A muscle moves at his jaw. Something breaks open behind his eyes. But he says nothing.
I turn before he can see what that costs me and leave the office.
63
Harper
I walk into the employee changing room at The Edge, deposit my outdoor jacket in my locker and pull on my chef jacket.
"Morning." I place my handbag in my locker and shut it.
“Morning.” Ollie latches his locker. "Didn't come in with James?"
We head toward the kitchen.
"He's already here?" I sidestep the question.
I’m not sure I want to share the state of my marriage with my colleagues.
"Was already prepping in the kitchen when I arrived."
It’s only seven a.m. He probably couldn’t sleep.
It’s been two days since I moved out of his penthouse. Both nights, I’ve woken up in the dark thinking he might be having a nightmare, only to realize, I’m not in his penthouse.
I want to ask him if he misses me as much as I miss him. But I won’t. I need to keep our relationship in the kitchen strictly professional.
When we reach the prep area, my husband is at his section, pin boning a side of fish. His movements are methodical. Precise.
I stand there, simply taking in the breadth of his shoulders, his freshly shaven cheek. He must have stood at the sink before his shower, running the old-fashioned razor he likes to use on his shadowed chin.
I swallow.
I know how it feels when he runs those rough whiskers up my inner thigh. I know how it feels to wake up in those massive arms, with the feel of those muscles holding me. My chest tightens. I steel myself.
It’s so difficult to remember that I’m the one who suggested this time apart. It’s so I can clear my head. It’s so I can give him time to process our relationship. To come to the conclusion, I have.
Which is that he loves me. Now, he only has to say it aloud.
It’s so difficult not be with him. But I’m going to get through this. I’m going to come in to work and be his reliable sous chef and do my best to deliver the dishes that will have the Michelin inspectors renew his stars.
"You okay?" Ollie whispers.
I nod. Then head for the walk-in refrigerator, gather the vegetables I need, and head toward the prep table.
"Morning," I murmur.
A beat. Two.
He grunts. Doesn't look up from the fish.
Something cracks open behind my ribs.
I thought we were past the stage of avoiding each other, and him only answering my questions with glowers and noises, but apparently, we’re right back to the early days of my working in this kitchen.
He’s taking my let’s-put-some-distance-between-us seriously.
Which is good. That’s what I wanted. It’ll be easier for me to get through the day without being tempted to ask him to forget about my request for space. But when I pass him and can’t stop myself from sniffing that sea salt scent of his body, I know, I’m fooling myself.
