Chapter 5 - The Master of the Kitchen
With her position as the mistress of Blackwood Manor secured, Claire did not spend her days lounging in silk robes.
She took over the kitchen.
The resident chefs, men who were used to preparing sterile, high-end French cuisine for Roman’s business associates, were initially skeptical of the curvy woman who walked into their domain with her hair pinned up in a messy bun and flour on her apron.
But within a week, she had won them over.
She taught them how to make pasta from scratch, the dough rolled thin and filled with rich, creamy ricotta and fresh herbs. She brought the warmth of her grandmother's recipes into the cold stone walls of the manor.
The Guard's TableEvery afternoon, the security guards who patrolled the perimeter of Blackwood Point would find a large wooden table set up in the courtyard, covered in fresh bread, hot stews, and warm pastries.
"The boss's wife is an angel," one of the younger enforcers, a man named Marco, muttered as he took a massive bite of a beef and mushroom pie. "I’d take a bullet for her just to keep getting these pies."
"She’s more than an angel," Gabriel said, standing at the edge of the kitchen, watching Claire laugh with Isabella. "She is the gravity this house has been missing since the old boss died."
Roman watched her too.
He began to spend less time in his office in Manhattan and more time in his study at the manor, where the scent of her cooking would drift through the vents. He found himself looking forward to the dinners they shared with the triplets—real dinners, filled with the children's voices, clattering silver, and Claire's warm, infectious laughter.
She didn't try to hide her body. She wore soft, form-fitting dresses that celebrated her curves, and Roman found himself unable to keep his eyes off her.
One evening, after the children had been put to bed, Roman joined her in the kitchen. She was standing at the sink, washing a copper pot, her hips swaying slightly to the music playing from her phone.
Roman walked up behind her, his hands wrapping around her waist, pulling her back against his chest.
Claire gasped softly, her hands freezing in the soapy water.
"Roman," she whispered.
"You smell like cinnamon," he murmured, his face burying in the crook of her neck, his lips brushing against her warm skin. "Every day, I come home, and this house feels... alive. Because of you."
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"I like making things alive," she said, turning in his arms, her soapy hands held carefully away from his expensive suit. "For a long time, I felt like I was disappearing. But here... with you and the kids... I feel like I’m finally solid."
Roman smiled, his hands sliding down to her hips, his fingers digging into the soft, full curve of her body. "You are more than solid, Claire. You are my home."
