Chapter 26
James
"I meant what I told your sister.” I look away from the windshield long enough to take in her face.
"I don’t understand why you’d say that. After you’d made it clear this marriage is transactional; nothing more." She looks forward.
Her expression is remote. Her body language makes it clear she’s unhappy with the situation.
"It’s still a marriage." I lower my voice. "You’re going to be my wife. And while emotions don’t come into play, I plan to live up to all my promises for the duration of the marriage.”
It’s understandable that she’s confused by what I told her sister. I hadn’t planned to say anything at all about feelings. But facing her sister and having met her niece, I have more understanding about her background.
"After what Briar’s been through, I’d be completely insensitive if I didn’t reassure her that our marriage means something.”
"And does it…mean something?" She turns to me.
I keep my attention on the road and choose my words carefully. "Our meeting all those years ago meant something to me. I may not have explained myself fully when I refused to let anything develop between us, but I never forgot you."
She stills. I sense her surprise. She wasn’t expecting that. But I want her to understand that I didn’t propose this arrangement without serious thought.
"When Margot made it clear I needed to get married to claim my inheritance, I was…resistant. Marriage isn't…wasn't in my plans."
I tighten my jaw.
"But the trust is ironclad. No marriage, no inheritance. No inheritance, no restaurant expansion. I was backed into a corner. Needing something I fundamentally didn't want, with no viable alternative in sight."
I shoot her another quick glance.
"Then the video happened. The investors threatened to pull out. I realized I had to flip the narrative. By then, I knew you wanted to become head chef more than anything."
I sense her shift in her seat.
"Asking you to marry me solves both our problems. I get the marriage certificate Margot's lawyers require. My investors are happy. You get the money to help your family, and you get to achieve your ambition sooner than would have been possible. Besides, it had to be you.”
"Because I was the woman in the video?”
“That too. But also… Because I can’t imagine anyone else in the role of my fake wife. It seemed safer to ask you to marry me than bring someone totally unknown into the situation.”
She shoots me a weird glance.
"What?" I growl.
"Am I supposed to be grateful that I was the only one you could see as your fake wife?" Her voice is stunned.
"Maybe?" I say only half-jokingly.
"Seriously?" She scowls at me.
"Hey, I was only kidding. Not."
"Argh, you’re infuriating."
I twist my lips. "Part of what makes me so effective at work."
"But not when it comes to everything else. And this"—she points between us—"is not work. It’s personal. Very personal. It involves both our lives."
"I’m aware." I sober up, easing the car to a stop at a traffic light. "I don’t want either of us to get hurt."
Though that ship may have sailed for me.
She’s wearing a dress today, probably in deference to the fact that we’re headed to see my grandmother.
It reminds me of the first time I saw her.
Though her dress was much shorter then. I thought my imagination was playing tricks on me.
I can clearly remember the creamy expanse of her thighs and the shapely curve of her ankles, especially since I woke up dreaming of having them wrapped around me many times over the years.
It’s made me very aware of her in the enclosed space of the car. Not to mention, her sweet scent, which has crept into the pores of my skin and etched itself into my cells. So much so that my every waking moment is currently spent thinking about her. Which is dangerous.
My career as a chef has always come first. But for the first time since I started on this path, my concentration is shaken.
A part of me tells me this is good. This is healthy. I can’t only be focused on keeping my Michelin stars.
But the other parts of me are threatened.
The one that remembers what it was to have lost comrades, to have experienced the physical pain of being injured in combat.
And the one that recalls being unwanted by my birth parents.
It’s why I must keep my emotional distance from her. While acknowledging that she’s pushed her way beyond my boundaries.
"We’re headed into uncharted territory. Truth is, I’m terrified too."
"You are?" She purses her lips.
"All of this is new. It’s an arrangement, but the paperwork is real. This marriage is real. Only difference is there’s an expiration date to our relationship."
I say it to remind myself of it too.
“I know that.” She firms her lips.
The lights change, saving me from continuing the conversation. I press the accelerator. Traffic thickens for the rest of the drive, which gives me the excuse to remain silent and focus on navigating toward the offices of the Hamilton Group.
We skirt the edge of Regent’s Park, its winter trees a dark blur against the pale sky. Then Baker Street slides past, the familiar Sherlock Holmes silhouettes staring down from shop windows.
By the time we reach Oxford Street the city is in full motion. People in suits rushing to get to work are interspersed with tourists.
The sky is the color of pewter, though it hasn’t started raining.
When we reach Mayfair, the noise softens slightly. The buildings grow older, more restrained. I ease the car into the private car park reserved for the Hamilton family.
I’m already out and opening her door before she can reach for the handle.
She nods her thanks and follows me toward the pavement where people in dark suits weave through the rush-hour crowd.
We stop at a crossing. A double-decker rumbles past while taxis, cyclists, and black cars stream through the junction.
The air carries that familiar London hum of engines and voices layered together.
When the lights change, I guide her forward with a hand at the small of her back. She glances around, taking in the quiet authority of Mayfair.
I lead her down a narrower side street toward the three-story Georgian building that has belonged to my family for generations.
We climb the worn stone steps.
She pauses briefly at the blue plaque mounted beside the door. It marks the house as where a famous composer had lived and worked here in the eighteenth century before dying in the building.
Family legend claims one of my ancestors bought the property not long after.
If she’s surprised that we’re meeting Margot here rather than at her residence, she doesn’t comment.
We take the lift to the top floor and walk down the quiet hallway that leads to Margot’s office.
Margot’s on the phone and motions us to give her a second.
I nod. Having been here many times, I know the drill. I guide Harper to the seating area tucked away in a corner of the office.
She smooths down her dress, then tucks her hair behind her ear. A tell that she’s nervous. She’s also unusually quiet.
When she presses her lips together and clutches at her handbag, I can’t bear it anymore.
I feel the need to steady her.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” I ask, mainly to put her at ease.
It’s the only way I know to take care of her—through practical gestures rather than emotional reassurance.
She nods. “That would be great. Thanks.”
I head for the little counter adjoining the seating space and busy myself. By the time I place the cup of tea in front of her and a coffee for myself, Margot is still on the phone. Her voice is low enough that we can’t hear the words, but it forms a steady hum in the background.
Knowing my grandmother, it’s a power play. She is quite the tactician and knows exactly how to position herself as being in control. Hence, her making us wait.
She takes a sip and sighs. "Thank you, I needed that."
"Don’t be nervous." I reassure her.
It’s not normal for me to be so aware of another person’s moods and reacting to it. I’m making allowances for her I wouldn’t for anyone else.
"I’m meeting the matriarch of the Hamiltons. The one who holds the keys to you launching your new restaurant. Of course, I’m nervous.” She widens her gaze.
"She’s going to love you."
She rolls her eyes. "I'll be happy, as long as she doesn’t hate me."
I sip my espresso. "Even if she did, it doesn’t make a difference. This is a courtesy visit."
"I suppose, I should be glad I still warrant one of those." Both of us look up to find Margot standing in front of us.
Damn, she's soft-footed.
My grandmother’s eyes shine with intelligence and a hint of speculation. She looks between us.
"You must be the woman my grandson has decided to marry."
I begin to speak, but Harper beats me to it. She rises to her feet. "I’m Harper Richie. And yes, James asked me to marry him."
Margot looks her up and down, her gaze equivalent to that of a scientist examining a specimen. The assessment in her eyes is the kind that makes grown men confess to any wrongdoing they may not have committed yet.
It prompts me to straighten my backbone.
A pulse jumps at Harper’s throat. I can sense she’s nervous, but her shoulders stay square. She doesn’t flinch under Margot’s scrutiny.
The two of them seem to measure up each other for what seems like hours but, in reality, is seconds.
Then my grandmother sniffs.
My heart sinks. If she insults Harper in any way, then contract or no contract, I’m not going to stand for it.
Margot's chin lifts, the angle that signals she's about to deliver a verdict. The regal tilt that's preceded every significant pronouncement she's made in my presence for the past thirty plus years.
My jaw tightens.
"You may call me Lady Hamilton.”