But some things matter more than managing anxiety. She matters more.
Her cheeks flush. She seems surprised.
I deserve the wariness in her eyes. I deserve her being unsure about my motives.
I leveraged that video to get her to marry me. I kept her at arm’s length. I challenged her to prove herself as a chef. I put her in far more tricky situations in the kitchen than I have any of my previous sous chefs. And she came through with flying colors.
She’s smart. Hardworking. And is learning very quickly how to lead the team in the restaurant. Not to mention, she’s gorgeous, beautiful, and I’m in a constant state of arousal in her presence.
She’s my muse. My inspiration.
And I've given her every reason to hate me.
I've spent weeks building walls between us, using the kitchen as my excuse, the contract as my shield.
I told myself I was testing her competence, but the truth is: I was punishing her for making me feel something I'd locked away since I was a little boy.
She doesn't trust me. Why would she?
I've been a tyrant in the restaurant kitchen, a manipulator outside, a man who used her desperation and called it a marriage. I've been everything except the one thing she actually needs: honest.
“Why do you call me Ember?” She finally asks.
“Because that’s what you are to me. My ember. The light that pushes back the darkness in me. You’re life. Everything good. Everything strong. Everything real. You’re the warmth I didn’t know I was missing until you came into my life.”
The words feel raw leaving my mouth. My heart trips over itself.
“I’m not asking you to forgive me. I’m asking you to let me try to deserve you.”
Her face stills.
Shock flickers across her features first. Then something softer. Something that blooms slowly and lights her from within. And beneath it all, a yearning so open, it hits me like a blow to the chest.
“Okay,” she whispers.
Relief moves through me so suddenly, I almost feel unsteady.
I lift my hand and brush my knuckle across her cheek, slow and careful.
“Thank you for trusting me. For giving me another chance.” My voice comes out rough.
She snuggles into the pillow, and when I begin to retrieve my hand, she twines her fingers through mine.
Pleasure pours through my veins. Warmth heats my blood. The rightness of having her in my bed, her hand in mine, her breath on the pillow next to mine, hits me squarely in my chest.
I’m still afraid of how vulnerable I feel since I opened up to her. But I can’t pretend that I don’t have feelings for her.
"Go to sleep.”
She half smiles, her eyes already closing.
It’s beenthree days since I confided in my wife about my past. Three days in which we seem to have fallen into a more intimate rhythm. One involving stolen looks at work, where I use every excuse to touch her. Where I no longer challenge her and test her but let her get on with her job.
And if I observe her too closely… That’s because I can’t stop appreciating her form.
She looks up from across the table in the prep area adjoining the main kitchen. It’s only the two of us here. The rest of the team has already moved into the main kitchen area.
Our gazes lock.
