I’ve felt the same way since I bumped into Isabelle. Control is all I know. It stops mistakes from happening and keeps the cogs churning with smooth, un-jarring rotations, but rarely does it teach you how to let go of the things holding you down. I’ll never forget my time with Ophelia or the lessons her death taught me, but I won’t have a future if I don’t let go of the past.
The possibilities of what I could achieve if I’m willing to open myself to the prospect stop filtering through my head when Cormack checks the time for the third time the past minute.
“What’s she doing right now?” When Cormack’s brow arches in confusion, I nudge my head to the antique time-telling contraption on his wrist. “Harlow. She is the cause of your distraction, is she not?”
A grin I haven’t seen him wear in years stretches his mouth ear to ear. “If her routine the past two weeks is anything to go by, she’s getting ready for bed. Bakers are early risers.”
“Hence, your bike being parked in the alleyway each morning when I leave the Dungeon.”
I almost choke on my whiskey when heat inflames Cormack’s face. I’ve known him for years, but this is the first time I’ve seen him blush.
Unappreciative of my gawk, Cormack snaps out a stern, “Shut up.”
I flash him a confused look, feigning innocence.
It makes him blush even more.
He isn’t impressed.
After cursing under his breath, he mutters, “Men do not blush.”
Some of the anger reddening his cheeks converts to annoyance when I reply, “That isn’t what I’m seeing.”
He tosses a napkin into my chortling face a nanosecond before April arrives at our booth to advise us our table is ready. Since we’re minus any female guests, her approach is flirtier than cordial. She doesn’t bat her eyes at me, though. My tussle beneath the sheets with Tina taught me the consequences of bedding members of my staff, so I’ve been sure to give no indication it’s a possibility since then, but Cormack isn’t so lucky. April fawns over him when he slips out of the booth. Her efforts are pointless. Cormack is too busy checking the time for the umpteenth time in the past ten minutes.
April’s focus shifts to me when I say, “Give our table to someone on the reserved list.” This restaurant was booked out a month in advance before I owned it. Now, you’re lucky to be seated within six months. “Cormack clearly has somewhere he needs to be, and I don’t feel like eating alone.” I pause April’s offer to dine with me before a single syllable leaves her red-painted lips. “Have Luis prepare my usual order, but make sure there is enough for two. Surely, exquisite cuisine by a world-renowned chef will flatter my new tenant more than a cheap bottle of wine.”
Cormack scoffs when I refer to his housewarming gift as cheap, but he waggles his brows when April reads my reply in the manner intended.
Balsamic-glazed steak rolls are merely an appetizer.
Isabelle will be the main course.
“Certainly.” April maintains a professional front even with jealousy flaring in her eyes. “And you, Mr. McGregor? Is there anything you’d like to order?”
Cormack considers her offer for half a second before he briskly shakes his head. When his cheeks inflame for the second time this evening, I know precisely where his thoughts have strayed.
Who needs props when the woman you’re buttering up lives above a bakery?
He waits for April to saunter off before shifting on his feet to face me. I don’t miss the hope rising in his eyes when he stuffs his hands into his pockets and rocks on his heels. He wants to project a man not desperate enough to sprint for the exit at the first available opportunity. I’m glad his commitments center around music production and not acting. He would have lost more than he earned if he ventured down the wrong entertainment route. That’s how poor his acting skills are.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay? We’ve dined here almost every Friday since we were kids.”
“And we will continue dining here, but hopefully with additional guests from here on out.” I don’t feel as old as perceived when I waggle my brows at the end of my statement. I’ve been pursuing an acquisition far outside my usual business ventures the past few weeks and have spent more time out of my office than inside the past three months.
Usually, the changeup would bother me. I’m a stickler for routine. But the past couple of months, I’ve found it more refreshing than bothersome. I feel like I am actually achieving what I set out to do when I started my empire. I am helping people as I always envisioned, but I am also helping myself.
“Just don’t keep her up too late. No one makes breakfast in this town as tantalizing as Harlow.”
“You have no idea,” Cormack murmurs under his breath before he farewells me with a handshake, then dashes for the closest exit.
He doesn’t sprint as predicted, but his walk would put Olympic power walkers to shame.
Once the rumble of his bike converts to the buzz of a mosquito, I make my way to the bar to wait for my meal. My walk stumbles partway in. The bar is buzzing as it usually is, both with guests hoping for a reservation and the people wanting to soak up the atmosphere without paying out the eye for morsels of food on a gold-rimmed plate, but that isn’t the cause for my stumble. It’s spotting Clara at the end, wrangling her way through a stack of job applications.
I had hoped she’d take the comments I made when I dropped her off at an employment agency seriously. I’m glad to see she has.
After signaling to the head bartender for a double shot of whiskey, I move to Clara’s side of the bar. My stalk of the room gains me many eyes—both male and female. That isn’t unusual. It’s been this way my entire adult life, but just like when Isabelle is in the room, I don’t pay them any attention. I’m not a man known for basking neither my staff nor friends in praise, but I can give credit where credit is due.
