CHAPTER 11

~ JAMIE

My mother's voice cut through like a bucket of ice water.

I jumped back, clearing my throat, feeling the heat crawl up my face. Simon stepped back too, but with way more grace than me, like that closeness hadn't affected him at all.

Not that I was affected. Obviously.

"Let's go," I said, my voice coming out too loud. "My grandmother will be pissed if we miss the song."

I started walking back toward the dining room, and I felt Simon's hand settle on the small of my back, guiding me with a familiarity that felt strangely natural. His fingers pressed lightly through the fabric of my dress, and I had to force myself not to think about it.

The dining room was lit by candles now. My grandmother sat at the head of the table, beaming, while my mother and aunts placed the cake in front of her—a massive chocolate cream pie, covered in gold candles.

"Happy birthday to you," we started singing, all of us together, voices blending into a slightly off-key but love-filled chorus. My grandmother laughed, clapping like a child, her eyes shining with happy tears.

"Blow out the candles, Grandma!" my little cousin yelled, and we all laughed when she blew so hard the candles nearly went out.

The cake got cut, and I helped serve the slices. But the aunts wouldn't leave Simon alone. They swarmed him like a flock of curious hens, firing questions about his family, his company, his travels.

"Simon, do you have siblings?"

"Simon, do you know that famous actor? The one from that show?"

He answered each one with infinite patience, that charming smile permanently glued to his face. I watched him from across the room, slicing the cake into smaller pieces, and something in my chest tightened in a way I couldn't explain.

My grandmother, though, was not easily distracted. She grabbed a slice and made her way over to Simon, ignoring the aunts who were still trying to keep the conversation going.

"Here, sweetheart." She held out the plate. "I saved the best piece for you."

"Grandma," I cut in, "he doesn't eat gluten."

She stopped mid-motion and frowned.

"He doesn't?"

"He diets all year long."

Simon turned his head toward me, expression calm, like he'd just heard an absurd accusation.

"Don't listen to her. She likes to ruin my reputation." He took the plate from my grandmother with an easy smile. "I do eat it. I just try to stay in shape most of the year."

"So you don't have to eat it out of politeness," my grandmother warned.

Simon looked at the cake, then back at her.

"I'm not eating it to be polite." He picked up his fork. "It's your birthday. If a woman goes out of her way to save the best slice of her own cake for me, I'd be an idiot to turn it down."

My grandmother broke into a grin so wide it nearly made me laugh.

Simon took a generous bite—none of that picky just-the-tip nonsense. Chewed slowly, nodded, and pointed his fork at her.

"This is dangerous."

"Dangerous?"

"If I have another piece, I'm going to have to start showing up to every family birthday."

She burst out laughing.

And I stood there, watching him for a second too long.

Simon could buy entire restaurants without checking the price. He probably had a chef controlling how much butter went into his food.

But here he was. With my family. Eating a slice of cake drowning in syrup because my grandmother had put it in his hands.

No complaints. No posturing. No making anyone feel small.

Damn.

That looked dangerously good on him.

My grandmother was smiling, clearly charmed. But then her eyes dropped to his wrist, where his sleeve had rolled back slightly. A scar—jagged and uneven—ran up his forearm, disappearing under the fabric.

"What's the story behind this scar?" my grandmother said, grabbing his arm with the kind of familiarity only old people have.

Simon froze.

It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but I saw it. His whole body went rigid, the smile locking in place, and for a moment he looked miles away.

The aunts, who'd been gathered around, went quiet. All eyes fixed on him, waiting for an answer.

I'd always noticed that scar, of course. It appeared occasionally when he rolled up his sleeves or wore shorter shirts. But our relationship had always been strictly professional, and asking about scars wasn't part of my job.

But the way he reacted to that question? It hadn't landed well.

"Simon," I said, my voice soft. Not a warning. A lifeline.

He blinked. Slowly, like he was surfacing from a distant memory. His eyes traveled over the aunts' faces, my grandmother's, and finally landed on mine.

"Ah, that scar," he said, his voice sliding back into its usual casual tone. "Actually, that was the day Jamie was on fire."

I nearly choked on my own spit. My eyes went wide, shooting a panic signal at him. What? What are you doing?

"We were showering together," he continued, completely unbothered, "and things got... heated. We got carried away, the glass door shattered, and I ended up cutting myself."

The aunts started smiling—some embarrassed, others clearly amused. My grandmother let out a low chuckle.

"Ah," she said, shaking her head. "Young people."

I wanted to die. Wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole. Instead I just stood there, frozen, feeling the heat creep up my face while the aunts laughed and whispered among themselves.

"Jamie," my aunt Marta said, winking at me. "You never told me you were so... spirited."

"I didn't—" I started, but my voice died.

Simon, the bastard, was grinning at my expense like he'd just pulled off the prank of the year. His blue eyes sparkled with poorly hidden amusement, and he had the audacity to wink at me as he took another bite of cake.

"Simon," I said, my voice coming out in a tight wire. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Sure, babe." He set his plate down with deliberate slowness, dabbing the corners of his mouth with a napkin before standing. "Sorry, everyone. I think my girlfriend wants to yell at me in private."

The aunts laughed like it was the most romantic thing they'd ever seen.

I grabbed his arm, dragging him out of the dining room and into the kitchen.