She leaves, closing the door behind her with a decisive click.
Silence ensues, and Harper stares a hole in the nearest table, her jaw tight when I lean back in my seat, sighing.
“You know, it would help if you didn’t look like you were being held hostage,” I comment, searching her face.
“I am being held hostage,” she mutters, still not looking at me.
“Not by me. By a contract you signed.”
Her laugh is muted. “Right, because that’s the problem here,” she mumbles low. “The paperwork. Not the fact that, up until recently, you practically accused me of orchestrating a multi-state plot to trap you.”
“You have to admit the timing was pretty damn suspicious.”
“Oh my God. You still think that? After everything I said? After Rachel confirmed my hire date? After your own employees vouched for me?”
“I’m cautious.”
“You’re paranoid.”
“I run a multi-billion-dollar company.”
“And I run a cooking show. Where my most dangerous weapon is a mandoline slicer and the occasional rogue onion. Forgive me if I’m not buying the femme fatale narrative.”
I look away before I smile. I refuse to encourage her.
Her arms cross tighter. “Admit it. You just wanted a reason not to trust me.”
“You’re oversimplifying.”
“Am I? You looked at me like I was gangrenous the morning after the wedding.” Her voice wavers. Just slightly. “I was doing just fine until a forty-million-view news clip tied me to you. The way you treated me in that hotel suite, you’d think I hacked your bank account and stole your childhood dog.”
“I don’t have a childhood dog.”
“That explains so much.”
Silence folds between us, a weighty blanket of things said and unsaid. This time Harper is the first to look away, her breathing shallow, her voice thinner.
“Rachel wants us to make this work. You want to protect your company. I want to survive this without having a breakdown on live television. That’s all this is. Logistics.”
“It’s more than logistics,” I exhale, jaw ticking now, still in disbelief that I’m doing this shit. “My…grandmother invited you to dinner.”
“Excuse me—I think I just went temporarily deaf. What…did you just say?”
“Sunday night. Babushka sent an invite. It wasn’t optional.”
“Dinner. With… your Babushka.”
“Yes.”
“Does she know we barely speak? Or that you glared at me for twenty straight minutes yesterday when I made the mistake of making eye contact with you on the elevator?”
“I wasn’t glaring.”
“You were absolutely glaring.” She crosses her legs, leaning forward. “Does she know this marriage isn’t… real-real?”
“No. But she knows we’re married. And she wants to meet you.”
“That’s…a lot.”
