Page 67 of The Unwanted Wife

Nate waves his hand. "Go on then, Otis, tell us what James has sent us."

Otis clears his throat. "The Champagne is a Louis Roederer Cristal Brut."

I raise my eyebrows. O-k-a-y. That must cost, at least, one-thousand dollars per bottle.

"For the starters, we have Burrata cheese with heirloom tomatoes, basil pesto and balsamic reduction, seared scallops with cauliflower puree, and a basket of warm bread.” For each item described, he uses his hands to point out their location.

Yum! My mouth begins to water.

"For the salad, there’s mixed baby greens with shaved fennel, crispy prosciutto, and lemon vinaigrette. This is followed by a salmon en croute stuffed with spinach and ricotta in beurre blanc sauce for the lady."

How did he know I prefer fish? I shoot Nate a glance, and he tilts his head. Hmm, so he found a way to obtain more information about my tastes.

"And for you, Sir, there’s chicken saltimbocca with sage, prosciutto, and a madeira wine sauce over risotto."

"Much appreciated." Nate offers a polite smile.

"The sides include sautéed wild mushrooms, and roasted Brussel sprouts with pancetta and parmesan risotto."

I do love both mushrooms and Brussel sprouts—weird, I know.

"And for dessert—" He pauses and looks at me.

I straighten my spine.

"There are chocolate molten lava cakes, and fresh berries with sweet ricotta and honey."

"Those are my favorites!" I clap my hands. “Thank you so much. All of it looks delicious.”

"I’ll pass that onto the chef." Otis’ lips twitch.

"Thank you." Nate walks over and claps the man on his shoulder. "Tell James I owe him."

Otis dips his chin. "You know he’s only too happy to make the time for you. As am I." He turns and claps his hand once, and the team turns and marches out. Otis follows them.

When they’re gone, Nate turns to me. "Shall we?" He walks over to pull out a chair for me.

The scent of food teases my nostrils, and my stomach grumbles. I slip off the stool and head toward the table. Even though the team laid it out in front of me, I can’t stop marveling at how pretty everything looks. Each of the dishes is beautifully presented, the cutlery sparkles, and the bottle of Champagne in the ice bucket looks crisp and refreshing. "I assume James is the chef?"

He nods. "James Hamilton is a chef I happen to know well, and who agreed to?—"

"Not the Michelin-starred James Hamilton?" I glance up in time to see him nod.

"The same. He’s a former Royal Marine and served with me."

"I had no idea."

"I don’t think he talks about it much. He’s one of us who managed to carve out a whole new career after leaving the Marines.

"Like you did?"

His face closes further. "When my grandfather called me, I couldn’t say no. This was my chance to find out more about where I came from. Besides, he needed me, and it was my duty to help him out." His words sound smooth. Too smooth. Too rehearsed, perhaps?

My stomach does a nervous flip. Why do I get the feeling he’s hiding something from me again? I open my mouth to ask, when he pushes my chair in, then walks around to take his seat.

He raises the Champagne bottle and pops the cork. He pours the sparkling liquid into my flute and places it back in the bucket before pouring sparking water for himself. He raises his glass, and when I mirror his action, he clinks his glass with mine. "To you, my wife."

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