Epilogue
Harper
Chef bosshole: Where are you?
Chef bosshole: Come home.
Chef bosshole: Leave. Now.
The messages vibrate across my phone screen.
I’m in the makeshift office I’ve set up at the premises of what was once an Italian diner. It still reeks of garlic and tomatoes.
Outside, the crew I hired to renovate the space are taking out walls. The floor is stripped back to concrete. There are exposed pipes everywhere. The smell of dust layers over that of old grease that no amount of demolition will shift.
It’s a mess. But what I see is the possibilities.
This will be The Hearth. My restaurant. Mine.
I’m knee deep in working out what the theme of the food will be, and the menu, the décor, the kind of team I want. Plus, the hundreds of other details that go into making a successful restaurant.
Chef bosshole: Have you left yet?
My phone vibrates with another message. What’s happening? Why is my husband texting me with such urgency?
Chef bosshole: Come home. It’s an emergency.
Chef bosshole: I need you.
I frown.
He’s messaging me, so he should be fine, right? I left him sleeping this morning when I scurried out of our penthouse at the crack of dawn.
Which is a change.
In the early months of our marriage, it was both of us leaving very early to get to The Edge each morning.
When I decided to follow through with my decision of leaving The Edge, my husband wasn't happy. But he understood my need to branch out on my own and prove myself on my own merit.
I worked with him to transition my responsibilities over to Mark to take over as sous chef.
James made it clear he’d miss me. That no one could replace me and the working rapport we built. But it felt like we’d moved into a new phase where our relationship as husband and wife defined us. We’d outgrown being head chef and sous chef.
A month after that dinner at Margot’s place, I left The Edge. This coincided with him using a portion of his inheritance to buy out the board of directors. James is now truly his own boss, and he’s more relaxed in how he runs the restaurant.
He no longer treats his team like they're a project he has to whip into shape in the shortest possible time.
The result is very little staff turnover.
I took some time off to absorb everything that had happened.
First, the wedding; then, confessing my love for my husband and finding out that he loves me too. And then, the change in my working life, where I had to embrace the reality that it was time to start my own restaurant.
And no, I didn’t want to accept James' help in that…or take money from him.
I’m already receiving my share of the profits from the business, which is substantial.
Even after paying for Freya’s school expenses and buying the flat Briar lives in, I had enough left over to use as starting capital.
I involved James in the planning. But the final decisions were always mine.
Two months later, I made an offer on a venue in an upcoming part of the city.
Rents were lower and I could try out my ideas for the menu without attracting too many critics.
This is the first week when I haven't been home before James because I’d been putting in longer hours than him.
Since it’s Tuesday, James had the day off and I didn’t. I’ve been pulled into the thrill of planning.
Which is why I’m at my office, working through my concepts for the menu… Because all the other details will flow from that.
I sit at my desk, notes spread everywhere and press my fingers against my temples.
I thought I’d take things slowly. But as my excitement built and the planning caught speed, I realized something. I’ll never be happy unless I pursue a Michelin star.
I plan to do so as soon as my restaurant is up and running.
A thousand variables. James always said that's what a Michelin star costs you, a thousand variables, all of them yours to hold.
I used to think he was being dramatic.
Now, I have my own restaurant, and I understand; he was being precise.
It's going to be brutal. But that's the difference between being a neighborhood spot people love and being somewhere the world comes to find. I've always known that. I've just never let myself say it out loud.
That's the thing I have to sit with. I've held myself back.
Kept the ambition small enough to be polite, quiet enough not to embarrass anyone, including me.
It's part of why James got further than I did, even though he started on the journey to be a chef after me.
Not talent. Not luck. Just that he wanted it and didn't apologize for it. And I did.
Watching him changed something for me.
I want the star. I want to earn it in my own kitchen, with my name on the door, without anyone else's reputation carrying mine. I want to do it on my own merit.
James had to learn to say what he feels. I had to learn to say what I want. Turns out, those are the same lessons.
Chef bosshole: I’m in agony. Help. Me.
That last message pushes all other thoughts from my head
My heart rate spikes. What happened? Is he okay? I jump up, in such a hurry that my chair overturns. I don’t bother righting it. I grab my handbag and, waving to the foreman who’ll lock up when they finish work for the day, I rush out.
Instantly, the car, which James insisted I use, slides to a stop in front of the curb.
As always, the chauffeur manages to time his arrival with when I leave the restaurant.
I don’t want to know how much James pays him.
It’s the one thing he refused to compromise about.
He was going to pay for a car service to ferry me around and be on stand by for me, whether I agreed or not.
I realized I couldn’t win this, and gave in.
I slide into the car’s luxurious interior, appreciating the feel of the soft, buttery leather. "Take me home, please."
I snap on my seat belt, then message James.
Me: I’m on my way.
The message isn’t read. And there’s no reply. Did he hurt himself? I try James’ phone, but it rings and keeps ringing, then goes to voicemail.
My heart slams into my rib cage. The blood thuds in my ears. Why isn’t he answering his phone? Is he lying unconscious somewhere? Is that why he’s not answering? I keep trying his phone, and each time, it goes straight to voicemail.
By the time I unlock the front door to our penthouse, I’m frantic. I shove the door open, and drop my handbag, jacket and keys on the entryway table.
"Honey? Where are you?" There’s no answer from James.
"Malice?" I look around for the cat but don’t see her. Which is unusual. Malice always greets me when I come home.
My pulse rate goes through the roof. My stomach seems to hit the floor.
"James?" I call out.
My voice echoes around the apartment. I race up the stairs and down the hallway to our bedroom.
"James?" I push the door open and come to a stop. James is sprawled out on the bed, wearing only a pair of black briefs. With a rose held between his teeth.
Next to him, is Malice. She has a collar made of roses around her neck.
My gaze backtracks to my husband, anxiously checking him out.
I examine him from head to toe and find he’s fine.
No wounds. No sign of being hurt. And his cheeks are a healthy color.
His biceps seem even bigger, and his pecs more defined than usual.
Which means, he must have worked out today. Some of the tension drains from me.
"Are you okay?"
He removes the rose from his mouth. "No I’m not."
Concern squeezes my chest again.
"What’s wrong?" I cross the floor to stand next to him.
He pulls me in by my wrist.
I squeal. Overbalance and fall into him.
"What are you doing?" I gasp, try to rise, but he holds me against him.
He snuggles his face into my neck and takes in a long deep breath. "It’s been twelve hours, fifteen minutes and nine seconds since I had anything worth tasting." He licks my cheek.
I giggle. "Stop. You scared me. I thought it was an emergency."
"It is. I’m starving." He throws me down next to him on the bed and covers my body with his. Then, he pretends to take a big bite out of where my shoulder meets my throat.
"James, stop." I half laugh, half-heartedly attempt to wriggle out from under him. "I was really worried. I thought something was wrong. I thought you were hurt, or something worse."
He looks into my eyes, remorse in his. "I’m sorry, baby. Sometimes, my need for you overwhelms me. I may have lost my mind a little waiting for you to come home, and I couldn't take it a second longer. I couldn't contain my emotions any longer and messaged you. I didn’t mean to scare you."
My heart melts. All the worry I built up coming here fades. I cup his cheek. "Honey, don’t apologize. You did scare me. But that’s a small price to pay for you acting on your emotions. You told me you needed me, and I love that. You can text me anytime."
His features soften. "You’re too good for me."
I chuckle. "I know that."
He laughs. "You’re such a brat."
"You know that already."
His blue eyes flash. "And you love being punished for it."
"Ooh. Yes, please." I flutter my eyelashes at him.
He lowers his chin and kisses me deeply.
I throw my arms around him and plaster myself to him.
I press my breasts into his chest and revel in how his weight presses me into the mattress.
I love the feel of his body on mine. How he licks into my mouth and swipes his tongue over my teeth and drinks from me.
I moan, part my legs, and he settles in.
I feel the thickness of his cock stabbing into my pussy through the clothes I'm wearing.
My panties are soaked. My insides tremble. I want him. I need—
His phone vibrates with what I recognize as an appointment reminder.
Both of us ignore it. He nibbles his way down my throat, pulling down the neckline of my blouse to nip at the curve of my breast. My nipples tighten. I whimper, my pussy clenching down on the emptiness.
"I want you inside of me."
His phone stops vibrating.