by Aubrey Irons
I’m staring at him, slowly shaking my head and feeling like my heart is out to jump out of my fucking throat.
“Well Jesus, boy-o, don’t make me feel like an asshole by saying no.”
I snap out of it right then. Right then, I’m pushing everything else away. I’m burying all the bullshit of the last few weeks deep inside, and shutting the door on it.
I’m shutting the door on Chloe, because if I don’t, I’m not sure I’m gonna make it.
“Fuck,” I look up at Danny, grinning. “Yeah, mate,” I’m nodding, “Fuck yeah!”
Danny hoots and brings me in for a bear hug, slapping me on the back before he pulls back and hollers for scotch from bartender.
“So what’s the place called?”
Danny turns back, handing me a scotch as he grins at me, “Ella.”
I smile slowly, nodding at him.
He clinks his glass against mine, “Hang onto the good ones, you little prick.”
31
Oliver
Six Months Later.
It’s a Saturday night, and Ella is an absolute madhouse. We’ve got an entirely full book, a waiting list four fucking hours long, and people are still walking in and willing to wait five hours for a damn table.
A Michelin star within four months of opening up has a way of doing that.
But, yeah, success does mean work, and we’re fucking working like a crazy back in the kitchen to get orders out.
“Oy, special request, chef.”
I glance up from the pile of tickets in front of me as Ian walks into the kitchen.
Yes, Ian. Of course I brought Ian, he’s the best Maître d' in the damn city.
I also brought Marco. I allowed him all of one night to give me shit about Chloe, and then be done with it. Actually, I had to force him to make some jokes, he was honestly just too apologetic about hitting on her all those times.
“Mate, you didn’t know.”
“Yeah, but I should have.”
“What, should’ve know I was banging my stepsister?”
“Oy, you’re a bit crude, bruv. You ought to work on that you know.”
I glare at Ian, “So what’s this special request?”
He pulls a neutral face.
“What?”
Ian coughs uncomfortably, “They, uh, they want you to come out to the table.”
I stare at him, “You’re serious?”
He nods, “Yes.”
“What is this, Beni-fucking-hana?!” I roar. “Are we in Epcot fucking center, Ian?” He just shrugs at me as I go on my little tirade. “No I’m not fucking going out to the fucking table-”
“It’s a VIP table, Ollie.”
“I don’t care if it’s the fucking Queen Mum, Ian; fuck ‘em.”
“Oliver-” His voice is tense, and suddenly I’m frowning and listening, “It’s a real VIP.”
There’s something about the tightness in his voice that suddenly gives me pause, and my brow shoots up, “Oh?”
“Yes,” he says, shooting me a stern look. “Best behavior, Ollie.”
I turn and exchange look with Marco, who shrugs, “I got the line, mate.”
I look back and point a finger at Ian, “This better actually be the Queen Mum at this point.”
I walk out from behind the line and follow him back into the dining room, and then suddenly, the floor just drops out from under me.
Chloe.
Chloe sitting alone at the table with a single red rose in a small vase in front of her.
She doesn’t stand when she sees me, she just grins as I walk through the dining room, past hushed ‘oh, that’s chef Beckett!’ conversations, darting looks, and even one fucking idiot with his phone out taking a picture.
“So,” she says as I come to a stop in front of her table, crossing my arms over my chest, “What’s good here?”
I arch an eyebrow at her. She’s playing it cool, pretending to look over the menu.
Pretending there’s absolutely nothing strange about the fact that she’s sitting in my fucking restaurant, in London-bloody-England six months after she ran out of my life back to the States.
“Hmm…” She furrows her brow and taps the menu, “Noticeable lack of cucumber salad I see.”
I smirk, and she looks up quickly, biting her lip.
“Where’ve you been, Chloe?”
“Hiding.”
I don’t say anything.
“Oliver-”
“You know, it was pretty cold to run out like that,” I narrow my eyes at her. “I’ve gotta say, being on the receiving end of that for once sucks a bit.”
Chloe looks at me plaintively before she looks around, “You’re sort of the toast of the town, you know.”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“And a Michelin star too, huh?”
“Yeah it’s amazing what I could get done without that annoying pastry cook holding me back always trying to get in my pants.”
She shoots me a glare and I grin, “I missed you, you know,” I say quietly. I’m acutely aware that most of the dining room is still trying to figure out what I’m doing out here amongst the mortals, talking to this random American girl sitting alone with a rose.
“I missed you too, and…” She looks down, toying with her fingers before she looks up at me, those big brown eyes of hers looking right into mine. “Oliver, I’m so sorry for-”
“Leaving?”
“I was going to say ‘being a coward, and an idiot’, but yeah, that too.”
I clear my throat and lean down closer to whisper to her, “Could you speak up a bit for the shit-head with the camera back there?” I say quietly, winking at her.
“I said I’m sorry for being a coward and an idiot!” Her voice thunders across the dining room, silencing everyone. Forks clatter to plates, conversations stops, faces turn our way.
“Uh, Chloe-”
I look at her like she’s crazy, and I start to sit but she shakes her head and holds her hand out, “No, wait, don’t sit.”
“What?”
She looks at me, her eyes wide, and her bottom lip sucked between her teeth. “Don’t sit, I have to ask you something first.”
I frown and I’m about to damn well sit anyways and ask her what the hell she’s doing here and why she’s acting so mental when suddenly she’s getting out of her seat and onto the floor.
“Chloe!” I hiss, “Seriously, are you drunk? This is fucking ridicu-”
“Oliver Beckett?” And suddenly, there’s a box in her hand.
A box with a ring inside of it.
You have got to be fucking kidding me.
Chloe looks up at me, her chest rising and falling and a blush creeping across her cheeks, “Will you marry me?”
I don’t remember anything past that except the applause; from guests, and waiters, and all the cooks in the kitchen leaning out of the doors. I remember picking her up into my arms and kissing her, kissing her with everything I have because they’re the last lips I ever want to kiss in this world.
“You have to say it, you know,” she whispers into my lips.
I pull back and wink at her, “That a fact, huh?”
“Mhmm,” she nods.
“Well in that case, yeah, that’s a big fuckin’ ‘yes’, luv,” I say.
She giggles and hugs me tighter, and then I’m picking her up and spinning her around as the whole fucking place goes wild.
“You’re fucking mental, you know,” I whisper into her ear.
She laughs, “Oh, you don’t know the half of it,” she says, grinning as she kisses me. “I didn’t even get a return ticket.”
“Where are you staying?”
“No idea.”
“Job?”
“Looking for a baker?”
I laugh and wrap my arms around her as I pick her up and twirl her around again in front of the crowds and the staff and the cameras and all that shit. “You know, I could always use a cupcake girl.”
She pokes me in the chest, “Dick.”
I kiss her, “Tease.”
She looks into my eyes, “By the way, have I ever mentioned that I love you?”
“You never had to.”
“Well, I love you, Oliver Beckett,” she says softly, grinning from ear to ear. “I love every crude, cocky, cheeky inch of you.”
And then she’s in my arms. “I love you too,” I whisper in her ear, “And you play your cards right and you might just get buggered something proper with all of my inches”
She laughs as she kisses me, and the crowd goes wild.
32
Chloe
Two Years Later.
I grin as I watch Oliver fidget with the sign on the inside of the glass front door to Ella.
Close for the holiday weekend, it says, and I smile while I wait outside by the car as I watch him meticulously level it. “You know, I can promise you that the restaurant will be here when we get back.”
He smirks at me through the glass before he finally steps back, nods at his handiwork, and walks out the door to join me. “Just remember where we parked it, yeah?” He says with a sly wink.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?”
“Closing for three days over the holidays?” Oliver snorts. “Fuck no, but I think we might lose our minds if we don’t.”
I laugh. “No, I mean, my mom coming, and her meeting Danny?”
Oliver arches a brow at me as he checks his watch. “Well her plane lands in two hours. Bit late for second thoughts, luv. Besides, after the convincing it took to get her to come back to the general vicinity of Europe, let alone London?” He whistles.
OK, so it took both of us, pleading to get Mom to come over for Christmas. I mean what was she going to do, spend it alone in our house back home? I mean it’s not like I could fly.
Third trimester and all that.
Ultimately, I think it was Oliver promising that Barney was still boozing it up somewhere in the Casino circuit of Italy and would not be anywhere close to London that convinced her. Introducing her to Danny Cole again was not my idea, but Oliver insists they hit it off the first time.
“I’m really not sure about that.”
Oliver grins at me. “And why ever not?”
I know what he’s up to, and arch my brow at him. “Um, because he’s little bit crude and crass and-”
“And a bit like me, yeah?”
“Honestly, yes.”
He laughs.
“And my mom is a little more level; she’s a little bit more prim and proper I guess. Just a little bit-”
“Like you?”
I smirk as Oliver turns the key in the lock of the front door to Ella and throws an arm over my shoulder. “Yeah, bizarre that one. Imagine that; the uptight prude and the bossy scoundrel.” He winks at me. “Right, can’t see that one possibly working out,” he says, leaning down to kiss the top of my head.
Life is complicated. Oliver and his dad have talked, but infrequently, but I think they both know they need space from each other. Of course if Barney ever comes near my mom again, I think even Oliver might toss him out a window.
Jolie is still around; we even pass it infrequently on strolls around our new South Bank neighborhood, which is sort of sweet considering our history there. Of course, it’s not exactly bustling the same way it was a year ago, when Oliver and I were there and before the Times review was published.
I didn’t end up reading it until much later, after I’d decided I was an idiot and came running back to the heart I’d left in London. But the review ended up being decent for Jolie, but amazing for Oliver. A “classic case of ego run amok in the management ranks” I believe they said, regarding Barney’s drunken fight with Oliver and subsequent public firing. “An efficient, if not creatively stifling environment for the best thing to hit the London food circuit since Danny Cole, and probably better.”
Yeah, that stoked my husband’s ego in ways it couldn’t possibly need, but I also couldn’t have been prouder.
Oh, right, yeah; husband. I guess I forgot to mention that little detail.
Oliver and I were married six months after I came back to London, in a small ceremony back in L.A., actually.
Barney and Delia, who are apparently and quite unbelievably still together, were not invited.
Danny did come though, grinning the whole time like he couldn’t possibly be prouder of Oliver. Marco managed to come out as well, and ended up being so taken with the food scene in L.A. that he ended up staying and landing a pretty great job.
Apparently, there’s something about a girl involved too, but that’s a whole other story.
Our story though, is right where it needs to be. Danny and Oliver are about to go in as investors on another project, which should ideally free up some time for when our baby boy comes, which can’t be soon enough. And honestly, if I hear one more “bun in the oven” joke - yeah, no, I get it, and yes you’re very hilarious - I might go a little crazy.
So somehow, like random ingredients percolating and mixing together to make something wonderful, two opposites became one, perfect, delicious whole.
Oliver glances up at the grey London sky. “Looks like snow.” I grin as wraps his arms around me in the chilly air as he leans in and kisses me. “I love you,” he murmurs, his hand coming down to rest on top of my swollen belly. “Both of you.”
“I love you too,” I say, kissing him. “And I know she can’t wait to meet you.”
“Oh it’s a she now, is it?” Oliver grins. We’ve decided to wait and be surprised, not that it stops either of us from guessing.
“Oh of course it is!” I smile at him. “As if the world needs one more male Beckett running around.”
Oliver grins. “Very fair point.” He glances at his watch. “Now, get in the car, luv. Let’s go do Christmas.”
“Yes, chef,” I managed to get out, before his lips sear to mine just as the snow begins to fall.
~ The End ~
II
Heat: A Soldiers of Fortune Romance
Copyright © 2015 Aubrey Irons
Cover Photo: FXQuadro/DepositPhoto
Cover Design: Aubrey Irons
Formatting: Vellum
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, actual events or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademark status of products referred to in this book and acknowledges that trademarks have been used without permission.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations used for review purposes.
This book is intended for mature, adult audiences only. It contains sexually explicit and graphic scenes and language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please do not continue reading this book of you are under the age of 18 or are offended by content of this nature.
All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older and are in no way blood relations. All acts of a sexual nature are completely consensual.
To my husband, for indulging me in my wild ideas and giving me wings to fly.
To K, for being incredible.
To Lee, for demanding that I dream.
1
Reagan
“They’re fucking what?!” I almost drop the glass of champagne in my hand as I feel the floor practically drop out from beneath my feet.
My campaign manager Donald’s face is impassive and steely - pretty much like it always is even in crisis meltdown situations like this - with his bushy grey eyebrows furrowing slightly like they do when he’s got news for me neither of us want to hear.
“They’re pulling out, Reagan; entirely.” I see him reach out of habit for the phantom pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket that hasn’t been there for five yea
rs; the frown in his eyebrows deepening.
“All of it?”
He sticks a pen between his lips instead of his old vice and glowers at me; “Every damn penny.”
I swear fiercely under my breath, clenching my hand tight and digging my nails into my palm as the reality of the situation hits me like a wet blanket; “How fucked are we?”
Donald tenses his face; he hates when I swear, especially in public and especially in public when there are cameras everywhere. “Lower your voice, Reagan” He mutters through the pen in his teeth, looking at me like I’m an ill-behaved child in that way that drives me crazy.
In the movie version of my life, Donald is the kind and sagely grandfatherly type who guides me along a path of adorable metaphors and teary-eyed life lessons to victory. In reality, he’s cold, calculating, and robotically efficient at keeping me in line with his battle plans. But then again, kindly grandfatherly types doling out anachronisms like they were candy don’t win elections; robots do.
“They were forty percent of our campaign.”
I can feel the breath leave my lungs as the room spins around me; my lips moving soundlessly as my brain searches for the words to possible use here. This simply can’t be happening; not after we’ve worked so freaking hard to get to where we are.
Donald glares at me as he furiously chews on his poor pen; “Maybe next time, you’ll stay on the damn speech I give you instead of going off on one of your ‘save the world’ tangents, Reagan. You know they’re going to jump down you throat for that kind of things because-”
His phone beeps and he frowns, trailing off as he shakes his head and mutters at whatever’s just popped up, but I can pretty much take my pick of what he was going to say anyways: ‘Because I’m a girl,’ or ‘Because I’m the youngest person to ever run for the State Senate of New York,’ or my favorite, ‘Because I’m the daughter of the late William Archer; billionaire philanthropist-slash-arms-dealer, depending on who’s opinion you ask.’
