Page 20 of A Chef's Kiss for Christmas

“Of course,” Warren said.

It was a dig, and not a subtle one, but he refused to rise to it. He only wished his dad would be content with having his daughter and his son-in-law in the family business and get over the fact that Warren had no interest in it.

With dinner winding down, he reminded himself that the visit was almost over and he’d got through it with minimal drama.

“You could bring Anna with you,” his mum said, drawing his attention.

“Where to?” he asked, entirely lost.

“Bath. I’m sure Selena will be keen to meet her.”

“December is busy with work,” he said.

“You could just come for a day or two,” his mum suggested. “It’d be a nice relaxing break for you both.”

It wouldn’t, and it amazed him that his mum lived in a fantasy world where she genuinely believed it could be relaxing for him to spend time with them.

“I’ll send you the dates,” she said, patting his hand. “Chat it through with Anna and let me know.”

“I won’t be able to take time off work.” He didn’t want her getting it into her head that this was a possibility.

“We’ll see.” Judging by her smile, she wouldn’t be deterred on the matter, and it felt easier to let it go. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave you and get my beauty sleep,” she said, then yawned in what seemed to be a deliberate gesture.

“I should get going anyway,” he said, and felt a pang of relief that the ordeal was almost over.

“Stay and have a drink with your dad. He’d like that. Wouldn’t you, Dennis?”

“Let’s move to the lounge,” his dad said, standing.

“I actually need to go,” Warren protested. “I have an early start tomorrow.”

“It’s only nine.” His dad clapped him on the back. “I want to have a drink with my son. Come on.”

Since arguing felt futile, he kissed his mum goodbye and promised he’d see her soon, then followed his dad into the lounge area.

“What’s your preference for whisky?” he asked, sinking into a leather wingback by the fire.

“I don’t drink whisky,” Warren told him wearily.

“Don’t be daft. I want to drink a whisky with my son.” He waved the waiter over and ordered two glasses of Glenfiddich.

Warren didn’t bother arguing further. If his dad wanted to throw money away, so be it. Not that the whisky would go towaste. His dad would polish them both off, despite having consumed the best part of a bottle of wine with dinner.

The waiter returned, and Warren dutifully clinked his glass against his dad’s before setting it down.

“I have a proposition for you,” his dad said without preamble.

Warren felt a headache coming on and rubbed his temple. “If it involves me coming to work for you, I’ll stop you now to save you from wasting your breath.”

His dad held a hand up. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Be sensible. At least listen to what I’m offering.”

“There’s nothing you could offer that would interest me,” he said, smiling at the absurdity of the conversation. “As impossible as it is for you to understand, I like my life. I enjoy my job.”

“You enjoy making a point,” his dad said, shaking his head. “Enough is enough, though.”

“I’m not trying to make a point.” He closed his eyes. “I was never trying to make a point. I just wanted to do something else.”

“There’s no shame in admitting you were wrong,” his dad said as though Warren hadn’t spoken.