Chapter 69 #2
"We should thank Phoenix for that. If it weren’t for her, we wouldn’t have met.” I turn my face into his palm and kiss it. “You need to get therapy to help you manage your condition.”
His lips turn in that half smirk. “I’m way ahead of you, baby. When I woke up and found I was accidentally choking you, I signed up for therapy the very next day.”
My heart flutters in my chest. If I needed more evidence of him expressing his love for me, then this is it.
I lift on tiptoes and tilt my chin. He meets my lips and devours me like I’m candy. And oh God, I want him so much.
That’s when the phone in his pocket buzzes.
He groans into my mouth.
We continue to kiss. The phones stops buzzing, then starts again.
I pull away, panting. “You should take it.”
“Fuck it."
“It might be important.” I smile up at him. “Take. It.”
He makes a growling sound at the back of his throat. Without taking his gaze off my face, he pulls out his phone and answers it. “Hello.”
He listens to the voice at the other end.
"She does?" He winces. "Is there no way out?" He listens again, then sighs. "Fine, tell her we’ll be there by seven p.m."
He disconnects and pockets his phone.
"What is it?"
"That was Tristan. Margot insists we have a family dinner this evening.” He releases me with reluctance.
"Is that normal?" I step out of his arms.
"She likes to have us over for a monthly family event." He shrugs. "Not that any of us are that keen on it. But we go out of respect for her wishes."
"Have your relations with your grandmother always been strained?"
"I remember her being happier when our grandfather was alive.
He and Margot ran the Hamilton Group together.
But he died not long after I turned fifteen.
She was heartbroken. And bitter that she lost him.
The plan was for Tristan to take over as co-CEO alongside Margot.
For the two of them to run the company together. "
He plates out the bacon and the sausages. Then carefully adds a portion of the baked beans, and a slice of toast.
"What happened?" I’m intrigued at finding out more of the history of the Hamilton Group which, in a way, is also James’ history.
"It became clear that there wasn't room for both Tristan and our grandmother at the top. Tristan was supposed to be co-CEO, but in practice, he was answering to her.
"He left and launched his own company, separate from the family business."
Without prompting, I butter the toast. We’ve worked together so long in the kitchen, I can read his body language and know what needs to be done.
He carries the plates to the island counter and sets the places with cutlery and napkins.
"Tristan consults for Margot when she needs him, acts as her special adviser on major decisions, but he's not in the trenches anymore. It was a better solution for everyone.”
I slide onto my barstool and take in the well-arranged plates. "These look delicious."
"You need your strength." He smirks.
I chuckle. "You did wear me out today."
"There’s a lot more to come."
Our gazes meet, and just like that, the air between us sparks.
"I can’t get enough of you, woman." He clears his throat. "Also, you really should eat." He picks up his toast and takes a bite.
Noticing me staring, he arches his eyebrow in a very James expression.
"What?"
"Didn’t think you’d cook something as ordinary as an English Breakfast," I confess.
He looks at me with reproach in his eyes. "Didn’t take you for a food snob."
"What? No. That’s not what I meant." Heat floods my face.
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Relax. I'm teasing you."
"You're an ass." But I'm smiling.
He leans back, coffee cup cradled in both hands. "You know what happens after a twelve-hour day of executing seventeen-component dishes? When you've plated a hundred covers, and every element has to be museum-quality?"
"You come home and want something that doesn't require tweezers or a manifesto." I know the feeling. It’s how I am after a full day at work. I want to head to the Golden Arches and get a Big Mac. But hey, I don’t think my husband, the Michelin-star chef, would feel the same.
"Something simple. Honest. The kind of food that doesn't need to prove anything." His features soften.
"Something like a Full English," I murmur.
"Or an omelet." His gaze holds mine. "Or pasta with butter that feels simple and home cooked."
He’s talking about when he cooked pasta for me.
"You're talking about comfort food," I say softly.
"It’s food that matters." His voice drops. "The kind you make for people you love." He clears his throat. "The kind you make when technique isn't the point. Care is."
The tenderness in his voice brings a lump to my throat. I dip my chin and taste the eggs—buttery, perfectly seasoned, still soft enough to coat my tongue. They're simple. They're also the best eggs I've ever eaten.
"This is incredible," I whisper.
"It's eggs, Harper."
I meet his gaze. "You made this for me. That makes it more."
Something shifts in his expression. His eyes darken. The air between us shimmers with emotions. Oh God. James wearing his heart on his sleeve is potent.
"So I know Sunday dinner with my terrifying grandmother isn't exactly romantic, but I need her to see—" He pauses. "I need her to understand that this is real. That we're not just pretending anymore."
"I know." I reach across the table, lacing my fingers through his. "And honestly? I want her to see it, too."
His hand tightens around mine. "I want the entire world to see it. I want everyone to know you’re mine." He stands abruptly, rounds the table, and pulls me up into his arms.
His forehead presses to mine.
"Beautiful. And brave." He looks into my eyes. "And understanding, when you have every right to tell me to fuck off with my family politics. I don’t deserve you." His hands frame my face. "I love you, Harper. I'm so fucking in love with you it hurts"—he half smiles—"in the best way possible."