again, shall we? I turn to him with a bright look on my face. “Is there a chance you’ll change your mind?”
“I never change my mind.” His lips thin.
Forgot, he’s the Human Algorithm. Mr. Binary thinks in ones and zeros. And once he speaks, its gospel.
"So…this is some crazy plan to save your business…off my back?" I scowl.
He clicks his tongue. “We’ll be helping each other.”
I snort. “From where I am, you stand to benefit more than me.”
He nods. "I didn’t tell you the entire story."
"Oh?" I frown.
"I'm in the process of opening a new restaurant and have heavily borrowed against my assets. If my investors pull out, I’ll be bankrupt."
I blink. I wasn't expecting my boss to share his business plans with me. I didn’t expect him to explain his actions either. The very fact that he’s acting against character sends a spurt of alarm through my veins.
“And my grandmother wants me to get married before the year is out. Otherwise, she’ll disinherit me. I can’t deliver on my expansion plans without that money.”
“Your gran turned your marriage into a business proposition?”
His lips twist. A flash of anger crowds his eyes. “Business before family. That’s Margot’s motto.”
"Why are you telling me this?"
"So, you realize what was behind my asking you to be my wife."
Wife. He said 'my wife.' A thrill replaces the alarm. I slap it aside. Take a few more sips of the water, compose myself.
He watches me closely. "Are you okay?"
You asked me to marry you, so you can save your restaurant and claim your inheritance. How do you expect me to be okay with that? That’s what I want to say. But I don’t.
Instead, I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and face him. "You're serious about this?”
"Why wouldn’t I be?" He looks offended.
"Because we don’t know each other."
"We can remedy that."
My head spins.
His expression is completely earnest. Calm. Certain. As if this is the most logical solution in the world, and he fully expects me to agree.
Marry him?
Phoenix will lose her mind. She and Connor started the same way—a convenience arrangement that became real— but even she'd admit that James is a different animal entirely. The Duke of Freeze has ice in his veins, and no interest in thawing.
Zoey and Grace have watched enough of our friends stumble into fake marriages that turned real. Even they'd agree the odds with James are zero.
And Briar? She'll think I've lost my mind.
And maybe I have.
Because this is James. My boss. A man I have only known properly for three months.
I may have met him five years ago, but one intense evening does not mean you marry someone.
Except… A part of me does want to marry him.
The truth is, part of me has never quite forgotten the way he made me feel that night.
The way he still makes me feel now.
Drawn to him. Off balance. Like I'm standing on the edge of something thrilling. Something life-changing. Something that could sweep me away if I’m not careful.
All the more reason I can’t marry him. Not when there are no real feelings involved on his side.
“I don’t want to marry you.” I set my jaw.
He seems taken aback, like he can’t fathom how someone would not want to be his wife. The ego on this guy.
"You’ve barely spoken to me since I joined your team." I tip up my chin. "And when you have, it’s only to yell at me."
He has the cheek to look surprised. "I've barely raised my voice at you."
I snort. "You don’t have to increase the volume of your voice to yell. You simply grow distant and so cold, the air around you turns arctic. It feels like I’m caught in a snowstorm when you're displeased…which is all the time, by the way."
Once more, he seems nonplussed. Thrice in a row. I’m breaking some personal records today.
"I ask for nothing less than perfection of myself and those around me."
"Yes. Yes, I’m aware that’s your personal motto." I scowl.
"And sometimes… No, most times, in order to do that, I have to put pressure on people."
He releases a slow breath, as if he’s fighting for patience.
"You realize, your ideas of how to get your team to deliver are archaic?”
"But effective." He folds his arms across his chest, a sneer curling his lips.
He’s implying that it’s won him three Michelin stars, the highest honor in restaurant circles.
"It’s understandable that you attribute your slavish attention to detail and the callous way you treat your team as the reason for your success, but—"
He tilts his head. "But?"
The haughtiness in his eyes makes me almost lose my courage to speak. But I haven’t come this far without learning how to hold my own.
So even though it makes me flinch, I meet his gaze. "If you had a more humane approach, you’d see the same results but have a happier kitchen."
I expect him to have a scathing rejoinder.
Instead, he lowers his arm to wrap his fingers about his tumbler and study its contents for a few seconds.
The silence stretches.
He didn’t completely disregard what I said, so that’s a start.
Despite myself, my curiosity stirs. I want to ask how this marriage would even work.
But saying yes would be a huge personal risk.
I'm the only woman in the kitchen. If I married my boss, it would look like I slept my way to the top.
And even if I could get past the scandal, there’s another question.
What’s in it for me?