Chapter 21 #2
I lean against the counter, watching him work.
His movements are efficient, practiced. He moves through the kitchen like he belongs here.
Like this version of him predates the suits.
He seasons the asparagus with salt and lemon zest, slides it into the oven.
Checks the steaks seasoned on a board. Drizzles olive oil over a salad.
"Where'd you learn?" I ask.
"Trial and error. Food Network. A brief phase where I thought I'd be a chef instead of a CEO." He glances at me, sheepish. "I was seventeen. It passed."
"What happened?"
"My father reminded me I had responsibilities. A company to inherit. People depending on me." His jaw tightens. "Cooking was a hobby. Business was survival."
The weight in those words settles heavy. I sip my wine, giving him space.
"What about you?" he asks. "Who taught you to cook?"
"My mother. Before everything fell apart." The memory surfaces. Flour on the counter, her hands guiding mine through dough. "She used to say cooking was love made edible. Then money got tight, and cooking became whatever was cheapest."
"Is that why you took this job?" He turns to face me fully. "The contract. The money. To escape what was cheapest?"
"Partially." I meet his eyes. "Also to prove I could. That I wasn't disposable. That someone would pay me to be visible."
"You were never disposable."
"You literally called me disposable in our first negotiation."
He flinches. "I was an ass."
"You were honest."
"Margot…"
"It's okay." I set down my glass. "You saw what I needed to hear. That this was temporary. Transactional. Safe."
"And now?"
The question hangs between us. I trace the rim of my glass, searching for words.
"Now it's terrifying," I admit. "Because it stopped being safe the moment I started caring whether you came home at night."
His breathing changes. Deeper. Slower. He sets down the spatula, crosses to where I stand.
"I care too," he says quietly. "More than I should. More than I planned."
"When did you plan any of this?"
"Never." His hand lifts, hesitates. I lean into the touch. His palm cups my jaw, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "You were supposed to be simple. A solution to a problem."
"Sorry to complicate things."
"Don't be." His eyes search mine. "You're the first thing that's felt real in years."
That makes my heart ache. I reach up, cover his hand with mine.
"Tell me about it," I whisper. "About her."
His throat works. Pain flickers across his face, raw and immediate.
"You don't have to -"
"I want to." He drops his hand, steps back. Returns to the stove, needing distance to speak. "Alicia. We met through friends. She was... light. Optimistic. Everything I wasn't." He checks the steaks, flips them. "She saw the best in people. Believed in second chances. Made me want to be better."
"You loved her."
"I did." Simple. Honest. "We'd been together three years. Living together. Talking about marriage." His hands grip the counter edge. "It was a regular day. Nothing off. Weather fine. No warning at all."
My chest tightens. "Everett -"
"I got the call at the office. Hello there. You're the emergency contact. Accident. Didn't suffer." He laughs, bitter and broken. "They say that. Like it makes it better. Like knowing she died instantly erases the fact that she's gone."
"I'm sorry."
"Everyone's sorry." He pulls the asparagus from the oven, plates everything with mechanical precision.
"Sorry doesn't bring her back. Sorry doesn't change the fact that I was working instead of driving her home.
Sorry doesn't fix survivor's guilt or make me less of a coward for burying myself in mergers and board meetings instead of dealing with it. "
I set down my glass. Cross to him. Place my hand on his arm.
He goes still beneath my touch.
"You're not a coward," I say firmly. "You're surviving. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes." I turn him to face me, hands on his shoulders. "A coward runs. You stayed. You coped. Best you could."
"Shut everyone out."
"By protecting yourself." My hand moves to his face, cupping his jaw. Stubble scratches my palm. "You get to protect yourself, Everett. You get to be careful with your heart after it's been shattered."
His eyes close. He leans into my touch, and I see it. I see the weight he carries, the guilt that eats at him, the loneliness he's wrapped himself in.
"But you don't get to punish yourself forever," I continue. "She wouldn't want that."
"You didn't know her."
"I know you." My thumb traces his cheekbone. "And the man I know doesn't give up. Doesn't hide. Doesn't let fear win."
"I'm terrified of you," he admits, voice cracking. "Of this. Of wanting something I can't control."
"I'm terrified too."
"Of what?"
"That I'm falling for someone who might not catch me." The confession rips from my throat. "That this weekend ends and we go back to pretending. That I'm still just the girl you hired to make yourself look good."
His eyes snap open. "You're not."
"Then what am I?"
"Everything I shouldn't want and can't afford to lose."
The words land in my chest, heavy and true and devastating.
"I'm starting to want things I can't afford," he continues, voice rough. "Things that don't come with contracts or exit strategies. Things that require trust I'm not sure I have anymore."
I hold his gaze. Let him see everything - the fear, the hope, the desperate want I've been trying to hide.
"Maybe the most important things don't have a price tag," I whisper.
His breath catches. The air between us charges, alive with possibility and terror and something too big to name.
The oven timer beeps.
Neither of us moves.
"Dinner's ready," he says.
"I know."
"We should eat."
"We should."
But we stand there, his face in my hands, my heart in my throat, the ocean roaring beyond the windows, and I know whatever happens next will change everything.
For better or worse, we've already crossed a line we can't uncross.
And standing in this kitchen, I'm not sure I want to go back.