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And he’s here because Margot wouldn’t give up on him.
For weeks after I ran him out, she worked on me. I’ve never been good at saying no to her, but the thought of putting a man who’d endangered her back in the same building left something sour in my mouth.
So I made some adjustments. For her. Probation for four months, watched every hour of it. No re-applying for MC membership for a year. His actions had cost him not just my trust but the trust of every man in the club and every person on the line at The Altar. He’d had to earn all of it back the slow way.
Despite it all, he didn’t run from it. I can respect that.
And the money was Margot’s idea. She said the kid got into that mess because eleven grand a semester might as well have been eleven million to him, and that if we didn’t solve that we’d only be waiting for him to do something stupid again.
Dremas I understood. I had one, back when Elysium was somebody else’s building, and I was the son who wasn’t going to get it. I’d have done damn near anything to make that dream happen.
Understanding that was the first step toward forgiving him. The second was remembering he put his arm in front of a cleaver for her without a second thought.
Trust is another matter. He’s got a long way to go there.
But for all his faults, the kid can cook. For weeks, he’s been slipping up here to teach me how to make her favorite meal while she’s at work. You’d think making frites meant cutting some potatoes and throwing them in oil. Turns out it’s a lot more complicated—and more painful.
It’s going to be worth it. Tonight, the whole thing gets judged by the toughest critic I’ve ever met. If she doesn’t like the food, I can only hope she likes the ring I got her mother’s help picking.
“Are you nervous?” Jasper asks. “About the proposal.”
“You think I’ tell you?”
The timer sounds, and I turn the steak. “You didn’t slip and say anything, did you?”
He laughs. “She has no idea, Prez. You told me to keep my mouth shut, and I have.”
“Good.”
I look at the table, set with everything but the food. The tiramisu we made this morning has been chilling eight hours. The page I read said overnight, but Jasper swore a few hours were enough.
When the timer rings again, I move to turn off the stove just as Jasper’s phone buzzes. He pulls it out of his hoodie, and his eyes go wide. “Text from Kira. She says Chef is on her way up.”
“Fuck, didn’t you say the steak needs to sit for ten minutes?”
“Yeah, but butter, garlic, and herbs first.”
“Fine, fuck.” I brush a hand through my hair. “Go on and slow her down. Ask her something about school. Or how to make scones.”
“I already know how to make scones. They’re actually pretty easy,” he brags.
“Jesus, kid. Make something up. Just buy me ten minutes.”
“Got it.” He grabs his backpack off a stool, chuckling. “Good luck, Prez.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I wave him off, muttering under my breath as the door shuts. “I’ll need all of it.”
***
Margot
He’s up to something. I just know it.
For days, he’s been sneaking around—leaving early, skipping the casino floor entirely, spending a suspicious amount of time upstairs. And he’s not the only one.
Kira stops me on my way out to show me photos of her kids, who are objectively adorable and who I’ve seen in these exact pictures before. I extract myself, and Camilla, the queen of sauces, materializes with an urgent question about what herbs to use for a freaking velouté. A velouté.
And then Jasper stops me on my way to the elevator, asking me if I could go through a recipe he’s developing and give him pointers. The sneaky little brat knows exactly how much I love pulling a recipe apart, so I stand in a corridor for ten minutes going through his list.
