Chapter 158 THE WRONG CONCLUSIONS - 41

Chapter 158 THE WRONG CONCLUSIONS - 41
VIVIENNE

Here's another thing nobody tells you about dating Cole Westbrook.

He's funny.

Not the polished version people saw across boardroom tables or at charity dinners, where every joke was timed perfectly and every smile looked like it belonged in a photograph. I mean genuinely funny, in the quiet, unexpected way that caught you completely off guard. He'd say something so dry over his morning coffee that I'd be halfway through laughing before I realised he'd even made a joke, then he'd take another sip as though nothing remarkable had happened and leave me trying to decide whether I'd imagined it.

It took me a little while to realise he was doing it on purpose.

It took me a little longer to realise he enjoyed watching me catch up.

I discovered he couldn't cook on a Sunday.

That felt like the wrong day to uncover information capable of fundamentally changing your opinion of another human being.

I arrived at his place just after noon, the one that occupied the entire top floor of a building with a concierge who greeted me by name now and a lift that opened straight into his hallway. I'd stopped overthinking all of that because every time I did, it inevitably turned into an internal lecture about wealth and class and whether I was becoming alarmingly comfortable in a world that had never been mine to begin with.

None of that was particularly useful before lunch.

What I found instead was Cole standing in front of the hob, staring into a frying pan with the cautious expression of a man who had already accepted defeat but wasn't entirely sure how it had happened.

I looked into the pan.

Then I looked at him.

"What happened?"

"I was making eggs."

I looked back at the pan.

"Those don't resemble eggs."

"They did few minutes ago."

"And now?"

"Now..." He considered them for a moment. "Now they've become something else."

I folded my arms.

"What setting did you use?"

"The highest one."

"Cole."

"I thought it would be quicker."

"It was."

He frowned.

"It was?"

"You managed to ruin breakfast in record time."

That earned me a reluctant smile.

"I was hoping for something a little more encouraging."

"I am encouraging."

"You've just insulted my eggs."

"I'm not sure they're eggs anymore."

He looked down into the pan again, sighed with surprising sincerity, then picked up the spatula as though there was still a chance of rescuing whatever remained.

"I could start over."

"You could."

I walked over, gently took the spatula out of his hand and set it on the counter.

"We're getting bagels."

He laughed then, a proper laugh that filled the room, and reached for his jacket without another argument.

"I appreciate your confidence in me."

"I have confidence in plenty of things."

"My cooking isn't one of them."

"It absolutely isn't."

The bagel shop was only a couple of streets away, and the owner spotted Cole almost as soon as we walked through the door.

"Morning, Mr. Westbrook."

"Morning, Sam."

"The usual?"

"The lady decides today."

I looked between the two of them.

"You come here often."

Cole looked faintly guilty.

"I may have developed a routine."

Sam smiled knowingly before disappearing to put our order together.

"How," I asked as we started walking again, "have you survived all these years without learning to cook?"

"Restaurants."

"I was expecting a slightly more creative answer."

"It's the honest one."

"Surely somebody tried to teach you."

"Marcus did once."

"And?"

"He asked me to chop onions."

I looked at him.

"...That's where the lesson ended?"

"I nearly lost a fingertip."

"I don't believe you."

"I wish I were exaggerating."

"What about Callum?"

"There was a period where he became genuinely concerned."

"Concerned enough to help?"

"Concerned enough to recommend takeaway."

I laughed.

"So everyone just accepted this?"

"It was the safest option."

By the time we reached his building again, I had learned three things.

Cole Westbrook could negotiate billion-pound projects.

He could remember a conversation you'd had weeks ago without missing a single detail.

And apparently he couldn't be trusted to fry an egg without creating a minor incident.

Standing in the middle of his kitchen, I looked around at the marble worktops, the expensive appliances, the collection of olive oils lined up beside the cooker, and slowly turned back to him.

"You realise," I said, "this kitchen costs more than my first flat."

"The olive oils were a gift."

"I wasn't talking about the olive oils."

"They're very good olive oils."

"Cole."

"What?"

"You own an oven with more settings than my firm's photocopier."

"It does have quite a few settings."

"And somehow you still picked the one capable of incinerating breakfast."

"I was optimistic."

"I'll take that."

Looking back, I probably should have realised then what was about to happen.

It started innocently enough.

The following weekend I cooked at his flat because it was easier than letting him wage another war against breakfast.

The weekend after that I did it again.

By the third Sunday I knew exactly where everything lived in his kitchen, and neither of us had acknowledged how quickly it had become routine.

\~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He turned up at my office on a Thursday without warning.

I looked up from a deposition summary just before noon to find him leaning against the open door, still in his coat, carrying a paper bag from the restaurant I'd failed to get a reservation at twice already.

"I was nearby," he said.

I looked at him.

"Your office is on the other side of the city."

"I had a meeting in this direction."

"What kind of meeting?"

"The kind that finished before lunch."

"And naturally the next thing on your schedule was feeding me."

"I thought you'd appreciate that more than a board report."

He wasn't wrong.

We ate at my desk with deposition notes spread between us, him asking the occasional question that somehow cut straight to the part I'd been struggling with for half an hour. He left as soon as we finished eating.

Around half four my phone rang.

"Come over tonight," Cole said.

I decided to surprise him so I responded with "I can't."

"You sound suspiciously unconvinced."

"I have work."

"You also told me you had work last week."

"I did, I’m sorry. I'll make it up to you."

"You don't have to Viv."

"I know but I will."

After we hung up, I looked at my laptop for another ten minutes before giving up entirely.

An hour later I was standing outside the Thai restaurant he'd mentioned wanting to try for days.

By the time I reached his building, I was smiling before the lift doors even opened.

He answered the door almost immediately.

"I thought you had work."

"I did."

"And?"

"I finished."

I lifted the takeaway bag.

"I also appear to have picked up dinner."

His eyes dropped to the logo before finding me again.

"You went there?"

"You like their food, of course I did. You’re not the only one capable of being romantic you know

For a second he didn't say anything.

Then he stepped aside, one hand resting lightly against my back as I walked past him, his fingers lingering for the briefest moment before falling away again.

"I think," he said as he closed the door behind us, "I'm becoming alarmingly predictable."

"I don't know."

I turned to face him.

"I still don't think I've quite figured you out."

The corner of his mouth lifted.

"I hope not."

Dinner made it as far as the kitchen.

We unpacked everything, found plates, poured wine, and somehow ended up talking instead of eating. One story became another, then another, and every time one of us reached for the cartons we'd get distracted all over again until eventually I glanced at the clock and realised nearly two hours had disappeared.

"We're hopeless," I said.

"We're terrible."

"The food's cold."

"We can fix that."

"I should shower first."

He nodded.

"Your things are still in the bathroom."

The bathroom filled with steam almost immediately, and I stood under the hot water far longer than I'd intended, letting the day wash away until my thoughts finally slowed down.