Jackson has tears in his eyes, and I pat him on the back. He deserves every bit of praise that Tyler can give him.
“The last person here I want to thank tonight,” Tyler continues, “is my girlfriend, Mel.”
A light from the ceiling shines down on me—almost as if me standing in this corner with Jackson and Trish was planned—and I wave awkwardly at the people who are now staring at me.
“Mel, you’re the best person I’ve ever known. There’s no other way to say it: you’re incredible. You lift me up on bad days and cheer for me on good days. No matter what has happened, you’ve given me second and third chances that I haven’t deserved, and you’ve put up with me through thick and thin—and I know that there are a lot of times when I’m difficult.”
The crowd chuckles, then gasps as Tyler sinks down to one knee and takes out a small black box.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, covering my mouth with one hand.
Jackson looks completely unsurprised, and Trish is in tears, so I think that they both probably knew that this was going to happen tonight. Typical Tyler, making everything into a big, expertly planned scheme.
“Go on up there, Mellie,” Jackson encourages.
I’m so shocked that it takes both of them pushing on my back to make my feet actually cooperate and move my body forward to the stairs of the stage. The crowd is going wild as I slowly, shakily walk up the steps and stop in front of Tyler.
“Mel, the five years I spent without you were the worst of my life,” he says. I’m crying now, but I’m too excited to feel embarrassed. “I never want to go a single day without waking up next to you and falling asleep with you by my side. Everything I do has meaning when I do it for you, and I promise that I’ll spend the rest of my life making you happy, if you’ll let me.”
“Tyler,” I breathe, feeling dizzy with happiness as he opens the box to reveal a huge diamond ring.
“Mel Page, will you make me the luckiest man in the world and marry me?”
“Of course!” I say through my tears. “Oh, Tyler, of course I will!”
Tyler puts the ring on my finger and I kneel down to the ground to kiss him, rising to my feet when he does, still interlocked with our fingers and lips. The crowd is roaring, but I swear that I can make out my brother’s specific shouts of joy through the cacophony.
When we pull away from the kiss, Tyler puts his arm around my waist and I turn to the crowd, holding out the ring. The band, though I was too preoccupied to notice, have started playing a slow, romantic song, and the laser lights have gone pink and red. Everything about the proposal was clearly meticulously, lovingly planned by Tyler, which makes me all the more sure of my affirmative answer.
“We’re getting married!” I exclaim just so I can hear it out loud.
“I can’t wait,” Tyler replies, kissing my forehead. “I love you, Mel.”
“I love you, too,” I reply, and truthfully, I’ve never been happier to say anything in my life.
The End
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Four Secret Babies
Time for a tease!
Up next is the first chapter of the previous book in my San Bravado Billionaires’ Club series, Four Secret Babies
Happy reading!
Layla x
Copyright 2018 by Layla Valentine and Holly Rayner
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.
All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.
Chapter 1
Chloe
November
My knife was a silver blur in my hands as I chopped, the air filling with the scent of coriander as each cut of the blade sent a fresh waft into the air around me. I held the knife in my right hand, the steady rhythm of the thwack of the blade against the cutting board putting me into the zone I needed.
Once the coriander was chopped, I pushed the pine-green mound into a small glass ramekin and moved onto the oranges. I snatched the first orange from my sack of ingredients and tossed it above my head, catching it with one hand, placing it onto the counter and slicing it through, all with one fluid motion.
I sliced the oranges in half one after the other, the interiors of each so fresh-looking that they reminded me of little suns. I couldn’t help but slice myself a small wedge and pop it into my mouth, my eyes rolling into the back of my head as the delicious citrus flavor consumed my senses. It was probably the best orange I’d ever had in my life. For the price my boss paid for these locally sourced, organic little orbs, it damn well better be.
Then again, these oranges were for Alfred King, billionaire real estate magnate and philanthropist, and Mr. King only gets the best. Which is why he hired me to be his private chef.
“Chloe!” called out a voice from the other end of the enormous kitchen, a room that was easily bigger than my entire apartment. “How’s everything coming along?”
I pressed one of the orange halves onto the juicer and gave it a twist, the stainless steel basin catching the liquid. Once I’d wrung it out for everything it had, I set the peel down onto the Kashmir White granite countertop and turned, tucking a stray strand of my curly blond hair behind my ear as I leaned back against the counter.
At one of the entrances to the kitchen was none other than Alfred King himself. He was dressed in a sharp burgundy sweater, the white collar of his expertly tailored dress shirt visible. A pair of trim gray slacks and brown loafers polished to a gorgeous shine completed his look.
Despite being in his early seventies, Mr. King still managed to be more put-together than most guys my age than I saw around town. Then again, when you’re a billionaire, looking better than the twenty-something tech gurus in their hooded sweatshirts and dirty sneakers that populated San Bravado wasn’t too hard.
Alfred King was trim, with a slim, angular face and a full head of silver hair always worn slicked back. His eyes were a combination of grandfatherly and calculating all at once, and his smile of pearl-white teeth was all disarming charm. A glass of red wine rested in his hand as he leaned against the door frame.
“Excellently, Mr. King,” I said, placing one more orange on the juicer and giving it a squeeze. “I found just what I needed at the store, and I’m making good time. So far.”
“Perfect,” he said, raising his wine to his lips and taking a sip. “Those appetizers you made are going over well with the guests, but they’re all eager to see what you’re whipping up in here for the main course. What are you making for the main course, by the way?”
I gave him a friendly smile. “Come take a look. Or a smell.”
Mr. King flashed me a warm smile that showed he was up to the task. He took one more sip of his wine, closed his eyes, and let it linger on his palate for a long moment before bringing it down in a soft swallow.
“This is really something special,” he said, setting the glass down on the counter. “A ’76 Château Gruaud-Larose.”
“Wow,” I said. “Fifty-year-old wine?”
“Not 1976,” he said. “1876. One of about two-dozen bottles left in the world.”
When I’d started this job about a month ago, a detail like that would’ve made my jaw hit the floor. But after having taken some time to get used to Mr. King’s refined tastes, it made perfect sense.
“Sure I can’t tempt you with a glass?” he asked, raising his silver eyebrows slightly.
“Oh, thanks,” I said. “But I like to stay one-hundred-
percent while I’m cooking. Helps me with the little details.”
“Spoken like a true professional,” said Mr. King. “Me, I’m of the ‘I cook with wine, sometimes I even add it to the food’ school of the culinary arts. Explains why I’m barely able to make anything more complex than scrambled eggs.”
“Hey, now,” I said. “Don’t sell yourself short. Scrambled eggs seem simple, but they’re devious in their complexity.”
He gave me another one of his warm smiles before looking away in thought.
“The meal you’re cooking is the one I’m interested in,” he said. “Now, let’s see…”
He slowly wafted his hand in front of his face, bringing the scents up close.
“I smell…fresh coriander…a little thyme…some marjoram…and a little bit of perfectly squeezed orange juice to top it all off. And I spotted some ducks earlier.”
He took a moment to process it all. After a few brief moments, his face formed an expression of pleased surprise.
“Ms. Sanderson—are you making us duck à l’orange?”
I couldn’t help but be impressed.
“Mr. King, I must say you have quite the sense of smell.”
He leaned against the counter across from me, taking his glass of wine into his hand. “I might not be able to cook food worth a damn, but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it. And duck à l’orange is one of my all-time favorites. A surprisingly classic choice for a trendy town like San Bravado, I might add.”
He was right about that. The tech center of the West Coast, San Bravado had no shortage of insanely talented chefs pushing the limits of modern cuisine.
“I was thinking something tried and true would suit the evening,” I said. “Especially on a chilly night like tonight. Duck à l’orange…I love it. It’s fresh and exciting and comforting all at once.”
“And always a crowd-pleaser,” added Mr. King. “And should pair very nicely with the wine.”
“That’s right,” I said. “I have some wedge salads coming out first, and the duck shouldn’t be too long after.”
“Sounds perfect,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve been talking up my new chef to my guests. They’re all very excited to see what you bring to the table. So to speak.”
“Well,” I said, feeling nervous and excited all at once. “Hopefully I live up to whatever praise you’ve been lavishing on me.”
“I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true,” he said. “I’ve had enough of your cooking in the last month to make it very clear that I chose wisely.”
A hot blush spread across my cheeks. “Oh, Mr. King—you charmer, you,” I said, waving my hand through the air.
Mr. King chuckled softly. “Anyway, I’ve taken up enough of your time, and my guests might be starting to wonder if I’ve abandoned them. I’ll let you get back to it.”
I gave Mr. King an affirmative nod before he turned back toward the entrance to the kitchen, and I prepared to give my attention to my ingredients once again.
“Oh, and one more thing, Chloe,” he said. “Shoot me a text when you’re done with the preparations. I have something I’d like to discuss with you.”
“Is that right?” I asked.
He gave a calm nod. “Nothing bad, if that’s what you’re wondering. But, ah, make sure your appetite’s good and healthy.”
With that, he left the kitchen.
I turned my attention back to the ingredients, wondering what Mr. King had in mind.
As I finished chopping the herbs, I took a moment to reflect on my first month working for Mr. King. I was a fairly recent graduate of the Cristobel Culinary School, one of the premier culinary academies on the West Coast. I’d been working at the Westchester, a high-end steak joint downtown, under the tutelage of Isabella Boni, a seasoned chef with decades of experience.
After graduation, I was gripped with the same sort of existential panic that every graduate goes through. Sure, I had a decent gig, but there wasn’t much to offer in terms of upward mobility. With my tuition stipend gone, it wasn’t going to come close to paying the bills in a town like San Bravado.
That’s when Mr. King stopped into the Westchester. Mr. King was one of those patrons who loved to get to know the staff at whatever restaurant he was particularly pleased with. When he was done with his meal, he had to know who the mastermind behind his steak dinner was.
And that mastermind was none other than me.
He was allowed back into the kitchen. After lavishing me with so much praise that my knees felt ready to buckle, he told me that he’d been looking to hire a personal chef to cater the frequent dinner parties he held at his home, as well as cook his evening meals.
I was overwhelmed by the offer, and a quick jab to the ribs from Isabella made it clear that this was a job you didn’t turn down. So, he hired me right then and there, telling me to be ready after my two weeks at the Westchester were finished.
And now, here I was, preparing home-cooked meals for some of the wealthiest and most powerful men and women in the state.
I shook my head, bringing myself back to the moment.
Duck à l’orange was a meal I’d prepared many times before, and I had the dish down to a science by this point. I finished the preparations, placing the ducks into the enormous stainless steel oven. While the main courses cooked to crispy, citrusy perfection, I set to work on the wedge salads. When they were done, I called in Luz, one of the housekeepers, to help me bring them out to the table.
“I don’t know how you do it,” she said, taking a pair of salads into her hands and looking them over with an impressed expression.
“Do what?” I asked.
“Make something as simple as a salad look so…amazing!” She shook her head in disbelief.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” I said. “Just some wedge salads.”
“Honey,” said Luz, giving me a warm smile. “Didn’t I tell you that San Bravado is the last place where you want to be humble? You’re skilled, girl—don’t be afraid to embrace what you’ve got.”
I blushed as I picked up a few salads. My first day here, Luz had seemed to pick up on how overwhelmed I’d been by Mr. King, his enormous estate, and the sight of the famous faces who seemed to be constantly coming and going. She’d taken me under her wing, helping me learn the ins and outs of this place, and we’d become fast friends in the process.
“I just don’t want to get a big head,” I said, starting toward the dining room.
Luz let out one of her chiming laughs. “It’s always the humblest people who think they’re going to turn into total egomaniacs the second they accept a compliment.”
We headed into the dining room, which was an enormous space with a ceiling that seemed to stretch up into the sky, a sweeping view of the ocean through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and appointed with elegant but modern furniture. In the center of the room was a large, rectangular table, a row of well-dressed men and women on each side, and Mr. King seated at the head.
“There she is,” he said, his deep voice projecting through the room.
All eyes turned to me as I entered, and I felt shy at being the center of attention.
“What do you have for us, Chef Sanderson?”
I took a deep breath and spoke as I moved to place the salads.
“We have romaine wedge salads with a Roquefort reduction dressing and Applewood-smoked bacon,” I said, my voice coming out small when compared to Mr. King’s authoritative tone.
Impressed noises sounded from the guests as Luz and I placed the salads in front of the guests.
As I brought out the last pair, one of the guests caught my eye. He was tall, with broad, muscular shoulders and a body that seemed poured into his gorgeous, tailored suit. His fire-red hair was slicked back, and as I placed the salad in front of him, his ice-blue eyes locked onto mine. His features were gorgeous, his scheming but playful eyes, sharp, slim nose, and full, sensual mouth all framed by mile-high cheekbones and a strong military jaw. And abo
ve all, he struck me as the spitting image of Mr. King.
And to my surprise, he struck me as somewhat familiar.
“Miss Sanderson,” said Mr. King, his voice snapping me out of my stare. “You’ve met my son, Jordan, correct?”
I wanted to smack myself in the forehead. No wonder he’d looked so familiar—he was the damn boss’s son! Sure, he didn’t live here, and I’d only seen him from afar during the few times he’d popped into the mansion, but I felt beyond silly for not instantly knowing who he was.
“We actually haven’t,” said Jordan, answering the question for me. He extended his hand, a cocky little smile on those gorgeous lips.
“Um, nice to finally meet you, Jordan—Mr. King,” I said.
“Pleasure’s all mine,” said Jordan, his voice low and deep and smooth as butter. “Just don’t call me Mr. King. Jordan’s fine.”
His father let out a dry chuckle. “Good luck with that,” he said. “I’ve been trying to get her to call me ‘Alfred’ for the last three weeks.”
Mild laughter sounded from the table.
“Joking aside, these look wonderful,” Mr. King went on. “And we’re all looking forward to the main course.”
“It shouldn’t be too much longer,” I said.
It took all the restraint that I had not to ogle Jordan. He, on the other hand, had no problem letting his eyes linger on me. His gaze felt hot against my skin, almost too much to bear.
And strangely, to his immediate right, there was an empty seat. I put it out of my head as I hurried back to the kitchen, a wave of relief washing over me as soon as I was away from the eyes of the guests.
My Brother's Best Friend - A Second Chance Romance (San Bravado Billionaire's Club Book 8) Page 14
