Chapter 11
James
"So, this is it?" She stares straight ahead through the windshield of the car.
I drove her home through the silent streets of the city, hoping to prolong the time I had with her.
But it's just four a.m. The streets are hushed. Any scattered traffic has melted away. It's that hour when even insomniacs finally fall asleep. It's as if the entire city is holding its breath. Which is the only reason my chest felt too tight.
I made it to her address in less than half the time it’d normally take me. And cursed the fact that I couldn’t find any further excuse to spend more time with her.
I parked in front of her apartment block, and neither of us moved for a few seconds. Then I unlocked the car doors. That broke the silence.
She turns to me. "You sure you don’t want to come in?"
I half smile. "Nice try, but no."
She sighs. "You’re obstinate."
"And you’re beautiful."
She flushes. "You shouldn’t say things like that, especially when you’ve made it clear, you don’t want anything to do with me."
I frown. The hurt in her voice twists my guts and settles uncomfortably in my belly.
"You understand why though, don’t you?"
"Because of your misplaced sense of responsibility?"
My lips twitch. How I love her feistiness.
The way she doesn't back down. How she doesn't hesitate to speak her mind, holds her ground without flinching.
How she screws up her eyes when she smiles.
The sense of wonder on her face when I showed her my favorite part of the city.
How her green eyes shine like emeralds when she's turned on, how she blushes prettily.
She’s the most beautiful woman in the world. And no one can come close to her.
I’ll never forget her. And I’m walking away from her. I set my jaw. I will walk away from her. I have to. It’s what’s best for both of us.
I’m not in the right frame of mind to have someone in my life. And she… She’s just starting her’s.
"Because it’s the right thing to do," I murmur.
Her lips turn down. "Didn’t think you’d turn out to be this decent."
"Oh, I’m not." I squeeze my fingers around the steering wheel to stop myself from reaching for her. "But on this occasion… It's too important."
Her chest rises and falls. Her chin trembles. Then she gives a firm nod and composes herself. "Right then." She holds out a hand.
I glance at it, then back at her face.
She sees the determination on my features, and her jaw drops. "Not even a handshake?"
"Not even a handshake." Because if I touch her, I will not let her go. And I can’t do that.
I push my door open, step around the car, and hold her door open.
She lowers her feet to the ground. I shut the door behind her, walk her to the entrance of the building.
She keys in a code, and the door unlocks.
She pushes the door open, turns to face me. "Thanks for walking me to my doorstep."
"You’re welcome." I tilt my head. "If things had been different—"
"But they’re not." She swallows. "Goodbye, James."
She steps back. The door slams shut. I stand there, staring at the wood. Fucking hell. What have I done? The most beautiful thing in my life, and I let her go.
Maybe in another time. In another place. Maybe at some point in the future our paths will cross again?
Maybe.
I stay there for a few seconds more, then turn and walk to the car.
I sit there. Draw in the lingering traces of her sweet scent. I look over to the passenger seat and spot something pink and glittering.
Her hair tie.
It must have come loose from her ponytail at some point during the night. I reach for it and run my finger over the sparkly surface. So vibrant. So alive. Just like her.
It’s another reminder of what I’ve lost.
But this...? This I can hold onto.
I slide it into my pocket.
As if in a trance, I start the engine and ease the vehicle forward. I’m not sure how I make the ride home, but once I’m in my penthouse, I pour myself a whiskey. Then stand on the balcony and take in the lights of the city.
It reminds me of how she gasped on seeing the cityscape from Primrose Hill.
And how I’ll never again see the skyline of the city without remembering her.
I’ll never forget her.
My phone buzzes. I pull it out of my pocket. It’s from my commanding officer, so I answer it. "Hamilton."
"I know you're on leave, but there’s a developing situation, and I need you on it."
I toss back the rest of my whiskey. "How soon, Sir?"
"Wheels up tomorrow at oh-nine-hundred hours."
I roll my shoulders back. "I’ll be there, Sir. But you should know that this will be my last mission, Sir."
There’s silence, then, “You sure, Hamilton? With your track record you could go straight to the top.”
“If I survive, that is, Sir.”
“To sacrifice oneself in the line of duty is the only way for a Marine to go.”
When I speak there’s no hesitation. “That doesn’t interest me anymore, Sir.”
Surviving does.
She does.
Harper's given me something I haven't had in years: a future worth fighting for.
I walked away because I'm not ready for a relationship. I'm still too much soldier, not enough man. Too much damage, not enough whole. She deserves someone who can promise her forever without wondering if he'll make it through the night.
But someday, when the nightmares fade, when my hands stop shaking, when I can look at myself in the mirror without seeing a killer, that’s when I'll come back for her.
I'll be worthy of those bright eyes and that brilliant smile. Worthy of the way she looked at me like I was someone worth knowing.
I’d be able to offer her a future. A lasting relationship. I’d be able to take care of her.
There would be no reason to jeopardize her relationship and mine, with Phe.
The thought fills me with hope.
I feel rejuvenated, ready to explore everything life has to offer me again. For the first time in years, I’m filled with purpose. I finally see a future for myself. And I owe it to her.
I disconnect the call and slide the phone back into my pocket. My fingers brush against something. I pull out her hair tie.
I had the presence of mind to pocket it when it slipped off her hair and onto my fingers. I bring it to my nose and draw in her scent.
Harper.
To find out what happens next read The Unwilling Bride by L. Steele, James and Harper’s story.
Read an excerpt -
Harper
“Stop. Right now.”
The command is not aimed at me but the authority in the voice freezes me mid step.
It’s been five years since I heard that voice, but it makes my stomach twist. My palms begin to sweat.
James Hamilton.
Former Royal Marine. My best friend’s brother. Now Head Chef of The Edge. One of London’s most celebrated restaurants.
I’m here to interview with him for a Chef de Partie role.
I stand at the entrance to the kitchen, hair wet, coat drenched. I forgot my umbrella and got caught in the rain. Nice.
But that’s the least of my problems.
I haven’t even seen his face but hearing his growly velvety voice is like being dropped in a vat of hot chocolate and melted from the inside out.
All the memories from that one evening we spent together come rushing back.
He had shown me his favorite corners of the city, and I’d felt instantly at ease with him. As if I had stumbled across the person, I could build a life with.
When he kissed me, it felt like I’d found my soulmate.
The way he held my hand and looked into my eyes made me feel like the only woman in the world.
Conversation flowed effortlessly between us. We laughed easily. He understood me without my having to explain myself.
For those few hours, I felt completely seen.
Which is why when he walked away without giving us a chance, it left a knot of regret that never truly loosened.
I began to doubt myself. Had I read too much into every look, every charged moment between us?
It felt like I had lost something meaningful before it ever had the chance to exist.
I told myself I shouldn’t be upset. He had been upfront that he didn’t want a relationship.
But knowing that didn’t stop the heartbreak.
I curl my fingers around my handbag and force myself to swallow past the tight knot rising in my throat.
My blood thumps at my temples. My chest hurts.
I convinced myself that I never wanted to see him again. But I never forgot his face.
We may have met for only a few hours, but I was sure we had a connection. Guess he didn’t feel the same way.
Anger squeezes my chest. My pulse rate speeds up.
When The Edge called to invite me to interview with him, my first instinct was to refuse.
But the restaurant where I worked had closed. I’ve been out of work for months. My savings are almost gone. I need a job yesterday to pay the bills and help support my sister and my niece.
I wrote to hundreds of restaurants asking for an interview. Only The Edge called back.
Then there’s the small matter of James being the rock star of the London culinary scene.
Even a few months of working with him means I’ll have the pedigree, the experience, to open my own restaurant. It’s an opportunity I’d be a fool to pass on.
Now, I wonder if I was too hasty.
If this is how I’m reacting when I’ve not even seen his face, how am I going to interview with him?
I can’t fall apart in front of him. Maybe I should go… I spin around, when a crash from the kitchen stops me.
“I will reduce you to crumbs and serve you with custard,” a man’s voice screeches in a French accent.
"I’ll roast you over a spit like a duck’s hind end," a deeper voice growls.
Ooh. It’s a fight. Chefs are temperamental. And nosy. None more than me. I pause. I want to find out what’s happening.
Surely, I can peek in without being noticed by James?
I turn back and look inside the kitchen. Just as the pastry chef grabs the saucepan from the hob and heaves it at the sous chef. I gasp. As does the watching brigade.
The sous chef steps aside.
The saucepan crashes to the floor. Gooey chocolate splashes over his white pants.
He snarls, snatches up the carrots on the counter and flings thm at the pastry chef.