Chapter 6 Soup, Salad, and a Suit
The little deli down the street was already half full when Amelia arrived, the warm scent of fresh bread and simmering soup greeting her as she stepped inside. Claire was at their usual table near the front window, tomato bisque steaming in a white bowl, a roasted chicken salad waiting on the other plate.
“You ordered for me?” Amelia said, smiling as she slid into the chair opposite her.
“Please. Like I don’t know what you’re going to get,” Claire replied, tearing off a piece of baguette and dipping it into her soup. “You’ve been getting that salad for six years. It’s practically got your name on it.”
Amelia laughed, shaking her head. “Fair enough.”
“So,” Claire said, leaning forward, “I email you this morning about the media rundown, and you don’t respond. Then I call, and you tell me you’re in his office — because Carl volunteered you to work for Bryson Hearst? On the same day as your gala?”
Amelia sighed. “I saw your email come through, but that’s as far as I got. And yes… apparently Carl thought it was a great idea.”
“Claire set her spoon down with a faint clink. ‘Carl thought it was a good idea? Sure. Because Carl’s calendar didn’t just get obliterated by it.’” Unbelievable. That man doesn’t take your time, your work, or you seriously, Amelia.”
“I don’t think it was meant to—”
“Oh, don’t defend him,” Claire said, her voice warm but edged. “You’re too nice sometimes.”
The bell above the deli door chimed, and Amelia glanced up to see Bryson step inside, crisp in a dark suit with no tie. He scanned the room with that same measured precision she’d seen in the office before heading straight to the counter.
She tried not to watch — and failed — as he exchanged a few quiet words with the barista, signed the receipt, and accepted a neatly packed brown paper bag.
Claire caught the glance, her lips curving into a slow smile. “Alright, who’s Mr. Tall, Dark, and Tailored?”
Amelia blinked, heat creeping to her cheeks. “That’s my new boss.”
Claire’s brows shot up. “That’s Bryson Hearst? You did not tell me he looked like that. And Lila certainly never mentioned her brother was a god.” She leaned back with a mock-accusing look. “Some friend she is, holding out on me.”
She grinned, then added more softly, “Actually, speaking of Lila — she’s the new friend I’ve been telling you about, remember? Lila Hearst. We met a few months ago at the Hearst & Pierce charity gala. I was running PR for one of the sponsors, and my assistant had just stepped away to handle a seating issue when my phone charger decided to die on me. So there I was — juggling a plate of food, trying to plug in a backup charger in a pencil skirt and four-inch heels — when Lila walked up.”
Amelia smiled, already picturing it.
“Instead of pretending not to see me struggling, she offered me her charger and stole a bite off my plate,” Claire said with a laugh. “We bonded over how good the mushroom risotto bites were. Totally random, but we just clicked. She’s sharp, funny, and honestly nothing like you’d expect from a lawyer.”
Amelia tilted her head. “Lila Hearst,” she repeated slowly.
Claire nodded, her expression brightening. “Yep. Bryson’s sister. Small world, right? She’s brilliant — the kind of person who could argue a case in the morning and curate an art show by dinner. And she’s serious about this gallery, Amelia. It’s not a vanity project — she’s building something that matters. I’m handling her PR, and I actually suggested bringing you in to help with the interior design. I told her you have that instinct for warmth, the way you make spaces feel like people belong there.”
Amelia paused, the connection clicking into place. Of course. The resemblance had been there the night she’d first noticed Lila at a gala months ago — the dark hair, luminous skin, and those blue-gray eyes that carried quiet authority. The family resemblance to Bryson was subtle but undeniable.
She’d admired Lila that night for more than her presence — for the sharpness in her questions, the thought behind her words. Lila wasn’t just another name on an invitation list; she was intent, building something real. Amelia had thought fleetingly that she’d like to know her better. And now, somehow, the world seemed to be folding in on itself, drawing those threads together.
Before Amelia could respond, Bryson turned, his gaze sweeping the deli until it landed directly on her. He crossed the room, the takeout bag in hand, and stopped at their table.
“I thought you were having lunch with Carl,” he said evenly.
Claire let out a quiet, incredulous laugh. “If Amelia waited for Carl, she’d be fainting from hunger right about now.”
Amelia gestured between them. “Bryson, this is my best friend, Claire. Claire, Bryson Hearst.”
Bryson gave her a polite nod. “Nice to meet you, Claire.”
“Likewise,” Claire said, her smile quick but assessing.
His gaze flicked briefly to Claire, then back to Amelia. He didn’t comment, but the faint tightening around his eyes told her he’d registered every word.
“He was busy,” she said simply.
“I could’ve added your lunch to mine,” Bryson said. Then, almost as an afterthought, “The roast beef here’s the best in the city.”
“Claire grinned. ‘Careful, Bryson. That’s how rumors start.’”
He didn’t take the bait, though the faintest ghost of amusement crossed his face before he gave a short nod. “Enjoy your lunch, ladies.”
As he turned to go, Claire watched him leave, then leaned in. “He likes the roast beef here. You should remember that.”
Amelia shook her head, smiling despite herself. “You’re impossible.”
“Bryson’s departure left a subtle trail of amber, cedar, and that faint oceanic mist — warm, grounding, and clean all at once.” Amelia watched him step out into the bright autumn light before Claire leaned forward again, spoon poised above her tomato bisque.
“Alright,” Claire said, “enough about Mr. Handsome Hearst. Let’s talk about tonight. Everything set for your gala?”
Amelia took a bite of her roasted chicken salad before answering. “As set as it can be. I’ll still be checking table assignments in the car on the way there.”
Claire gave her a knowing smile. “That’s you every year. The queen of last-minute perfection. But you’re going to pull it off, and it’s going to be stunning.”
“That’s the plan,” Amelia said, though her tone was softer, more distracted.
Claire studied her a moment, then said, “And Carl? Is he actually going tonight, or am I going to have to sit through another one of those ‘work emergency’ excuses?”
Amelia’s fork paused midair. “He said last week he was coming.”
Claire snorted delicately. “Uh-huh. I’ll believe it when I see him sitting in a chair with a drink in his hand and not a phone pressed to his ear.”
Amelia shook her head, but the corner of her mouth curved.
They lingered for another twenty minutes, talking through seating arrangements, late RSVPs, and whether the mini crab cakes would live up to their reputation. When Amelia finally glanced at her watch, she sighed.
“I should get back,” she said. “Still have a desk covered in papers waiting for me.”
Claire smirked. “And a boss who eats the best roast beef in the city.”
Amelia rolled her eyes, but her lips curved. “I’ll see you tonight.”
Back at the office, Amelia slid into her chair with five minutes to spare before her next round of calls. Bryson’s door was open, and she caught him glancing up from a contract as she passed.
“Good lunch?” he asked without looking away from the page he was signing.
“Very,” she said. “And for the record—Claire agrees with you about the roast beef.”
One corner of his mouth lifted, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he handed her a short list of follow-ups to make before the end of the day. She returned to her desk, fingers flying over the keyboard, slipping back into the steady rhythm of work.
By the time Amelia shut down her laptop, the early October light outside had shifted into a warm, amber wash over the skyline. She gathered her things, the weight of the evening ahead settling in.
Ben was waiting at the curb when she stepped outside, and the moment she slid into the car, her phone buzzed with a text from Claire: Don’t be late. The crab cakes are calling your name.
“No message from Carl. No missed call. Not even the usual halfhearted promise.” She’d been too busy to care—if he showed, fine; if he didn’t, that was fine too.
The drive was quiet, the city’s buzz fading to the calm hum of the suburbs. At the estate, she moved quickly—heels clicking across marble, dress laid out on the bed, makeup case open on the vanity.