Page 21 of The Wrong Promise

Shit, I didn’t even bother to check myself before the aroma of a cooked breakfast drew me out of the bedroom. I finger-comb my hair and ignore his subtle chuckles. “Excuse me, but I rushed out of the bedroom in confusion as to who could possibly be cooking or that the apartment might be on fire.”

He raises one eyebrow. “Not a black stripe to be seen when I cook.”

I lean one hip against the counter. “You cook regularly?”

“I need to eat, Zara,” he says with sarcasm.

“I assumed you had a chef.”

“I do have a chef in LA. He has worked for me for the past ten years. He also taught me how to cook, as I found it therapeutic. So much so he now works part-time. He has ayoung family, so it gives him time to be at home. I didn’t change his salary as he will come to my aid any time I need him. When I can, I cook for myself.”

The bread pops up from the toaster, and I jump. Nervously, I tighten my robe. I don’t know Jobe as well as I thought.

He cooks.

He is paying his chef in LA even if he’s not working for him, as he knows it benefits his young family. That speaks volumes about him.

“Can you please butter the toast?”

Could I be a tiny bit wrong about him being an asshole?

“Zara?”

Huh? “Oh yeah, sure.”

He grabs glasses and pours the orange juice, placing breakfast on the table. “The juice is cold pressed. I did it earlier while you were sleeping.” He hands me the tongs. “Ladies first.”

We serve up our plates before I take a seat. A groan slips from my mouth after the first mouthful of bacon. “This is good.”

“You sound surprised.”

“Very. Though I’m curious if this is an act of convincing me to agree to your plan.”

“I assure you it’s not part of my plan, but if it’s what it takes for you to say yes, then consider your breakfast cooked every Sunday morning while I’m here.”

I take another bite. “You know, this could seal the deal,” I say with a laugh.

He leans back into his chair and assesses me. “Done. Shall we go to your hotel and pack up your clothes after lunch?”

I choke on my food, causing pieces of bacon to shoot from my throat and onto my plate.

His eyes widen, but there is a hint of a smirk. “We can’t have that lack of etiquette in front of Sir James.”

Oh, God. I’m going to make a fool of myself in front of full-blown aristocracy. I’m trading my rent for my dignity, not exactly what I had in mind when I decided to reinvent myself in London.

This is going to be a huge mistake.

7

JOBE

Zara has packedher LA life into three suitcases.

I can’t envision bringing so little to live in a foreign country. Apart from a few framed photographs of her family and friends, one including my brother and Penny holding their baby, the rest is mainly clothes. It intrigues me how Zara sold off most of her possessions, her past life meaningless to her. If it’s a new life she craves, I’m going to help her achieve it. And I want to show her the privilege of not being committed to a relationship.

“We need to write down a set of house rules,” she says, placing her luggage in her room.

“Later. You need to unpack, and then I’m taking you out for dinner.”

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