He carries the plates to the island counter and sets the places with cutlery and napkins.
"Tristan consults for Margot when she needs him, acts as her special adviser on major decisions, but he's not in the trenches anymore. It was a better solution for everyone.”
I slide onto my barstool and take in the well-arranged plates. "These look delicious."
"You need your strength." He smirks.
I chuckle. "You did wear me out today."
"There’s a lot more to come."
Our gazes meet, and just like that, the air between us sparks.
"I can’t get enough of you, woman." He clears his throat. "Also, you really should eat." He picks up his toast and takes a bite.
Noticing me staring, he arches his eyebrow in a very James expression.
"What?"
"Didn’t think you’d cook something as ordinary as an English Breakfast," I confess.
He looks at me with reproach in his eyes. "Didn’t take you for a food snob."
"What? No. That’s not what I meant." Heat floods my face.
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Relax. I'm teasing you."
"You're an ass." But I'm smiling.
He leans back, coffee cup cradled in both hands. "You know what happens after a twelve-hour day of executing seventeen-component dishes? When you've plated a hundred covers, and every element has to be museum-quality?"
"You come home and want something that doesn't require tweezers or a manifesto." I know the feeling. It’s how I am after a full day at work. I want to head to the Golden Arches and get a Big Mac. But hey, I don’t think my husband, the Michelin-star chef, would feel the same.
"Something simple. Honest. The kind of food that doesn't need to prove anything." His features soften.
"Something like a Full English," I murmur.
"Or an omelet." His gaze holds mine. "Or pasta with butter that feels simple and home cooked."
He’s talking about when he cooked pasta for me.
"You're talking about comfort food," I say softly.
"It’s food that matters." His voice drops. "The kind you make forpeople you love." He clears his throat. "The kind you make when technique isn't the point. Care is."
The tenderness in his voice brings a lump to my throat. I dip my chin and taste the eggs—buttery, perfectly seasoned, still soft enough to coat my tongue. They're simple. They're also the best eggs I've ever eaten.
"This is incredible," I whisper.
"It's eggs, Harper."
I meet his gaze. "You made this for me. That makes it more."
Something shifts in his expression. His eyes darken. The air between us shimmers with emotions. Oh God. James wearing his heart on his sleeve is potent.
"So I know Sunday dinner with my terrifying grandmother isn't exactly romantic, but I need her to see—" He pauses. "I need her to understand that this is real. That we're not just pretending anymore."
"I know." I reach across the table, lacing my fingers through his. "And honestly? I want her to see it, too."
