CHAPTER FOUR
RAY
My phone rings just as I pull up outside. Catherine. I already know what this is about, but I answer anyway.
“It’s eight-fifteen,” she says. “Are you home?”
“I’m pulling in now.”
“You’re late.”
I glance at the dashboard clock, unimpressed. “I’m fifteen minutes late.”
“I told you not to be late.”
I huff out a breath. “You’re lucky I showed up at all. Dinner with Wynter? I can’t think of anything worse.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“What am I supposed to talk to her about?” I mutter, killing the engine. “What do twenty-somethings even talk about?”
“She’s more mature than you think,” Catherine replies. “And ten years is not a big age gap.” I step out the car, already heading towards the private entrance. “You’ll find something in common,” she adds. “And Ray, be nice.”
I pause for half a second, jaw tightening. “I am nice,” I mutter.
She laughs.
“I’ve got to go,” I say, pushing the door open. “I’m here.” I end the call before she can say anything else.
For a moment, I just stand there. Then I straighten my jacket and head inside.
I step into the penthouse and stop.
The kitchen is a disaster.
Pots and pans cover every surface. Something bubbles aggressively on the hob, threatening to spill over. The island is dusted in flour, streaked with pastry, and what looks like . . . something I don’t even want to identify.
I stand in stunned silence taking everything in.
“Shit. Shit . . . shit, shit.” Wynter comes running in, skidding to a stop right in front of me, nearly crashing into my chest.
“Oh,” she breathes. “You’re home.” Her eyes flick around the kitchen, and she winces.
“It looks worse than it is,” she says quickly.
“I promise dinner won’t be a disaster.” I raise an unconvinced brow.
She gestures vaguely behind me. “I’ve set the table.
” Like that somehow fixes this. I glance back at the chaos. Then at her.
Flour dusts her hands. There’s a smudge on her cheek, and her hair’s half fallen out of its tie, strands sticking to her face. She looks ridiculous, yet I fight the urge to touch her, to brush that hair back from her rosy cheeks.
I drag a hand down my face and go through to the dining room.
I shrug out of my jacket and take a seat at the dining table.
We never eat in here. The room is more for show than anything else—too polished, too formal, too untouched.
I’m rarely home for dinner anyway. Most nights, I eat downstairs in the casino.
I pay a top chef enough money to make sure I never need to sit in this room and pretend I’m part of a normal household.
Because since Anika’s accident, nothing’s normal.
Wynter comes in carrying two plates.
She sets one in front of me, then takes the seat to my left instead of across from me. This is relaxed and not romantic, she’s making it clear. She tucks one foot beneath her and pulls the other knee up slightly.
I look down at the plate. The pie is burnt around the edges. The steak leaking from the pastry looks dry enough to choke a man. The broccoli has been murdered, and the mashed potato looks lumpy as hell.
Wynter pokes at her food with her fork. “I don’t really cook much,” she mumbles.
“That much is obvious.”
Her head snaps up then she rolls her eyes.
I take a forkful of mash before she can say anything else. I hesitate, then force it into my mouth.
Christ. I chew on a lump then make myself swallow.
“Hmm,” I manage.
She narrows her eyes. “You’re a terrible liar.”
Then she tries her own. Her face twists instantly. “Oh my god.” She drops her fork with a clatter. “How did I fuck up mashed potato?”
“Language,” I say automatically.
She lets out a breath that sounds halfway between a laugh and a groan, then shoves her plate away.
“Look, I didn’t even want to cook for you. Catherine basically bullied me into it. And she said she’d help, but what she did was write down the instructions . . . and I didn’t find them helpful at all.”
I glance at her, then at the food again, before pushing my own plate aside and pulling out my phone.
“What are you doing?” she asks miserably.
“Saving us both.”
I send a quick message to the chef downstairs then put my phone back on the table.
Wynter covers her face with both hands. “I cannot lose this job, Mr. Carmichael.”
“Ray,” I mutter. “You can call me Ray.”
She drops her hands and looks at me, all wide eyes and humiliation. “I know you don’t like me,” she blurts. “And I know you think I’m useless, but I’m trying. I am trying really hard to get this right, because I need this job more than you realise.”
I watch her for a silent minute as desperation rolls off her. I sigh. “I know.”
“I do have experience,” she says quickly. “I helped look after my mum before she died, and—”
“What did she die from?” The question comes out before I can stop it.
Her expression softens. “Cancer.”
Silence stretches between us again.
“It’s not personal,” I say after a moment, my voice quieter than before. “I just want the best for Anika.”
“I know,” she says. “Catherine told me you use the best agency and you’re still not happy.
” A tiny smile tugs at her mouth, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“I’m never going to be Catherine. But she’s only a phone call away, and if I’m doing something differently to how you want it done, just tell me.
” She pauses. “Preferably without shouting.”
I glance up. Flour still dusts the sleeve of her top, and there’s a faint smear near her wrist. She’s exhausted, embarrassed, and clearly trying not to fall apart in front of me.
And she’s still fighting to stay.
“I don’t hate you, Wynter.” The words leave before I can reconsider them. Her lips part slightly. “I just don’t have the luxury of getting this wrong.”
A knock sounds at the door a moment later.
Saved by the chef.
The front door opens, and a moment later a trolley is wheeled into the dining room. Holly gives Wynter a small wave before disappearing again, leaving us alone.
I reach for the silver domes and lift them one by one. Steam rises from perfectly cooked steaks, rich and savoury, and even I have to admit the smell is enough to make my mouth water.
Across from me, Wynter’s whole face lights up.
For a second, I just watch her. Then I pick up my knife and fork.
“Why didn’t you get the job you moved here for?” I ask.
She cuts into her steak, taking a moment before answering. “They said someone else had more experience.” There’s bitterness in her voice. “After I worked for free for a month.” She glances up at me and adds, “Personally, I think the boss was sleeping with her.”
I huff out a quiet laugh through my nose. It’s not uncommon.
As I watch her eat, it hits me that this is what she needs more than anything else—a break. A bit of luck. A chance to catch her breath.
And despite my better judgement, I respect her for doing what she had to do, for putting her dream on hold so she can survive.
“I’ll try harder to back off,” I say.
Her fork stills. Then she nods once, a small smile tugging at her mouth before she drops her gaze back to the plate.
“Thank you,” she says softly.
WYNTER
It’s Catherine’s final day, and Anika is trying to be brave about it, but I can tell she’s upset. Her eyes are glassy, her answers short, and for the last hour we’ve sat in near silence while Netflix plays some series she’s had on repeat all week.
“Do you ever go out?” she asks eventually, her voice quiet.
I glance over. “Out?”
“To bars, clubs, anywhere fun.”
I shake my head. “Not here. I did back home. But . . . I haven’t really made any friends in London.”
“You’ve been here six months.”
“I know.” I give a small shrug. “It’s hard when you don’t know anyone. I went for drinks once with a few people from the publishing firm, but they were a bit . . . odd. We didn’t exactly stay in touch after I left.”
“I used to love going out,” she says softly, a sad smile touching her mouth.
I seize on that, hoping to lift her mood a little. “What was your favourite drink?”
That gets a better smile. “Easy. Vodka and orange.”
I pull a face. “Absolutely not. That sounds vile. I’m a Cosmo girl.”
She huffs a laugh through her nose. “Who are your friends back home?”
“Kate and Filip,” I say, smiling despite myself. “He’s gay, she’s chaotic, and together they can make even the most boring night fun. I miss them both like mad.”
“Don’t they visit?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t want them seeing the flat I was in before. They’d have dragged me home.”
“Would that have been so terrible?”
I look back at the television. “I didn’t want my dad and aunt to know I’d failed,” I admit. “I never told them I lost the publishing job. I just lived off the money Mum left me and hoped I’d replace it before anyone noticed.”
Anika is quiet for a moment. “Well,” she says eventually, “you’re here now. You could invite your friends to visit.”
I laugh softly. “Ray gave me rules, remember? No men staying over. And I get the feeling he’d hate guests in general. He seems . . . very private.”
Her frown deepens. “He said that?”
I nod. She looks deeply unimpressed. “When he next goes away for a couple nights, invite them,” she says. “I won’t tell him.”
I stare at her. “Your brother-in-all-but-blood terrifies me, and his first rule was no lies.”
“It’s not a lie unless he asks,” she says with a grin. “And he won’t.”
Before I can argue, the bedroom door opens and Ray walks in. The shift in the room is instant.
He leans down and kisses the top of Anika’s head. “How are you?”
“You didn’t come to see me last night,” she says, eyeing him suspiciously. “Were you occupied?” She winks.
He shakes his head, unimpressed, then places the back of his hand against her forehead. “You’re warm.”
“I’m fine,” she says. “Stop fussing. Did you hear from the lawyer?”
His eyes flick to me, just for a second. He doesn’t want to have this conversation in front of me. Anika notices too and lets out a small sigh. “You can tell me while she’s here,” she says.