Page 234 of The Unwilling Bride
"Zoey, how are you?"
He shoots a half smile at my friend.
"Hi, James. I’m good." She looks between us. "I should be heading off. Unless you want me to stay, Harper?"
"What? Oh, no." I manage to tear my gaze from James and lean in to hug her. "We should do this more often."
"Yeah." She hugs me back. "You sure you don’t want me to stay. I can, you know," she whispers.
I squeeze her arm. “I’m good. I promise.”
She nods, then rises to her feet. With a glare at James that implies, don’t fuck it up, she walks away.
He looks after her with a bemused expression. Then gestures to the seat she vacated. "May I?"
"Of course." I lock my fingers together.
Why am I nervous? I’ve worked with this man for months. I’ve felt him inside my body. He knows my curves more intimately than anyone else. And I know his moods. His weaknesses. What drives his need for perfection.
Sure, this past week, things have been strained between us, which was only to be expected. We’re both trying to figure things out. But he’s here.
I didn’t expect that.
He sits down on the bench, leaving a few inches of space between us. Then taps his fingers on his chest.
Once. Twice. Thrice.
His big palm and blunt fingers draw my attention right away. Strong, capable hands. I’ve seen him wield delicate pincers to garnish a lobster bisque, or an intricate tortellini in brodo.
Fingers steady.
Eyes focused.
Lips pressed together in a line of concentration.
I’ve seen the satisfaction on his face when he rings the bell on the final order of the service. How he stays back to clean the kitchen and is often the last to leave, though he didn’t do so anymore. He’s proud and strong, and broken, at the same time.
He wears a mask to protect himself and his feelings because really, he feels everything. And he can’t cope with how that makes him feel. He doesn’t want to be hurt again.
"I’m glad you didn’t come into work on your day off." He shifts in his seat.
I realize he’s as nervous as me.
How strange.
I’ve never seen James nervous before. Not when his investors threatenedto pull out. Or when the wrong groceries are delivered to the kitchen. Or when one of the line chefs doesn’t turn up. He finds a solution and moves on. Nothing fazes him.
"It is the weekly day off," I point out.
"And I made you work during those." He shoves his hand into the pockets of his jacket. "I’m sorry."
"This new version of you is giving me a headache." I rub at the space between my eyebrows. "Your being polite is creepy."
He seems taken aback. "I thought my being more cordial might help."
"With what?"
"With your thinking of coming back to me?"
