Billionaire With a Twist 3(9)

It didn’t taste quite like the gourmet meals back at the manor, though. Had he bought this somewhere local? Maybe I could get some, for nights when I was feeling extra pathetic and wanted a sense memory of time spent with him, even if it had been terrible, awkward, silent time.

“Did you get this at a market nearby?” I asked.

He grunted. “It’s homemade.”

“Your cook made this?” I said, surprised. I’d gotten used to fancier fare at Chez Knox.

Hunter shook his head. For a second I thought that was going to be his only response, but then he grunted, “I did.”

I was amazed. “Really?”

“It’s not so hard.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Old family recipe.”

He tried to say it casually, but there was a world of hurt in those last three words.

Of course. I’d gone and done it again. Reminded him of my betrayal. Reminded him of all that he had lost, including rights to another old family recipe.

“Hunter,” I said as gently as I could, trying to infuse my words with all the sincerity I felt. “I really am sorry. And I really do want to help. How…however I can. Don’t you want…don’t you need…anything? Tell me what I can do.”

Hunter looked away, into the dancing flames of the fireplace. They danced in his eyes as well. “I—I can’t. Let you help.”

My frustration bubbled over at his stupid, stubborn, manly-man American individualism. Men always had to do it all on their own, didn’t they? “Why not?”

“Because it’s my fault,” he said softly. “What you did—that shouldn’t have mattered. It wouldn’t have mattered, if I hadn’t let things get as bad as I did, back in the years when I was running from the legacy. But I did. And it feels—I failed everyone. Not just the customers, not just the workers, just—” a quaver came into his voice, and for a second he sounded like nothing more than a lost little boy before he made his voice hard again, his jaw clenched tight, punishing himself. “The Knox name lasted for generations of great bourbon, and I’m the one who let it all crumble. My family name is mud because of me. I failed.”

Emotion swamped me like a tidal wave, sorrow and regret and grief for what he was putting himself through. Before I knew it I was at his side, kneeling on the couch cushion next to him. I put my hands on his shoulders, squeezing tight. “It is not your fault—”

He shrugged off my hand, a wild animal refusing comfort. “Don’t try to tell me it’s not! I know what I did! And I’m not going to put the blame on anybody else.”

He stood so abruptly I was almost jolted off the couch, and stormed off to the bedroom, not meeting my eyes. I jumped up, intending to follow, determined to make him see that he wasn’t to blame—

But then I heard the sound of a key turning in the lock on his bedroom door.

Such a small sound, Hunter locking himself away from me. I was almost surprised I could hear it over the sound of my heart breaking. For the first time, I realized: maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe there was no way to fix this. Maybe our relationship—and any chance at winning back the company—was over.





FIVE


But you don’t get me off your case that easily, Hunter Knox.

After a sleepless night tossing and turning on the couch, I’d decided that of all the things I was, a quitter wasn’t one of them. So no matter how hopeless it seemed, I wasn’t giving up on Hunter or the company without one last fight. I’d just have to make it count. This wasn’t a battle anymore—it was a war. And I had a plan.

My strategizing was already paying off. I flipped the eggs sunny side up and grinned, surveying the rest of my morning’s accomplishments. I had done well.

From across the house there was the sound of shuffling, and then a few muffled thuds, followed by what might have been a swear word, and then footsteps. Hunter’s door cracked open slowly, and he emerged bleary-eyed, sniffing at the smoky air like he wasn’t sure it was real. “What the hell?”

“I made you breakfast,” I chirped.

That was understating it. I had fried every damn thing that it was possible to fry.

There was fried bread, okra, beans, tomatoes, banana peppers, eggs, bacon, potatoes, and sausage. I’d also set out a jar of blackberry preserves that looked like they’d been sitting in the pantry since Eisenhower was in office. There was no real coffee, but apparently in some spurt of historical accuracy, fanboying Hunter had bought a bunch of chicory coffee, not realizing or not caring that the entire reason Confederate soldiers drank that shit was because real coffee was hard to come by. That, or, God forbid, he actually liked the taste.

Hunter leaned over the table as if uncertain whether to risk sitting down, picked up a fork, and poked at a piece of sausage like it was a land mine he was afraid would go off. He brought it to his mouth, took a minuscule bite, and chewed carefully.

What, does he think I’m going to poison him or something?

His eyes closed for a moment and he grunted in an appreciatory manner before slumping into the chair and spearing a bit of deep-fried okra.

It wasn’t exactly Shakespeare, but I’d take it.

“I can see that you made breakfast,” he mumbled in a belated response to my earlier statement. “I just can’t see why.”