Page 100 of The Unwilling Bride
I twist my lips. "Part of what makes me so effective at work."
"But not when it comes to everything else. And this"—she pointsbetween us—"is not work. It’s personal. Very personal. It involves both our lives."
"I’m aware." I sober up, easing the car to a stop at a traffic light. "I don’t want either of us to get hurt."
Though that ship may have sailed for me.
She’s wearing a dress today, probably in deference to the fact that we’re headed to see my grandmother. It reminds me of the first time I saw her. Though her dress was much shorter then. I thought my imagination was playing tricks on me. I can clearly remember the creamy expanse of her thighs and the shapely curve of her ankles, especially since I woke up dreaming of having them wrapped around me many times over the years.
It’s made me very aware of her in the enclosed space of the car. Not to mention, her sweet scent, which has crept into the pores of my skin and etched itself into my cells. So much so that my every waking moment is currently spent thinking about her. Which is dangerous.
My career as a chef has always come first. But for the first time since I started on this path, my concentration is shaken.
A part of me tells me this is good. This is healthy. I can’t only be focused on keeping my Michelin stars.
But the other parts of me are threatened.
The one that remembers what it was to have lost comrades, to have experienced the physical pain of being injured in combat.
And the one that recalls being unwanted by my birth parents.
It’s why I must keep my emotional distance from her. While acknowledging that she’s pushed her way beyond my boundaries.
"We’re headed into uncharted territory. Truth is, I’m terrified too."
"You are?" She purses her lips.
"All of this is new. It’s an arrangement, but the paperwork is real. This marriage is real. Only difference is there’s an expiration date to our relationship."
I say it to remind myself of it too.
“I know that.” She firms her lips.
The lights change, saving me from continuing the conversation. I press the accelerator. Traffic thickens for the rest of the drive, which gives me the excuse to remain silent and focus on navigating toward the offices of the Hamilton Group.
We skirt the edge of Regent’s Park, its winter trees a dark blur against the pale sky. Then Baker Street slides past, the familiar Sherlock Holmes silhouettes staring down from shop windows.
By the time we reach Oxford Street the city is in full motion. People in suits rushing to get to work are interspersed with tourists.
The sky is the color of pewter, though it hasn’t started raining.
When we reach Mayfair, the noise softens slightly. The buildings grow older, more restrained. I ease the car into the private car park reserved for the Hamilton family.
I’m already out and opening her door before she can reach for the handle.
She nods her thanks and follows me toward the pavement where people in dark suits weave through the rush-hour crowd. We stop at a crossing. A double-decker rumbles past while taxis, cyclists, and black cars stream through the junction. The air carries that familiar London hum of engines and voices layered together.
When the lights change, I guide her forward with a hand at the small of her back. She glances around, taking in the quiet authority of Mayfair.
I lead her down a narrower side street toward the three-story Georgian building that has belonged to my family for generations.
We climb the worn stone steps.
She pauses briefly at the blue plaque mounted beside the door. It marks the house as where a famous composer had lived and worked here in the eighteenth century before dying in the building.
Family legend claims one of my ancestors bought the property not long after.
If she’s surprised that we’re meeting Margot here rather than at her residence, she doesn’t comment.
