fight him every step of the way—and what, exactly, she’d meant by saying he’d left her.
She shot him a look. “You hired me, after all.”
“I know,” he groaned. “But five o’clock seems like a long time off.”
“Byron, focus. I need the specs of the kitchen and then I need to call contractors and get a timeline set up, and my boss wants that as soon as possible. I’ll formalize the sketches of the interior and exterior a bit more and...”
Byron’s phone rang. “The Realtor,” he said with relief. At least one thing was happening quickly. “You eat and then we’ll talk ovens.”
“Deal,” she said.
* * *
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. The Realtor had a list of single-family homes ready, and she wanted Byron to come in on Saturday. Leona wanted to discuss kitchen appliances and table placements.
It was enough to give a man whiplash. It’d only been a few months ago that he’d settled into his cramped Madrid apartment, working late nights cooking for a world-famous chef and wandering the city alone, trying to lose himself in another culture.
Trying to forget about Leona Harper.
Now he would be running his own restaurant and living with Leona while they raised their son.
For a brief moment, as Leona talked about bathroom sink options, Byron wanted to go back to Madrid. Right now. This was insane, that’s what it was. Proposing to Leona so he could ensure he’d never lose custody of his son? Going to look at houses tomorrow? Debating what “message” bathroom faucets “communicated” to customers?
Living with Leona—the woman who’d nearly destroyed him? Whose father had done everything to ruin his family?
But a Beaumont would not cut and run or admit defeat. His father had not been much of a father, but Byron remembered the last conversation he’d had with Hardwick Beaumont. His father had been sitting behind his massive desk, a look of disgust on his face as he took in Byron’s flour-dusted pants. “Son,” he’d intoned as if he were passing a death sentence, “this cooking thing—it’s not right. It’s not what a Beaumont does. It’s servant work.”
It hadn’t been the first time Byron had considered running away. He’d just wanted to cook in peace and quiet, without being constantly harassed about how he wasn’t good enough. He’d been all of sixteen and thought he’d known how the world worked.
But, being sixteen, he hadn’t. Instead, he’d mouthed off. “You want me to go? Then I’ll go. I don’t have to stay here and take your insults.”
He’d expected to be disowned, frankly. No one talked back to Hardwick Beaumont, especially not his disappointment of a son. Hardwick’s lips had twisted into a sneer and Byron had braced himself.
Then, to his everlasting shock, Hardwick had said, “A Beaumont does not cut and run, boy. We know what we want and we fight for it, to hell with what anyone else says.” He’d leaned forward, his hard gaze locked on Byron. “If I ever hear you talk about giving up again, I’ll make sure you have nothing to give up. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.” Byron had been pissed at the threat, but underneath, he’d also been confused. Had his father—what? Given him permission to keep rebelling?
He had turned and started to walk out of Hardwick’s office when his father had called out, “The rack of lamb last night—was that you or George?”
It’d been a huge success, as far as Byron had been concerned. Even his half siblings had enjoyed the meal. “I cooked it. George supervised.”
There’d been a long pause and Byron hadn’t been sure if he’d been dismissed or not. Then Hardwick had said, “I expect you to present yourself as a Beaumont in the rest of the house. I don’t want to see flour anywhere on your clothes ever again. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
And he hadn’t left home. He’d stayed and put up with his father’s crap about how he did servant’s work and gotten better and better at cooking. Every so often, his father would look at him over the dinner dishes and say “that meal was especially good.” Which was as close to a compliment as Byron had ever gotten out of him.
He hadn’t thought about that chat, such as it was, in a long time. Not too long after that, Hardwick had keeled over dead of a heart attack. Frances scolded Byron about the flour in his hair, but no one had accused him of embarrassing the Beaumont name by insisting on doing servant’s work. He hadn’t had to fight for what he wanted anymore.
He’d stopped fighting for what he’d wanted.
Including Leona. Instead of fighting for her, he’d run away to Europe.
Well. Things had changed. He was in charge now and he knew what he wanted. He wanted Leona to marry him and he wanted to be a part of his son’s life.
It was high time to start acting like a Beaumont.
* * *
Finally, it was five o’clock. Leona had made him look at color samples and shaped plates and steak knives and he didn’t even know what all. Whatever was her favorite was what he went with—she was the designer, after all. What he cared about was the food.
He rinsed the lunch dishes in the sink and packed everything back into his car—except for the ring. That he put in his pocket. She’d left it on the table, and it made him nervous to have a twenty-thousand-dollar piece of jewelry sitting around.
She would wear it. She would accept his proposal.
This thought was followed by a quieter one, which barely whispered across his consciousness.
She would be his.
And why not? They were going to live together. They were going to get married. Why shouldn’t he reclaim what he’d once had? As long as he could have her without letting her get under his skin like she had the first time. He’d always loved being with her. They were good together. He wanted to think they still could have that same magic in bed.
He could enjoy Leona but this time, he would not let his feelings for her blind him to the truth. She was still a liar. He had to keep his guard up, that was all.
She walked to her car door. “You want to follow me out? Assuming you’re coming home with me...”
The ring was going to burn him clean through. “Yes, I’m coming home with you.”
She looked at him then, her lips curved into a small smile and again he had to fight the urge to kiss her.
Oh, to hell with fighting that urge.
He closed the distance between them in three strides and pulled her into him. She made a small squeaking noise when he kissed her, but he didn’t care.
He kissed her like he’d dreamed of kissing her for a long, cold year—like he’d kissed her last night. She might not be good for him—not now, not ever—but he couldn’t stay away from her.
After
