Chapter 40
James
"Good morning, would you like a cup of coffee?" I look at her over my shoulder.
It’s the day after the incident at the swimming pool.
She’s dressed in her black pants and white shirt, the way most of us dress in the kitchen. When we get to the kitchen, she’ll slip the chef jacket on top, a pity because it’s going to hide her magnificent bustline.
But also good…because it hides her magnificent bust line from the rest of the brigade.
It seems the thought of anyone else looking at my wife fills me with what feels suspiciously like jealousy. I shove that thought away.
My Ember is grumpy in the mornings as she grunts her reply. Who’d have thought?
I continue with my task: frothing the milk carefully, pouring it over the coffee, topping it off with cinnamon, then placing it in front of her.
She looks at it with surprise, then at me. "You know how I take my coffee?"
But all I do is shrug. "I’m a chef. I notice everything related to food and drink. Why wouldn’t I notice how you take your coffee?"
But the honest answer would have been because I notice everything about you.
Do I know how anyone else on my team takes their coffee? Or my siblings, for that matter? Nope. I stiffen.
The first time I heard her ask the barista at the restaurant for a coffee. I didn’t even make a conscious effort to remember. I just absorbed it.
She takes a sip and moans.
My heart rate ticks up. So does my cock, which instantly takes interest. At this rate, I’m setting myself up for a cardiac, just by the way my body reacts to her.
I turn away and busy myself with cracking the eggs and beating them.
I pour it over the vegetables on the skillet, then turn the strips of bacon on the other one.
"Are you cooking?" Her tone is surprised.
"I asked you to be there an hour earlier to receive the deliveries. The least I can do is feed you."
When she falls silent, I turn and ask, "What?"
She purses her lips. "It’s my job to be there to receive deliveries. I don’t need special treatment."
"You’re my wife; you get special treatment."
I love the way 'my wife' rolls off my tongue.
And the way her cheeks heat, apparently, she likes it too.
And the fact that she likes it makes me like it a whole lot more.
That coldness in my heart melts further.
I hastily look away, busy myself with popping slices of bread from the toaster.
I plate out the omelet, the bacon, and the toast, and carry them to the island.
She begins to slip off the stool.
"Where are you going?"
"To get the cutlery.”
"Sit and enjoy your coffee. I’ll do it." I touch her shoulder for emphasis. Instantly, goosebumps zip up my skin. A small shiver grips her.
I pull my hand back slowly, not unhappy to see the effect I have on her.
It felt natural to touch her. Natural to have her in my space.
I thought I’d be resentful to have someone else share the living space with me and Malice.
To have them infringe on my routine. But on the contrary, I’ve enjoyed having her here.
Enjoy doing small things for her, like making her morning coffee and seeing her eyes light up with pleasure.
There’s a meow, then Malice prowls into the kitchen. She walks past me, without even sparing a glance. Instead, she jumps onto her lap.
"Hey, baby, did you sleep well?" she croons and tickles her under her chin.
Malice purrs and licks her hand.
A stab of something like jealousy squeezes my guts. Am I jealous of my own cat? Surely, not. It must be hunger. Yeah, time for breakfast.
I grab my cup of coffee and place it next to my plate on the counter. Then slide the requisite cutlery next to her plate, before taking my seat.
Malice jumps onto the table. She sniffs at the bacon on her plate.
"No, Malice." I reach for the cat at the same time as Ember. Our fingers brush each other on the cat.
Her gaze flashes to mine and holds. My fingertips tingle. My heart stutters. I want to catch her wrist, but instead, I grab Malice by the scruff and set her on the floor. She meows, tosses her head, and flounces off.
I cut into my omelet, then chew and swallow.
For a few seconds, the only sound is cutlery against the plate. I clear my throat. “I want your input on renaming a dish on the menu.”
"You want my opinion?" She stops with her forkful of food halfway to her mouth.
"Why does that surprise you?’
She hesitates. "Because in all the time I’ve worked with you, you’ve never let anyone else weigh in on this."
I think over what she said as I continue to eat.
Is she right? Am I that autocratic? Only because I’m clear-headed in what I want.
That was until she came along. I feel the need to involve her more in the day-to-day happenings of the restaurant.
I want to share it with her. I want her input, knowing she’s capable.
Knowing she’ll give me perspective. Knowing that I trust her enough to use her as a sounding board.
"Maybe it’s time I do." I take another sip of my coffee.
She eats a few more bites, setting down her fork, she asks, "Does this mean you think I'm more than adequate?"
I allow myself a small smile. "You’re getting there."
"Come on. Admit it. Tell me I’m good. You can do it. It’s not that difficult."
I chuckle. "You’re…not bad."
She laughs. "That’s a start, eh?"
We look at each other, our eyes meeting in that way they seem to do more every day. The air between us heats in a way that doesn’t surprise me anymore. I want to reach over and touch her. Instead, I pick up my fork and finish off the rest of the food on my plate.
Once I’m done eating, I observe her over the rim of my coffee cup. I get vicarious pleasure from watching her eat the food I cooked for her. It’s different from how it feels to cook for strangers. This… Making food for her heals something in me. Is it because she’s my wife?
She pats her mouth with her napkin and sighs. "That was so good, thank you."
"You’re welcome."
I allow myself a small smile.
She smiles back.
This time, when our eyes meet, it’s arousing but also strangely comfortable. How strange. I slide off my stool. She follows me.
"About the menu—"
"Why don’t I tell you on the way to The Edge?"
I unlock the door to the penthouse. Three turns of the key, left, right, left.
I open the door, step aside, and let my wife precede me in. I step in and sniff her as she walks past.
The scent of vanilla and coconut will never not smell like home.
I close the door behind her.
Lock it. Three turns. Right, left, right.
I close my eyes, listening to the sound of her footsteps echoing across the wooden floor. The clacking of Malice’s paws as she slinks over to her. The purring when she greets her.
The crooning noises my wife makes as she picks up Malice and tucks the cat under her arm.
I don’t need to count the seconds to leave the kitchen behind. Hearing my wife’s soft voice as she murmurs in her baby language to Malice is all I need to transition from Chef Hamilton to…just James.
Keys go in the bowl. Wallet next to it, aligned parallel.
I hang my coat in the entryway closet, on the third hanger from the left. Then I pick up my wife’s coat from where she dropped it on the hallway table. I hang it up next to mine.
I pick up her sneakers from where she’d toed them off.
I like seeing her coats next to mine. And her boots.
I glance down at her smaller heeled boots she placed on the floor of the closet, next to my much larger ones.
I move mine so they bracket hers. There, much better.
I don’t question my need to do that. I simply accept it.
The way I’ve come to accept her in my life.
The way Malice has come to accept, even prefer her, over me. I don’t begrudge Malice her preference. If I were my cat, I might do the same.
I head for the kitchen to find Ember has already cut the three pieces of tuna. I retrieve the chilled saucer. Ember smiles her thanks, places the tuna on the saucer and sets it down for Malice.
I drop the container which held the tuna in the recycling bin, rinse the knife and the culinary tweezers she used and place them in the dishwasher, then wipe the counter.
I look up to find my wife watching me closely.
"Everything okay?"
"You’re not going to say anything about the fact that I gave Malice her treat, even though it’s not seven days since her last one?"
That’s how long it’s been since Ember moved in. I’ve added her to my personal calendar; so, she has visibility of my appointments. Which means, she also knows when it’s time to feed Malice.
She’s my sous chef. It makes sense for her to know who my work meetings are with. And she’s my wife. So, it’s only natural that I share that part of my life with her, right?
The strange part? I didn’t feel exposed or vulnerable doing it. It felt right.
I pour a glass of white wine, which I know she prefers as a night cap. Then pour myself some whiskey. We ate earlier at the family meal in the restaurant.
I set it down on the coffee table in the living room, then dim the lights and play classical music. It’s the only kind that helps me unwind.
She heads to the refrigerator, pulls out a tub of Cotton Candy flavored ice cream. Then grabs a spoon, and heads over to join me on the sofa.
We sit with the length of the settee between us. But it doesn’t feel strange. It feels comfortable. Especially when she pulls her feet up underneath her and sinks back against the cushions I ordered specifically for her.
"Thanks for replenishing my ice cream." She shoots me a grateful glance before digging her spoon into the tub. She slips it into her mouth and licks it clean.
I should look away. But fuck me. When I see her pink tongue slide against the spoon, my crotch feels too tight. If I were a better man, I’d leave right now, head up to my room with my whiskey, take a cold shower, then go to bed.
I am not a better man. I established that a long time ago.
I settle for widening the space between my thighs, so I can accommodate my arousal. Then I take my tumbler of whiskey and sip from it.
"The dinner service went well today."
"Hopefully it impressed the Michelin inspector. Assuming, of course, he’s the one we think it is."
We exchange a meaningful look. It was a solo diner, who walked in off the street, sampled three courses on the menu, took copious notes, asked the staff a lot of questions, and was among the last to leave.
"It’s a Michelin inspector, all right." I tap the side of my whiskey tumbler thrice.
She looks at it meaningfully but doesn’t comment. She notices all my little tics, in a way that makes me feel seen. I should find it intrusive, but strangely, I find I don’t mind that it’s her who’s clocking these things.
My phone buzzes, and I pull it up from my pocket. It’s Tristan calling.
"Yeah?"
"You all right?’
"I’m busy."
Ember sends me a questioning look. I shake my head, indicating I’ll be done soon.
"Haven’t seen you since the wedding."
"Been settling in, is all."
"Understandable."
I sense he wants to ask more, but all he says is, "Making sure you’ll be at Margot’s dinner…"
"When is that?"
Malice saunters over to the sofa, then jumps up and makes a beeline for my wife. She strokes Malice, who settles down in her lap and begins to purr.
The two of them make such a cozy picture. This is my family. My wife. Mine. The feeling is fiercer than possessiveness; it fills my chest. It's like ownership. Like being given a blessing. Like seeing what my future could look like, if I let her in further into my life.
"James, are you listening?"
"Yeah, you said Saturday night." I look away, so she doesn’t see how moved I am. "Sunday’s a working day for us."
"Margot’s not going to give an inch. We're the ones who have to adjust to her schedule, after all." His voice is resigned.
"We’ll be there." I disconnect. "That was Tristan. He—"
"Was calling to remind you that we need to make it to Margot’s dinner." She scoops up more of the ice cream, licking the spoon clean again. My heartbeat ratchets up. Sweat breaks out on my upper lip. I can’t help but think how it’d feel to have her mouth around my cock.
Fuck.
I look away. She inspires these contrary feelings of tenderness, mixed with a heightened lust that’s becoming difficult to contain. I toss back the whiskey and set down the glass.
"Easy there." She looks at me in surprise.
"It helps me sleep."
"I thought I helped you sleep," she says only half-jokingly.
I shoot her a sideways glance.
She flushes. "That came out wrong." She plops the spoon back in the ice cream tub. "I only meant—"
"I know what you meant." I hold out my hand.
She places the tub of ice cream in my palm.
I take a spoonful. The cloying sweetness coats my palate and clogs my taste buds. I gag. Manage to swallow it down.
"What. The. Fuck…was that?"
She looks at my face and giggles.
I slap the tub of ice cream on the coffee table, reach for my whiskey glass and realize it’s empty, then snatch up her wineglass. I take a sip, make a face, and put it down.
"I’ll get you another, big guy." She jumps up from the couch, grabs my glass and takes it to the counter where I placed the bottle.
Unable to stay apart from her, I rise from the settee and follow her.