But they didn’t head toward the guests.
They came straight toward me.
The kitchen door swung open.
A tall man in a perfectly tailored black suit stepped inside.
Rain had dampened his dark hair.
Water droplets dotted the shoulders of his charcoal overcoat.
He had sharp features and calm gray eyes that made even powerful men reconsider whatever they were about to say.
Julian Mercer.
He paid no attention to the ovens.
The dirty dishes.
Or my mother, who had appeared behind him looking as though she had suddenly forgotten how to breathe.
He walked directly toward me.
The sponge slipped from my fingers.
Julian gently took my wet hand in his.
His eyes dropped to my red, irritated knuckles.
Then he lifted my hand and kissed it.
“Sorry, darling,” he said.
“I’m late.”
Someone gasped behind him.
The dining room doors now stood completely open.
My entire family was staring at us.
Natalie had knocked over her wineglass.
Ryan’s mouth hung open.
My mother had turned completely pale.
Because Julian Mercer wasn’t simply rich.
He was the billionaire CEO of Mercer Holdings, owner of several luxury hotel and real-estate brands.
More importantly, he was the man my father had spent six months begging to invest in Bennett Development Group.
My father slowly stood.
“Claire,” Thomas stammered.
“You… know Mr. Mercer?”
Julian never released my hand.
His gaze moved from my father to the stained apron around my waist.
Something hardened in his expression.
“She is my fiancée,” he said.
The words exploded across the room.
“And I would very much like to know why my future wife is serving Thanksgiving dinner instead of sitting down to eat it.”
Nobody spoke.
Margaret recovered first.
She gave a nervous laugh.
