Chapter 50 #2
Besides, he asked me to. We’ll only sleep together without actually 'sleeping' together. It’s going to be very innocent.
I shove aside any doubts I have, walk around, and slide under the covers, the expanse of the bed between us.
“The last mission I undertook before I left the Marines—" He stops. Swallows.
I wait. I don't push. Just…wait.
"We were stranded. Enemy territory. My team and I." His voice is rough. Distant. Like he's somewhere else entirely. "We fought them off for three days. Three nights."
I turn onto my side to face him.
He's on his back. One arm bent behind his head. Staring at the ceiling like the answers are written there in invisible ink. His other hand taps out a rhythm of three across his chest, syncing with his heartbeat.
His inner tension is palpable. I sense his emotions spiraling. Sense he’s not completely over the effects of the nightmare yet.
"My team died." The words come out flat. Emotionless. Which somehow makes them worse. "One by one. Before my eyes. I watched them—" He stops.
His chest heaves.
"I was the last one left."
My heart thuds against my rib cage. My stomach feels like I’ve swallowed an anchor.
I want to reach for him. Touch him. Do something to ease whatever he's reliving right now.
But I instinctively realize that now is the time to stay quiet and let him speak.
“I was hit." He pauses. "Fell unconscious. When I came to, I was—" Another pause. Longer this time. "I was in enemy territory. Captured."
Oh God.
"They tortured me." His voice doesn't change. Still flat. Still distant. "For a week. Trying to get me to give up information."
Without giving myself time to think I find his hand with mine. Our fingers tangle together on top of the duvet.
He squeezes once. Hard. Like he needs the anchor.
"Another team found me eventually. Rescued me." He swallows. "Took a month to get out of hospital. Physically, I healed. But mentally—"
He turns his head; looks at me for the first time since he started talking.
His eyes are haunted.
"I knew I couldn't go back. Couldn't lead another team. Couldn't—" He stops. Takes a breath. "They nominated me for a Victoria Cross. For gallantry in the presence of the enemy."
His laugh is bitter. Broken.
"My friends died. I couldn't save them. But they wanted to give me an award for it."
That could explain why he likes to be in control. Being captured and tortured is a surefire way to feel so powerless you’ll always want to be in command of your future.
The fact that he’s sharing so much of himself with me is a surprise. I lap up the details and hope he’ll tell me more.
"James—" My voice cracks.
"Don't." He shakes his head. "Don't say you're sorry. I've heard it enough times to last a lifetime."
I close my mouth; squeeze his hand instead.
We lie there in silence for a long moment.
Then he turns onto his side, mirroring my position; one palm tucked under his cheek.
We're face to face now. Close enough that I can see the grief etched into every line of his face.
"It took me another year to figure out what I wanted to do with my life," he says quietly.
I wait.
"Margot wanted me to go into business. Finance.
Something 'appropriate' for a Hamilton." His mouth twists.
"But I couldn't. I couldn't sit in an office.
Couldn't—" He stops. "I needed something with my hands.
Something I could control. Something where the only thing that mattered was whether I executed it perfectly. "
"So you became a chef?" I whisper.
He holds my gaze.
"I became a chef because of you."
The word hangs between us, suspended in the darkness.
"Me?" I can barely breathe. "What do you mean?"
"When we met that first time, in the bar." His thumb strokes over my knuckles. Once. Twice. Thrice. "You told me you were training to become a chef."
My heart stutters.
"And you told me you liked to cook," I breathe. "That it relaxed you. That it was the only time your mind went quiet."
He nods.
"I was drifting," he says. "Trying to outrun everything that had happened. But I couldn't—" He swallows. "I felt useless. Like I'd lost my purpose when I lost my team."
I squeeze his hand tighter.
"So, I started cooking." His eyes don't leave mine. "In restaurants. Hostels. Anywhere that would let me into their kitchen. And I found—" He pauses. "I found I had a talent for it. A passion for it."
"James—"
"You made it seem possible, Harper." His voice drops lower, more intense.
"That night we spent together. The way you talked about cooking like it was art and science and meditation all at once.
The way your entire face lit up when you described the perfect knife cut or the exact moment a sauce comes together.
" He takes a shaky breath. "You made me realize that cooking could be what I needed. What I'd been searching for."
I can't speak.
Can't do anything except stare at him.
"When I came back to London, I took a loan from Margot.
" His thumb keeps stroking my hand. Grounding.
Soothing. "I started The Edge. Built it into what it is now.
And the entire time—" He stops. "The entire time, I was thinking about that night.
About you. About the woman who showed me there was still something worth building toward. "
"I—" My voice breaks. "I can't believe it."
His lips quirk, just slightly. "You're not the only one who was affected by our evening together."
Tears prick my eyes.
"James." I have to pause. Breathe. Try again. "Why are you telling me this?"
"I haven't been upfront with you." His eyes search mine. His expression is vulnerable. Open. There’s a touch of uncertainty there that makes my stomach bottom out.
He’s finally opening up to me. Finally, sharing how he feels about me. But he’s been holding back for so long… I still feel wary.
"About what?"
"About how you've been in my head since the moment we met.” He searches my face. "About how you walking into my kitchen wasn’t a coincidence. That hiring you was about your talent, not about the fact that I'd been tracking your career for half a decade.”
I feel like I’m finally seeing all of him, and it’s as if I’ve been hit in the chest by a hammer.
My head spins.
I force myself to speak through lips gone numb. “What are you trying to say?”
“That I waited for nearly half a decade for the opportunity to make you an offer so I could have you work for me. So I could find a way to bind you to me. So, I could keep you in my sights where I could control you. Where I could control my emotions about you. Or so I thought. Only—”
“Only?”
“Only, I didn’t anticipate you getting past every defense I'd built. Until lying to myself about what you mean to me stopped being an option.”