Chapter 51 #2
"You're at The Edge. In London. You own this restaurant. You’re a three-Michelin-star chef," she says quietly, her tone stripped of urgency. "It’s Friday night. Service is running. Everyone's fine. You’re fine."
I hear the words. I don't believe them.
My breath comes in shallow, jagged bursts. My pulse is a freight train. The kitchen sounds: the sizzle, the shouts, the ticket machine. It’s a cacophony I can't filter.
"James." Her hand moves to my wrist, her fingers wrapping around the pulse point.
I flinch, but enough of my consciousness has filtered in that I don’t shake it off either.
She gently squeezes. "You're safe. But we're going to move. Okay?"
I manage a nod.
She doesn't wait for more. She shifts her body, creating a barrier between me and the rest of the kitchen, shielding me from their view. I’m half aware of the rest of the kitchen watching us. Of the silence which has fallen over the space.
They shouldn’t see me this weak. They shouldn’t realize how vulnerable I truly am. How much of a front I put on. How inside, I’m not in control.
Her other hand goes to my elbow, guiding me away from the pass with the kind of quiet authority I didn't know she possessed.
"Mark, you're on expo," she calls over her shoulder, her voice switching effortlessly to command mode. "Keep the line tight. Fire table twelve in two."
Even though my mind is buzzing with static, and my entire body feels heavy, like I’m weighted down with anchors, I have enough presence of mind to appreciate that she chose Mark to take on the role of being the equivalent of the air traffic controller in the absence of both of us.
He’s calm and able to think on his feet.
He’d have been my choice too.
"Yes, Chef!" Mark calls out.
She walks me toward the cold storage. The one place in the kitchen designed for silence. It strikes me; this is the same place she retreated to after that viral video that started this saga of us becoming husband and wife, at least, temporarily.
The door opens with a heavy thunk, and the temperature drops thirty degrees in an instant. The noise of the kitchen muffles, then disappears entirely as she pulls the door shut behind us.
The cold hits my skin like a slap. The shock of it is sharp, immediate. It cuts through my befuddled state and brings me back into my body.
I suck in a breath. The air stabs my lungs with what feels like a thousand icicles.
Along with it, I become aware of the earthy musk of truffle hunted down by pigs in a forest in Umbria, the warm prickly notes of cinnamon, the sharp sneeze-inducing bite of mountain grown peppercorns, and below it all, the iron-rich buttery weight of world class Wagyu that was delivered just this morning.
The scents are nothing like the searing choking smell of the desert, which tasted of pulverized stone, ancient dust and the scorched metal tang of a Humvee baking under the white-hot sun.
Nothing like the roughness of sand, burned until it's glass-sharp and able to tear through the soles of my military-issue boots.
Nothing like the hair-raising, chilling screams of dying teammates from my last mission.
It finally sinks in that I’m not in a godforsaken country in the Middle East. I am here. With her.
My wife doesn't speak. She stands there, one hand still on my wrist, her thumb resting over my pulse. She's counting. Monitoring. Waiting.
"I'm—" My voice cracks. I tug my hand over my face and try again. "I'm fine."
"You're not." Her tone is factual, not accusatory. "But you will be."
The cold seeps into my bones. My hands are still shaking, but the tremor is less violent now. The vise around my chest loosens, just a fraction.
"Someone dropped a pan," I manage. The words taste like ash.
"Ollie slipped on a wet patch. The pan's fine. He's fine. Service is running."
I nod, but I don't trust myself to speak.
Harper shifts, so she's standing directly in my line of sight. Her face is calm and open. There’s no pity in her eyes.
No fear in her features. She seems steady and in control.
My safe harbor in this emotional melee. When did I go from viewing her as the cause of my unraveling to my safety net?
My port in the torrential storm of emotions threatening to crash over me at any moment.
"You're going to stay here for three minutes. You're going to breathe. Count to four on the inhale, hold for four, exhale for six. I'll stay with you."
It’s the first time someone else has been in control of my breath. And it doesn’t feel like I’m losing control. It feels like I’m sharing the burden of the effects of my PTSD with someone else.
"You’re bossy." I half smile.
"When I need to be." She doesn’t smile.
Her gaze is serious. Every line of her body is intent. All of her attention is focused on me, and I like it. A lot. She turns me on when she’s authoritative. She turns me on. Period. All the time. And fuck it, I’m done fighting this attraction to her.
"You need to be on the line," I rasp.
"Mark can handle the pass for three minutes." She doesn't blink. "You taught him well."
I close my eyes. Count. Inhale—one, two, three, four. Hold. Exhale—one, two, three, four, five, six.
The rhythm is familiar. It's the breathing technique they drilled into us in the field. The one that keeps you functional when the world is collapsing around you.
My world just collapsed, in a different way. Not because of the PTSD flashback. It’s because I acknowledge to myself that…I need her.
Harper doesn't move. She's a silent anchor, her presence grounding and comforting and arousing, at the same time.
After the third cycle of counting, my pulse starts to slow. The freight train becomes a drumbeat. The drumbeat gentles until it feels almost normal.
I open my eyes.
Harper is watching me. Not with judgment at having seen her boss breakdown. Not with the satisfaction she could have in watching the man who used the circumstances to make her marry me.
Not with the clinical detachment I'd expect from someone who’s here only as a caregiver.
She's watching me with great care. The way she’d watch a sauce reduce. Patient, attentive, and fully engaged. Waiting for the exact moment that it's ready.
"Better?" she asks.
"Getting there." I’m feeling fine. But I don’t want her to take her fingers from my skin.
She nods. "Take another minute. I'll go back out and make sure the line is clean. When you're ready, come back to the pass. If you're not ready, I'll close out the service."
No. No, no, no. I don’t want her so far away from me.
And I’m not ready to go out there either.
Just for a few seconds, I don’t want to be the Michelin-starred chef.
The one who has to deliver an ROI to his investors.
I don’t want to 'pretend' to be in a relationship with her either.
I want to be the real deal. The man who wants her.
"Harper—"
"You've covered for me a dozen times, James." Her voice is quiet, but there's steel underneath. "Let me return the favor."
She begins to release her hold on me, but I grab her hand. "Harper."
She looks at me with curiosity.
"Don’t go."