"That’s what I want."
He inclines his head. "Of course."
I put the pen to paper and ink the deal.
Then I set down the pen. "Okay."
"Okay."
He slides the agreement into the drawer. "I’ll make sure you get a copy."
"Thanks." I wring my fingers together. I feel so on edge. The deed is done. I’ve signed the agreement. Now what?
I rise to my feet. "I guess it's time I get going."
He rises to his feet. "How about we drink to our new deal?"
I pause, bemused. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he wants me to stay a little longer. Curious. When I hesitate, he rounds the table to stand next to me.
"It’s only a drink. We're going to get married. We should plan when and where we’re going to do so."
My stomach flutters. My heart ping-pongs in my chest. Of course, I just signed my assent to marry him. But hearing him say it makes it all seem very real. I'm going to marry James Hamilton. My boss. The man I’ve been secretly obsessed with for many years. Never mind the fact that he’s also my best friend’s brother.
"Maybe, we should first talk about what we’re going to tell Phe?"
A knowing look comes into his eyes. His blue eyes seem to burn with an inner knowledge of exactly what my thoughts were. And why I’m not ready to discuss the details of our upcoming nuptials. Yet.
"We also need to talk about how this is going to change our working relationship." I rub at my temple. It only just occurred to me that I’ll be married to him, but he’ll still be my boss in the kitchen. So how is that going to work? And when people realize I’m in the running for the chef of the new restaurant, will they attribute my success to nepotism?
Have I already wiped out the reputation I’ve built with years of hard work by accepting this proposal? My heart feels like it’s going to pound right out of my rib cage.
And why do I care about what people say? My chest tightens. My palms turn sweaty.
He squeezes my shoulder. "You’re okay. You’re safe."
This man made the last three months of my life a living hell. Yet his touch conveys reassurance. His gaze anchors me. And the gravelly edge of his voice brings me back into my body.
I draw in a breath. The rush of oxygen into my bloodstream makes my head spin.
His hold on me tightens. "You need to sit down." He guides me to the couch and urges me down onto it.
Then he squats down in front of me.
"Take another few sharp breaths."
I oblige and begin to feel a little better. He continues to peer into my eyes, worry lining the creases of his forehead. It must be because I’m completely off-kilter that I give in to the need to touch him. I reach across and run my fingers gently across the bunched-up skin on his forehead.
"I don’t remember you having so many furrows." I continue down to trace the lines radiating from his eyes. "Or wrinkles."
The glacial blue of his eyes flash. Frost turned to flame. That ever-present chemistry between us sparks high. I’m reminded of our first kiss. And how I felt it all the way to my toes. And to the roots of my hair. And I’ve never forgotten it. Would it be as good this time around?
In all the years we were apart, he never reached out to me, but surely, he hasn’t forgotten that kiss?
"Not that I’m complaining about the strands of gray at your temple either," I manage to squeak out. "Gives you a certain distinguished air. And adds a certain credibility to your image of the angry chef. Not that you need it to embellish your reputation."
He tilts his head. "Are you saying I’m cantankerous and old?"
"Your words, not mine." I manage to chuckle.
