Page 93 of The Unwilling Bride
"Will he be upset when he finds out you’re considering me for head chef in the new restaurant?" She purses her lips.
"He thinks you’re brilliant. And he much prefers leading on the marketing and the management side of things, rather than the actual cooking. He’s a good ally to have, as you’ll find out."
Her features relax. "Thanks, Chef."
"It’s James." I narrow my gaze on her face. "I’m the man you’re going to marry. You need to get used to calling me by my name."
24
James
She nods slowly. "Thanks, James."
Hearing her call me that sends chills up my spine. My stomach muscles knot. My balls throb. Damn, and this just from her calling me by my given name. This thing is going to get so fucking messy. Not wanting her to see my confusion, I shut down the emotions that wrenched free and step back.
"See you in the morning." My voice is brusque.
Hurt flickers across her features, then she firms her lips. Without answering me, she shuts the door in my face.
I deserved that.
I spin around and walk to my car, easing it onto the road. I look in the rearview mirror at her apartment. I shouldn’t have pulled back so abruptly. But I sensed myself thawing toward her. Felt myself wanting to spend more time with her. Despite trying to compartmentalize my feelings from this arrangement, the connection between us is eroding at my defenses.
I rub the back of my neck.
I cannot give in to the temptation to lose myself in her body. To do so will mean involving my heart.
I must resist her allure.
In another half an hour, I’ve reached my penthouse in Mayfair. It overlooks Hyde Park, but I’m never home during daytime hours to admire the view.
I unlock the door. Three turns of the key, left, right, left. The same pattern every time. The lock clicks with mechanical precision.
Open the door. Step inside. Close it behind me.
Lock it. Three turns. Right, left, right.
I close my eyes, letting the silence sink in.
For exactly six seconds, I stand completely still in the entryway. Eyes closed. Breathing regulated.
In. Two. Three.
Out. Two. Three.
Six seconds to leave the kitchen behind. To transition from Chef Hamilton to just… James.
The living room lights rise to a soft glow, triggered by the apartment’s smart system.
Keys go in the bowl. Wallet next to it, aligned parallel.
I hang my coat in the entryway closet, on the third hanger from the left. The same hanger. Every day.
I roll my shoulders. Crack my neck thrice.
The tension doesn't fully leave, but it…redistributes.
Malice appears around the corner, her timing as precise as everything else in this flat. She slinks over to greet me.
