And at different times, has chased most of us out of the kitchen whenwe’d wander in hungry for supper and raid her pantry. Except for Lyra, who never broke any of the rules growing up.
Clara must be in her seventies now but refuses to retire.
"Her niece has joined her in the kitchen. She approached me and asked for pointers, which I was happy to give.”
I raise a shoulder.
He gives me a quizzical look. "You made space in your busy schedule for her?"
"She showed promise, and she’s hard working. It’s the least I could do."
I agreed to help her because she was enthusiastic.
Tristan tilts his bowl to get at the last of the soup, before he sits back with a sigh. "I wouldn’t think marriage would soften you up, but?—"
“—it has.” I put my arm around my wife. “Marrying her has changed me, for the better."
"Aww." Phoenix, who’s seated opposite us at the table, smiles at me. "Look at you, being all loving and husbandly."
Harper pats my chest. "I’ll take the credit." She smirks.
Woman’s got bite. God, how I love that.
Our gazes tangle. The air between us heats. I lean in and kiss her on her lips. I would deepen it, except my uncle whistles. I raise my head to scowl at Tristan who’s grinning at me from next to Phoenix.
"What did you do, Harper, to defrost the Ice Commander?"
“Yeah, do tell, Harper." Gideon drawls. "Watching him wear his emotions on his sleeve is downright creepy."
"Stop bothering my wife," I growl.
"Jeez, and all possessive too." Phe gives Harper a thumbs-up. "Whatever it is you’re doing, keep it up. I love this version of my brother a lot more."
Tristan raises his glass from where he’s seated at the foot of the table. “To Harper and James.”
EPILOGUE
Harper
Chef bosshole: Where are you?
Chef bosshole: Come home.
Chef bosshole: Leave. Now.
The messages vibrate across my phone screen.
I’m in the makeshift office I’ve set up at the premises of what was once an Italian diner. It still reeks of garlic and tomatoes.
Outside, the crew I hired to renovate the space are taking out walls. The floor is stripped back to concrete. There are exposed pipes everywhere. The smell of dust layers over that of old grease that no amount of demolition will shift.
It’s a mess. But what I see is the possibilities.
This will be The Hearth. My restaurant. Mine.
I’m knee deep in working out what the theme of the food will be, and the menu, the décor, the kind of team I want. Plus, the hundreds of other details that go into making a successfulrestaurant.
Chef bosshole: Have you left yet?
