Chapter 17
James
“Those things will kill you.”
She eyes me disapprovingly as I slide a cigarette from the packet in my pocket.
We’re standing outside The Famous Cock with the rest of the smokers, most of whom are juggling a pint in one hand and a cigarette in the other like it’s an Olympic sport.
“I’m trying to quit.” I wave the unlit cigarette in the air.
“But you’re holding a cigarette.”
“It’s reverse psychology. If it’s within reach, I feel reassured and don’t actually smoke it.”
She knits her brows. “And you think that’ll help you quit?”
“Haven’t smoked one of these in a year.” I study the cigarette for a moment, then place it between my lips.
Her eyes widen.
“It’s part of the system.” I raise a shoulder.
“What system?”
I allow the silence to extend then answer. “The very sophisticated one where I look like a smoker but technically am not.”
She stares at me like she’s deciding whether I’m joking or deeply unwell.
“Whatever works for you.” She finally shrugs.
I tap the cigarette on the packet. I’m hoping the same strategy might work with her.
If I keep her close by, not just at work but at home too, maybe I won’t crave her quite so much.
She leans a hip against the building and surveys me with a steady gaze.
“Why are we here, James?"
"I thought I should explain my earlier proposition some more."
"I’m not interested.” She looks away.
Something tells me she’s lying. That some part of her would like to find out more details of what I’m proposing.
God, I hope so. I need her to say yes to this proposition. Or I might not have a restaurant. And I’ll probably lose my inheritance too, because the thought of proposing marriage to anyone else, even if it's only in name, is not something I can fathom. I don’t want to examine that closely either.
I decide to go with my instinct. She’s intrigued; I can feel it. I need to play on it.
“You’re not the tiniest bit curious about what this arrangement would look like?”
She purses her lips. I’m sure she’s going to admit that she is, then she tosses her head. “Nope.”
Hmm. I pull out the one thing guaranteed to get a reaction from her.
"I'll also give you a fair shot at becoming head chef of my new restaurant in the city."
She freezes, surprise evident on her features.
"A fair shot?"
"You'd compete for the position with external talent I’m considering for the role."
"Of course. That's only fair." She shifts her weight. "I'm not ready for head chef yet. I know that."
I respect that she can admit it. Most at her level wouldn't.
"You'd continue training with me. I’d evaluate you alongside the other talent. I'd choose whoever's best for the business."
"Right." She says it slowly, processing. "But even being considered for the role—that's huge for me." Her forehead creases. "You're not just offering this to convince me to marry you, are you?"
I decide to go with the truth. “I am.”
She surveys me with shock. “You never compromise on the quality of food in your restaurants.”
“And I’m not in this case, either.”
She blinks. “Is that praise coming from you?”
I stay silent, letting her form her own conclusions.
She searches my features and nods. “You do think I have potential.”
“I do.”
A big smile splits her face in two. “Took a lot for you to admit that, huh?”
The brightness of her features entrances me. My heart stutters. My stomach tightens.
The grin on her face unravels me just enough to make me forget how careful I should be. My stomach knots, my chest hammers, and all I can think is how dangerously distracting she is.
I slide the unlit cigarette into the pack and stuff it back in my pocket.
My fingertips encounter the familiar elastic of the hair tie. I brush my fingers over the smooth surface.
It helps settle the nervousness inside me.
"Then there's the money." I keep my hand in my pocket, using the hair tie to self soothe.
I can't let her see that, I have zero leverage.
The business is the prize, but what’s more important than that is her.
I can’t lose her.
It has to be her. I’ve spent my life looking at people as variables and tools, but I can’t even fathom the idea of anyone else in this role as my wife, fake or real.
This isn't just about saving my restaurant anymore. This is about my future, my legacy, my sanity.
It all hinges on a yes from her.
"The money?" She frowns.
I lower my hand to my side. "Once you’re my wife, you’ll also share in the profits from my businesses."
She stills. “How much…" She clears her throat. "How much would that entitle me to?" Her eyes flash with interest.
“About a million pounds a year."
She draws in a sharp breath, then coughs. Her eyes water.
I pat her back, until she manages to compose herself.
Feeling the warmth of her skin through her clothes sends a shiver of delight up my spine. I hastily drop my hand. Then I take a step back to ensure I’m not tempted to touch her again.
"A…a million quid?" she exclaims.
"That’s what our agreement would entitle you to."
"Agreement?" She frowns.
I square my shoulders. "I thought it best to draw up one that outlines expectations for both of us for our upcoming marriage."
She firms her lips. "I haven’t agreed to this arrangement."
"But you’re considering it?" I try to keep my desperation at bay. But I can’t stop myself from sounding hopeful. Pleading even.
I have demanded. I have threatened. I have never pleaded with anyone since I became a chef. She’s the cause of many firsts.
She opens then shuts her mouth. Her cheeks redden. Then she nods.
Thank fuck.
"Excuse me?" She gapes.
Did I say that aloud? Being near her is causing me to lose my touch. "I meant, thank you."
She stares at me, her mouth half open, her gaze wide. It’s clear I took her by surprise.
"I have said thank you to you before." I knit my eyebrows. "Haven’t I?"
She looks at me meaningfully.
The back of my neck heats. "Have I been such a bastard?"
She scoffs.
"Don’t answer that question.” I shift my weight from foot to foot.
I've been harder on her than any new hire. But none of them have gotten under my skin the way she does.
I demand a lot from myself. So much that I rarely notice when discipline crosses into bastard territory. Connecting with people has never come easily. That's why her perceptiveness unsettles me.
We clicked five years ago, and it rattled me then. It still does.
I'm not going to apologize for being exacting. It's why I push her. Why I can already see her running this kitchen one day. And the harder I drive her, the more determined she gets.
The flushed cheeks. The shallow breaths. The way she swallows hard when I correct her.
Beneath that fiery exterior is a submissive streak.
It intrigues me. And it confuses the hell out of me.
She tosses her head. “Don’t thank me yet. I still don’t know the details of what this arrangement involves.”
I nod slowly. She makes a good point. It’s best to go into detail of my expectations from this marriage, so the agreement doesn’t come as a complete shock to her.
“The marriage is a practical, controlled arrangement; nothing more.” I set my jaw.
No matter how much I long for her, or how much I desire her, I am not going to give in to my impulses. This marriage can be in name only.
Her eyes grow cautious. “What would the living arrangements look like?”
“You’d move in with me, of course.”
“Of course.” Her voice contains a note of sarcasm.
“My grandmother won’t accept anything less. If she's going to be convinced of the veracity of this marriage, we need to live under the same roof.”
“Would we share a bed?” She frowns.
“You’d have your own room.”
Her frown deepens. She seems to think it over then asks, “And what of the wedding itself?”
I tilt my head. “It’d be at the Town Hall.”
She seems relieved by that. “I’d want to invite my sister and niece to the wedding.”
I’d hoped to get away without inviting any of my family, but my brothers would never allow that.
“My brothers, whoever is in town that is, and my uncle will also attend.”
“That makes sense.” She nods slowly.
“Any expense related to the wedding, including the wedding dress, will be borne by me.”
She purses her lips. “But—”
“No. I’m not changing my mind on it.”
She arches her eyebrow. “Oh, really?”
That stubborn glint in her eyes causes my heart to sing. A flash of lust tugs at my lower belly. This fire in her is what lightens my soul. I also don’t want to fight with her about this.
“This wedding was my idea. It’s only right I pay for the related expenses.”
Her forehead smooths out. “I suppose that’s logical,” she finally offers.
“I asked Tristan, my uncle and my lawyer, to draw this up in an agreement. I thought it best to write out the expectations, so there won’t be any misunderstandings.”
She takes a step back, as if the thought of having the details down in black and white feels unsavory.
People think marriage should be based on romance. Personally, I’m glad I’m able to list the clauses on paper. It keeps things under control. Outlines expectations on both sides. Makes for less misunderstanding. Less variables which haven’t been considered.
“I’ll show you the contract when you feel ready to see it.”
She wraps her arms around herself, as if trying to distance herself from the practicalities of the situation.
That’s a luxury I don’t have.
“It’s best to outline everything in as much detail as possible, so it protects the both of us,” I say softly.
She searches my features, and whatever she sees there makes her sigh. “I suppose, it’s best to have it in black and white.”
I release a breath. I’ve come further than I expected.
I’m glad I didn’t bring the contract with me.
That might have freaked her out. This way, I can introduce her to the concept, walk her through its contents, and she can read it in a few days’ time, when she’s had time to digest what I’ve told her so far.
There’s one more thing I must do.
"Will it help if I apologize for all the times I was a jerk?" I shift my weight from foot to foot. “In my defense, I treat all my staff that way. And I didn’t want them to feel I was giving you any special treatment, since you’re my sister’s best friend."
"You succeeded. I was… Am still convinced that you hate me."
I raise a shoulder. "I hate everyone. It’s not personal.”
She huffs out a laugh. “You have a hell of an ego.”
The tension between us instantly defuses. Not the lust though. Seeing her smile only spikes this weird sensation in my chest, and makes my fingers itch to touch her. Hold her and kiss her. I find myself swaying toward her and stop myself.
Then, to be sure I don’t touch her, I stuff my hands in the pockets of my slacks.
"My ego gives me the confidence to keep going in this crazy profession. Why else would anyone put themselves through running a restaurant, when it means working around the clock and all days of the week and not having a personal life?”
"I ask myself that question often. The difference is, I don’t think I can afford to have an ego." She lowers her chin. "Not when I’m also dependent on the job for the money."
"There are easier ways of earning a living," I point out.
Her gaze grows contemplative. "I feel closest to my father when I'm cooking. He loved taking care of us. It’s he who made us breakfast and dinner most days. Our parents died in an accident when I was eighteen.”
Her eyes fill. She doesn't blink, like she's trying to hold in the tears by force of will, and losing.
"I’m so sorry." I don’t stop myself from closing the distance to her, wiping the moisture from her cheek with my thumb.
Her skin is so soft.
Her light vanilla and coconut scent teases my nose.
My chest aches with a pressure I don't have a name for. I've never borrowed someone else's grief like this before, worn it like it was partially mine. I don't know what to do with it.
There's a thickness behind my sternum I don't have a word for.
I’m hungry for everything she's already told me, and greedy for the parts she hasn't. The feeling frightens me more than the rest of it combined.
I retract my hand and step back from her, putting distance between us.
“Take a day to think everything over. When you’re ready, come to my office, and I’ll show you the agreement.”