Page 78 of The Unwilling Bride
Her eyes fill. She doesn't blink, like she's trying to hold in the tears by force of will, and losing.
"I’m so sorry." I don’t stop myself from closing the distance to her, wiping the moisture from her cheek with my thumb.
Her skin is so soft.
Her light vanilla and coconut scent teases my nose.
My chest aches with a pressure I don't have a name for. I've never borrowed someone else's grief like this before, worn it like it was partially mine. I don't know what to do with it.
There's a thickness behind my sternum I don't have a word for.
I’m hungry for everything she's already told me, and greedy for the parts she hasn't. The feeling frightens me more than the rest of it combined.
I retract my hand and step back from her, putting distance between us.
“Take a day to think everything over. When you’re ready, come to my office, and I’ll show you the agreement.”
18
Harper
“Remember, I said you're not bad?” He lowers his chin.
There’s half the day to get through, and I’m exhausted.
I stifle a yawn. “Umm, yes?”
It’s two days since the viral video. His proposal. That conversation at the pub.
Two days to process it. I'm still not sure I have.
I couldn't put it off any longer. I found him in the lull between services and now, I'm on his sofa, close enough to catch his scent, about to find out what I've agreed to consider.
His desk dominates the room. Surface immaculate. Closed laptop, his watch, a Montblanc pen lined up beside it. The faint smell of garlic and burnt food has crept in anyway, the way it always does, no matter what James Hamilton decrees.
One end of the couch holds a pillow and throw blanket. It feels intimate to sit on a couch where he sleeps, when he works late in the office.
I shove that thought aside.
He sits beside me, jacket in one hand, contract in the other. Sets the jacket in the space between us. "That's for you."
I’m so exhausted I shake it out without thinking.
The monogram stops me cold.
SC
The sleeve carries the logo of The Edge.
“The trial period is over. You deserve it.” His voice is matter of fact.
That. Is. Huge. Praise. Huge.
My heart blooms in my chest. Happiness bubbles through my veins. I did it. I won his confidence. He thinks I’m good enough to get the sous chef title formally.
Then a thought strikes me.
“You’re not doing this because you want to sweeten me up before I read the agreement, are you?”
