Chapter 8

Damian

The smell of sizzling chorizo, peppers, and smoked salmon drift through my house as I prepare for Amelia's arrival. I don't cook at home as much as I should—I have a restaurant to do that in—so it's a refreshing change to put in the effort. I'd filmed a TV spot a few months ago, and everything is still laid out exactly as it was for the shoot.

I'm rinsing the rice when the doorbell sounds. I check my reflection in the mirror on the way through the foyer before opening the door.

She's changed her outfit since I saw her in the office. She had been wearing the skirt I struggled to get off her, but the skirt she replaced it with is shorter and loose around her thighs. Her shirt is lower cut, too, almost deliberately so. She's not under any illusion of what tonight is, at least. I let a slow grin cross my lips as I appraise her, and she raises her eyebrows.

"Am I allowed inside?"

I smirk and move out of the way. "I don't know. You're a very attractive lawn ornament."

"Well then," she says, flipping her hair over her shoulders. "Wouldn't want to stop traffic."

I chuckle and shut the door behind her. "You'd cause accidents, looking like you do."

She slows down as she studies the sofa, probably remembering how sprawled all over it she was last time she was here.

I gently kiss her cheek. "I believe you're already well acquainted with my sofa."

She looks at me sharply, moving instead to sit at the kitchen island to watch me continue to prepare dinner. "Yes. It's an ugly thing."

"My sofa? Ugly?! It's the third most expensive object in my house."

"Exactly," she says bluntly. "It's ugly. You think expensive means nice?" She watches me, and I can see the tension in her shoulders. She's still wired from work, too uneasy to relax just yet. "What are the other two?"

"Hmm?"

"Expensive things. What are the other two?"

"My sofa, number three. Two, I have a very expensive set of kitchen knives." I round the island and lean casually closer to her so I can lower my voice.

"And one?"

"My bed. I wanted the softest, most luxurious mattress with the finest quality frame to get very pretty women to lie naked on and feel like a queen."

Amelia breathes out slowly as I lower my lips towards her. Just before I get there, she clears her throat softly. "If you're only making your woman feel like a queen when she's naked and in your bed, you're thinking entirely of yourself and you get zero points for romance."

I purse my lips and chuckle as my timer goes off for the oven. I round the island and get back to work. "Believe it or not, Mila girl, women are allowed to enjoy sex now. They're allowed the power in sex."

"The more you call me girl, the more I don't believe a word you're saying," she quips. "I am well aware women are allowed to enjoy sex; however, I believe men think that because women can enjoy sex, they don't have to try."

I lean on the bench and frown at her. "I bought a very expensive bed."

"Sure. How many women have you had in that bed?" She raises her eyebrows. "We've had sex twice, and we didn't make it that far either time. You bought an expensive bed, but you haven't succeeded in getting me to it. Your definition of trying is telling."

I splutter out a laugh and shake my head at her. "You're a trying woman, let me tell you. I'm a little surprised that cousin of mine handled you."

"He believed I wasn't something to be handled at all."

I chuckle and throw her a glance. She's still radiating a fighting energy, and I need it to stop. "Hey, Amelia? You're allowed to switch off tonight. You have all your defenses up." I lean over the island and lift her chin so our gazes meet. "It's just dinner."

"Just dinner?" she says, narrowing her eyes.

"Well, maybe dinner and an opportunity to get you into my very expensive bed. Sure. You knew that when I invited you here, so don't get high and mighty now. There's a reason you accepted my invitation, and it has little to do with dinner."

"I like a man who can cook."

I smirk at her. "Good to know. I like a girl that can eat."

She scoffs. "That's not any of the women you've been seen with."

"Of course not! They're not there to eat. I like them for entirely different reasons."

She surprises me by chuckling softly. "So, it's just a strange coincidence that you're giving me a whole lot of attention now that Jackson's dead and I'm in the office you want? It's not just dinner with you, Damian, and it never will be."

I exhale and turn back to dinner. "I admit, there were extenuating forces that pushed us together, and my mother is absolutely trying to find ways to get under your skin. But she doesn't know about this between us, and she won't for as long as I deem it necessary."

"What is this?"

I chuckle. "Sweetheart, your husband died almost three months ago. We both know what this is. I'm here until you find someone else or something forces us apart." I carefully plate up the dinner and gesture to the table I've set in the dining room. "But, I can cook well, look after you for a while, and fuck you really good on expensive sheets."

That doesn't get as big of a smile as I'd hoped for. She follows me into the dining room and takes a seat.

"Glass of wine?" I offer before I sit down. "I've got a—"

"No, thank you. Not tonight." She straightens her shoulders before looking at the dish in front of her. "This looks fantastic, Damian."

I hover the wine bottle over her glass. "That was almost a compliment. I must be doing something right. Are you sure you—"

"I'm sure. I remember last time. I'll have some water, though. If you have it."

I snort and take her glass, heading back out to the kitchen. "If I have it," I mutter. I pour her some chilled water, add some ice cubes and a half circle of lemon and sit at the table on the corner from her. She quickly puts her phone away and gives me a small smile. "Are you okay? You look a little flushed."

"Yes. I'm okay. It's just warm."

I frown in concern at her bare arms and short skirt before standing up. "I'll turn the AC on. I don't think—"

"Oh, I'm okay. I'm hungry. That's all." She puts her hand on my arm and gestures me down again. "Starving, actually."

I sink back down into my chair and regard her curiously. "Okay, well, please tell me if you're uncomfortable, and I can fix—" I stare at her with an open mouth as she drinks her whole water glass as if she's never seen water before in her life. I slowly stand up as she puts the glass down. "How about I bring in a jug of water, I'll turn the AC on, so you don't look like you've just wandered through a desert, and you start eating? Will that help? Then, if you get too cold, we can turn the AC off, or you can borrow a sweater. Take your pick."

I gently squeeze her shoulder as I walk past but stop in alarm when I get to the door in time to hear her sniff. I look back to see tears streaming down her face.

"What did I say?" I say in a panic, kneeling by her chair and making her look at me. "What happened? We can leave the temperature—"

Amelia sobs and shakes her head furiously. "No, sorry. Sorry. I'm okay. If you could get that drink of water, and I'll get a hold of myself."

Jesus Christ, what a date. Made her cry five minutes into dinner. I try to run through everything I just said as I walk back to the kitchen. It dawns on me as I wonder what Jackson did to soothe her when she cried. Jackson. Jackson probably had the AC set to her perfect temperature before she got home. Probably had a jug of cold water ready for her and a sweater on the back of her chair.

Amelia probably doesn't want just a small fling with me. She wants to have what she should have still had with her husband.

I head back in, and she's a lot more put together than when I left it. She's fixed her make-up, and she gives me a small smile as I place the jug of water on the table in front of her.

"Are you okay?" I ask softly, brushing my fingers over her cheek.

"Yes. Sorry. I don't know what that was." She laughs nervously and picks up her fork. "Let's eat. I won't make any more demands."

"Demand away, sweetheart. We're in my domain."

She gives me a small smile as we both get stuck into eating. Her eyes give away her surprise at the flavors mixing in her mouth. What I'd do to be one of them right now.

"Nice?"

"Oh my God, Damian," she mumbles with a mouthful. "This is delicious! I mean, it would be, but it's so much better than anything I make." She exhales a smile. "I wasn't much of a housewife, I have to admit."

"You never learned to cook?"

"No," she says ruefully. "Uh, my parents died in a car accident when I was seven, but Mom wasn't much of a cook either. It was all Dad. Well, he attempted. It was always an experiment, he said. He didn't stick to the confines of the recipe, we'll go with that."

I chuckle at the softness in her voice and the glow in her eyes, like I'm witnessing the childlike version of her that she doesn't show.

"But then, me and my sister went to live with my grandparents, but they had a live-in chef do all the cooking for them with a separate kitchen. I think I only saw it a couple of times."

"I didn't know that."

"Mmm… the Watsons. You know them. The Garretts know them. Long before I became one. It was… suggested as a good match long before I was consciously aware of it."

My mouth drops open. "It was an arranged—"

"Oh! No, no, definitely not. I loved Jackson. Right from the beginning. But there was a reason he was directly in my field of vision for a while and why I was in his. Just hints."

I lean forward and stare at her. "Wait… so if you're a Watson…"

"Ah. He's clocked on. You think your mother has yet?"

"As in Mark Watson."

"The one and the same. He died long before Victor, about a dozen years after Victor's brother Michael, but long before the Mark part of the MVM could be claimed. Mark Victor Michael. The three who started it all. Michael died young without an heir, and Victor's Garretts have since taken over. I might have the last name now, but it's a Watson running the company."

I rub my face, unable to comprehend the news. "My mom absolutely does not know that," I murmur. I lean back in my chair and study her for a moment. "That hotel is a bad idea, Mila. You know it, too. There are too many horror movies with that exact plot."

Amelia seems to slump forward, and I think she's going to cry again.

"We'll find somewhere else. Let's sell the land. Or keep it! We'll keep it, but as per rules set by the chief, we'll leave it alone."

"I want that site, specifically," Amelia says with a scowl. "I'm sure it won't take—"

"Why? What possible reason do you have? Lovely views, sure. Peaceful. Relaxing. Perfect place for a resort. It's why I've had my eye on it, too, but there's no way we can do anything with it now! We'll find somewhere else."

"It's where my parents got married," she whispers. "It's where Jackson proposed. I have one photo left of the two of them, and it's there. In the little red barn, on their wedding day. That is my property."

She starts to sob again, and I blow air out of my lungs slowly. "Look, don't see it as a special property, see it as cursed. Both marriages have ended prematurely. Maybe it's not as peaceful and relaxing as you think it is."

Her eyes slowly reach mine, her mouth open in surprise. I know I've said the wrong thing, but it's too late to back out now. "What?" she hisses.

"Okay, I get that came out wrong. That's not…" I groan before rubbing my face and starting again. "What I meant to say is that you'll do so much hard work of getting the bones excavated and reburied, and you'll rebuild the barn exactly as you've imagined it, and you'll build a multi-million-dollar resort, but I can guarantee that it will be the worst performing MVM hotel we have."

"People don't actually care. They just want a pretty view. No one goes to a hotel and asks for the history of the land it was on."

"They will if it's splashed all over the news! We've had bad luck from the start, Amelia. Rachel is digging."

Professional Mrs. Garrett is back. "Then stop her."

I growl and lean forward. "I can't. If I'd been able to stop Rachel from doing anything, I'd still be married to the damn woman. The divorce wasn't my idea, we'll say that."

We glare at each other for a few minutes before she sighs and closes her eyes. "Just dinner, you said."

I take her hand in mine and squeeze. "I don't have an ulterior motive," I whisper. "Not here. Not when it's only us. I think you're lonely and missing your husband, and that's okay. What happens at MVM will stay there. What happens when we're together will stay here."

"It's not as simple as that, Damian. You're trying to sideline me for fifty percent of the entire company I've worked hard to run."

"No. I'm not. I never have been. I want to divert funds to include a state-of-the-art, self-sustainable restaurant sector for the company. It means not putting pressure on any new builds and especially not wasting funds for the lawsuit involved in paving over a burial ground."

Amelia leans her head back on her chair, and her eyes flutter closed. "I don't want to talk about work," she whispers.

"So, we won't."

She tilts her head to look at me, and her sharp blue eyes, filled with defeat, blink uncertainly at me. "Will you take me to bed now?"

I stand up and hold out my hand.