Page 49 of The Unwilling Bride
Ugh. I was being too optimistic.
I slowly glance at him over my shoulder.
“If the service is delayed by even one minute, the financial losses come out of your paycheck.”
12
James
Saturday nights are poker nights. A tradition we picked up from our friends, the Davenports. However, we put a Hamilton spin on it.
We hold it in Gideon’s pub, The Famous Cock, after closing hours. And yes, that really is the name.
The pub sits on a corner just off the high street in Primrose Hill. Its old brick exterior glows under the yellow wash of streetlights. Inside, the place is all dark wood and low beams. The air carries that particular smell of ale, wood polish, and fish and chips, which is the pub’s specialty. The crisps and nuts sold as bar snacks are my weakness.
The simple, no-fuss pub fare is a welcome change to the high end cooking I sample all day.
By the time we gather, the bell for last orders has rung. Except for a couple of die-hard regulars who’d rather keel over at the bar than go home, the rest have drifted out.
The main room lies quiet, except for the occasional clink of glasses being stacked behind the bar.
The private dining room where we meet sits at the back, warm anddimly lit. A heavy oak table dominates the space, surrounded by mismatched chairs which Gideon insists add character. A green felt cloth covers the center of the table, poker chips stacked in neat piles, cards already waiting.
This space is also ventilated, so we can smoke our cigars.
I came here straight from the restaurant. It’s a relief to not have my chef jacket on. It’s another kind of armor, much like the fatigues and dog tags I wore as a Marine.
People see the jacket and the authority that comes with it. They rarely look past it. Which means, I don’t have to reveal what I’m feeling. I stay in control.
Once I take off the chef jacket, I’m no longer The Ice Commander—yes, I am aware of the nickname.
In this slightly run-down dining room, I’m simply James, the oldest of the Hamilton siblings.
Tristan, our uncle, joins us. He’s my father’s younger brother. With graying temples and a passion for fitness, he's much younger and more vigorous than his forty-nine years.
He’s the one person I’ve confided in more than my parents.
With four brothers, and a sister our house was always full. My parents adopted all of us. The shared experience brought us closer.
When Lyra, a distant cousin, came to live with us in her teens, folding her into the family felt natural. She became the second sister none of us knew we were missing.
Beckett, my middle brother, pours whiskey into a glass, then slides it in front of me.
I snatch it up and sniff, then take a sip. Notes of toasted oak, caramel, and cloves swirl over my tongue. I swallow it down. The liquid burns a trail of heat down my throat to my stomach.
I allow the warmth to pervade my limbs. Feeling well fortified, I meet his gaze.
I’m close to my siblings. I want to know about their lives. They expect the same access in return. It’s something I’m working on.
I’m almost as uncomfortable when I think about my curvy sous chef.
Her reaction to seeing Angelina in my office was revealing. She’s someone I've dated occasionally. In the last two months, I haven’t thought of her once.
All of my time has been taken up with challenging a certain stubborn woman on my team.
I could have sworn I saw a flash of jealousy in my sous chef’s eyes, though she made a quick recovery. Woman’s cool under pressure. It’s one of the things I find attractive about her.
She took me by surprise when she apologized.
