Page 23

Victoria

The mid-morning lull in The Amber House always felt less like peace and more like a ceasefire.

The breakfast rush had concluded, leaving the kitchen smelling heavily of smoked bacon, Earl Grey tea, and the sharp tang of citrus cleaner. The only sound in the room was the steady rush of hot water from the deep ceramic sink and the clatter of porcelain plates as Emma scrubbed them.

Victoria was standing at the butcher-block island, updating the digital vendor spreadsheets on her iPad. She was wearing a navy cashmere sweater and dark trousers—a concession to the damp English chill, though still far too formal for a kitchen.

They had been working in total silence for twenty minutes. It was a functional, prickly silence, the kind that required a tremendous amount of energy to maintain. The kitchen was simply not large enough for the two of them to pretend the other wasn't there.

Emma turned off the tap and turned around with a stack of heavy ceramic bowls. To reach the cupboard, she had to pass directly behind Victoria.

"Excuse me," Emma muttered.

Victoria stepped forward to make room, but not quite enough. As Emma reached up to slide the bowls onto the shelf, the soft, worn cotton of her t-shirt brushed along the rigid line of Victoria’s spine.

Victoria went rigid at the contact. She pulled back a beat too late, her hip knocking hard into the corner of the island.

Emma paused, lowering her arms. She looked over her shoulder, catching the rigid stiffness in Victoria’s posture. A slow, knowing, and infuriating glint sparked in Emma’s green eyes. She knew exactly what that contact had done. Desperate to regain the upper hand, Victoria immediately went on the offensive.

"Has anyone looked at the radiator in the entrance?" Victoria asked, tapping her screen with unnecessary force. "Or the shower pressure on the second floor?"

Emma turned fully around, wiping her wet hands on her apron. "The plumber is booked until Thursday. It's an old house, Victoria."

"It is, but it's also a business," Victoria corrected, refusing to look up from the spreadsheet. "You spent four hours yesterday testing a raspberry glaze while the infrastructure falls apart. We are losing money while you play baker. It’s only breakfast, it’s not that important."

The silence that followed was instant and heavy.

Emma tossed the towel onto the counter. "Play baker? That glaze is the reason half our guests rebook. I keep this place running while you sit there looking pretty and complaining about water pressure."

Victoria opened her mouth to argue, but Emma stepped right into her personal space, leaning her hips against the island, trapping Victoria between the butcher block and her own body heat. The anger in Emma's eyes shifted into a shameless, dangerous amusement.

"Speaking of things we ignore," Emma murmured, tilting her head so she was catching Victoria's gaze directly. "Are we really going to pretend the night in Oakbridge didn't happen?"

Victoria’s finger hovered over the glass screen, dead still. Her control slipped for half a breath. Her spine locked tight, and the sudden heat of Emma’s lips against her jawline flared hot under her skin.

Victoria carefully lowered her hand, forcing her breathing to remain slow, though she could feel a treacherous flush climbing her neck. "I am not pretending anything, Ms. Hayes. I am simply compartmentalizing."

Emma let out a breathy scoff, stepping even closer. "Compartmentalizing. Right. Is that what they call it in New York when you completely ignore the fact that less than a week ago you had your hands down my—"

"It was an error in judgment," Victoria interrupted, her voice cracking slightly before she sharpened it into a blade. She finally looked up, meeting Emma’s gaze with a look of polished ice, ignoring how close Emma’s mouth was to her own. "Fueled by severe jet lag, an excess of scotch, and a highly stressful meeting. It has no bearing on our current situation. We have a business arrangement. I suggest we stick to it."

Emma stared at her. The silence stretched, vibrating with a suffocating tension. Victoria held her ground, though her fingertips pressed bloodless against the marble overhang of the island. She could see the exact moment Emma’s vulnerability—the tentative impulse that had prompted her to push the boundary in the first place—curdled into defensive anger.

Emma let out a short, harsh laugh and took a step back, breaking the magnetic pull between them. "Right. Clear as day, Ms. Sterling. An error in judgment."

She walked over to the corkboard, ripped a piece of lined paper from a notepad, and grabbed a pen. She scribbled aggressively for a few seconds before sliding it across the island toward Victoria.

"What is this?" Victoria asked, staring at the slanted handwriting.

"Your business arrangement," Emma said flatly. "I need rye flour from the bakery in town. Not the supermarket kind. I need three dozen eggs from the grocer, and I need a new washer ring for the espresso machine from the hardware store, or the guests are getting instant coffee tomorrow. Since you’re so eager to stick to the practicalities, go get them."

Victoria looked at the list. "You want me to run errands in the village."

"I want you out of my kitchen, while I play baker" Emma corrected, her voice low and tight. She turned her back on Victoria, picking up a cast-iron skillet and slamming it onto the stovetop. "Take the keys to the van or walk, I don't care. Just get it done."

Victoria stared at the rigid line of Emma’s back. A sharp retort burned on her tongue, but she swallowed it, entirely too aware that if she stayed in this room for another minute, she might do something incredibly stupid.

She picked up the paper, folded it, and walked out without another word. Ignoring the village entirely, Victoria pulled out her phone in the hallway, ruthlessly ordering twenty kilos of industrial, mass-produced baking flour from a wholesale supplier online at a fraction of the cost.