by JC Harroway
And what I definitely don’t deserve is Kenzie.
The guilt and self-disgust turning my stomach deals with my hard-on. Yeah, not happening, bud.
The lift arrives and we step inside the brightly lit and mirrored cell. I lock down my trapped-inside emotions behind the neutral facial expression of my reflection while I wonder how the fuck I’m going to manage the next thirty minutes until I can get rid of her without taking a cold shower.
‘Have you and Ashley been dating for long?’ she asks, leaning up against one wall, her beautiful eyes huge and tinged with doubt. ‘I hope she’ll forgive you for cutting things short to...deal with me.’
Deal with her...? Can she read my fucking mind? See all the filthy ways I’d like to deal with her? Does she know that she stars in dreams that jerk me from sleep, leaving me soaked in sweat and harder than steel? I’ve had stern words with my subconscious, but it’s persistently twisted.
‘We’re not dating. Just casual.’ All my interactions with women over the years can be classified that way. Anything more serious would have demanded comparisons I knew deep inside would only highlight the gaping chasm between reality and the fantasy of what might have been with this particular woman.
I look away, feigning fascination in the digital display that tells me I only have thirty more seconds to endure being this close to her in an enclosed space, which may as well be a torture chamber. I slow my breathing to ward off the head rush and slide my eyes over the source of every erotic fantasy I’ve had since the day we met, forcing myself to look beyond the perfection of her combination of features.
‘You’re pale.’ With cold, fatigue or something else? I curl my fingers into fists to stop me from pulling my jacket tighter around her frame and buttoning it up to the neck to protect her from my lecherous stare. I grip the handrail. I only have so much self-control—another reason staying away was easier.
She shrugs. ‘I’m okay.’
I scour her face for clues. Then my stomach plummets as if the lift were descending, not ascending. Is she ill? Is that what she’s come to tell me? She could be dying for all I know. Outside what I struggled to ignore while Sam was still alive and what I’ve pieced together through social-media stalking in the three years since his death, she’s a stranger.
Because I’ve kept her that way in order to atone and for self-preservation.
Panic subsides as I remember the dessert. She came with a mission. I know she had a passion for cooking. But she and her autistic sister, nine years her junior, live in Bath. A long way to deliver dessert.
Another surge of adrenaline traps my breath. Is Tilly sick? Do they need help? Money? Am I the only person she can turn to? I swallow razor blades. Have I neglected her? She must miss Sam. She’s far too young to be a widow. And too fucking beautiful.
My heart stutters frozen as another thought occurs: I have no idea if she’s seeing someone. Three years is a long time for celibacy. I fight the urge to make fists, the idea of some worthless bastard laying his hands on her souring a perfectly satisfactory Michelin-starred dinner.
Enough.
One glimpse of McKenzie Porter and my regimented life turns to chaos. I suck it up. Repeat the mantra: thoughts, eyes and hands off. She’s Sam’s.
I’m about to bang my head against the wall of the lift to knock some sense into my libido-ridden brain when it slows, releasing an electronic ping so welcome, I’m mentally fist-pumping the air at surviving the journey.
‘We could have talked downstairs in the bar, you know,’ she says, a flash of admonishment in her pretty eyes reminding me of the times she bawled out Sam for some bawdy, barrack-room joke.
The doors glide open.
‘Three years is a long time.’ A lifetime. ‘I’d say that warrants a...private reunion, wouldn’t you?’ I hold out my arm for her to exit.
Her mouth thins with censure. ‘I’ve only just moved to London; if you’d wanted to find me sooner, you knew where I was.’
The urge to kiss that sensual mouth slams into me with previously unexperienced force. How can this woman do that to me? Is it just the forbidden thing...? I never considered myself such a puerile arsehole, but hey...anything that helps me keep my hands off her.
She pauses outside the lift. I indicate the direction, and she precedes me down the hallway with a sexy flounce of attitude.
‘I did.’ She’s right. I’ve known where to find her all these years, but couldn’t be a part of her life. ‘And if you needed me, you could have called.’ The lash of guilt slashes between my shoulder blades. Have I punished her, too, in punishing myself for wanting her, for keeping secrets, for plunging her into a life without Sam? I bite back a wince, my jaw aching where my teeth grind together.
By castigating myself and avoiding temptation, I’ve neglected my obligations—the promise made to Sam when neither of us believed it would need to be honoured.
It was better to keep my distance. Better for her because she wouldn’t have wanted to hear what I had to say, and better for my unscrupulous conscience. Because even when I oh, so briefly held a sobbing McKenzie in my arms while she grieved for another man—a man we both loved, a man I made promises to, a man I kept secrets for—my thoughts weren’t wholly innocent.
At the suite door, the only one at this end of the corridor, she turns, big eyes finding me in the gloom, burrowing through my self-protective skin. ‘Yes, well, I wouldn’t be here either if I wasn’t desperate, believe me.’ She flushes and blinks, looking away.
Desperate? My mind races with possibilities, turning my stomach. I let her down, but it was better for her this way. And the sooner I warm her up and get her talking, the sooner I can send her on her way.
‘Great,’ I bite out. ‘You don’t need me and I’ve done a shit job of keeping in touch.’
Her glare dissolves into mocking humour. ‘Fair assessment.’
I unlock the door and activate the suite’s lighting, swallowing the real reasons I stayed away from this forbidden woman. Those damaging words are locked deep inside, out of harm’s way. Harm to Kenzie, to the memory of Sam and to any hope of being in her life in the future. Distant acquaintance is better than nothing. Distant acquaintance keeps me sane.
‘So, coffee? Tea? Something stronger?’ Fuck, I need something stronger. I unbutton my cuffs and roll up my rapidly drying shirtsleeves, the previously comfortable ambient temperature in the suite now stifling, thanks to her presence.
‘Do you have any wine?’ she asks.
I nod, reaching into the cupboard off the entranceway for a spare towel, holding it at arm’s length in offering.
‘Thanks.’ She takes it with a grateful smile and towels the ends of her hair. She’s still wearing my too-big jacket. A mark of possession that pumps my blood faster. How would she look in one of my shirts and nothing else? How would her skin react to the scrape of my facial hair, a map to every place I’ve been lucky enough to run my mouth?
‘Take a seat and I’ll get you a glass.’ And a bucket of water for my own parched throat...
I head to the kitchen, activating the sound system for the distraction of some background music. I select a bottle of wine from the rack, not that alcohol is a good idea around her but I need to keep my restless hands and hungry mouth occupied until she leaves.
Silently, I give myself a talking-to—I can handle a little self-discipline: I’m an expert around Kenzie’s particular brand of temptation. And just because she’s turned up on my doorstep, nothing has changed.
I carry the wine and glasses into the lounge, finding Kenzie holding her hands out to warm in front of the fire.
‘I switched it on. I hope you don’t mind?’ she asks, hesitant.
‘Of course not. It’s put some colour in your cheeks.’
She smiles, shrugs out of my jacket and places it on the chair. I look away, telling myself that, when she’s gone
, I will under no circumstances inhale the fabric to catch her lingering scent. But then she removes her own denim jacket and my fucked brain fries.
Her white blouse is partially see-through from the rain. I’m gifted a flash of lace straining across the fullness of what I’m a million per cent convinced are spectacular breasts, before I look away to pour wine with a trembling hand.
Damn, don’t think about her breasts.
‘Would you like to borrow a change of clothes?’ I ask. ‘A robe?’ A scream sounds in my head. The last thing I need is her removing any more clothing, even in another room. Fuck, another country is too close for comfort. I swallow, tearing my thoughts away from her naked, crying my name as she comes on my tongue...
‘I’ll be fine, thanks.’
I hand her a glass. Her smile widens as she scans the bottle. ‘Mmm... Pinot Noir—my favourite.’
‘Oh...?’ I shrug, pretending I didn’t know that tiny detail. Despite the nuclear meltdown happening inside my body, I turn up the fire, the small gesture worth the sweat it will cost me when she gifts me another of those killer smiles.
She takes a seat and I slide onto the sofa next to her. I can do this—keep things PG. Foster a relationship of fond acquaintance, connected by our love for Sam.
Remembering my manners, I raise my glass, touching it to hers while I force my face to conceal the turmoil tumbling inside, like jagged rocks before the hard edges have been polished. ‘Cheers. To...chance meetings.’
Not friends. Never that.
I take a sip, the wine tasting acidic. I should have toasted Sam. Perhaps he’s the reason she’s come to talk. My temples start to pound, the conflict in my head seeking an escape route.
She covers her small frown with a big gulp of wine. ‘So I take it you left the army?’ She crosses slim legs covered with sheer black stockings.
I look away from her legs, grateful for the perfect distraction. ‘Yeah. I’d done two tours. And...after...’ I clamp my lips together, the wine now burning through my internal organs.
Her expressive eyes freeze, and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. The last thing I want to talk about is that day—the worst day in both our lives, I suspect.
‘I needed a change of direction. The timing felt right.’ I release the rest of the breath I’ve been holding. I’m not ashamed that I suffered PTSD—most people would under the same circumstances—but opening that can of worms will lead to more questions than I want to answer. Time to find out why she’s really here. ‘So what about you? You needed something from me?’ Another slash of guilt pierces.
She swallows, nods, looking down at her lap, where she finds a fleck of fluff on the hem of her skirt. ‘I am sorry I interrupted your evening.’ She snorts a mirthless laugh. ‘Looks like neither of us will be getting laid tonight, although for you, I guess, it hasn’t been as long.’
I practically spurt wine. Is she deliberately trying to torture me with images easily accessed in my vast Kenzie-themed spank bank? And does that mean she hasn’t had sex since... Sam?
I swallow the brick in my throat, too turned on to think straight and too scared to ask, in case I’m wrong and the answer brings up my dinner. ‘So why did you come? You have my attention.’
Round eyes settle on mine, a hint of vulnerability shining there, although she’s the strongest person I know. ‘I...I wanted you to try my dessert.’
‘So, you made that dessert?’ Before Sam died, she worked as a teacher’s aide, helping kids with special needs, a job that allowed her plenty of time and flexibility to care for a teenaged Tilly.
Of course, she’d been a fantastic cook, always trying out new recipes on Sam, Tilly and me, her ‘guinea pigs’, on the few occasions I couldn’t get out of an invitation to their home without looking like an arsehole. Her roast beef with homemade horseradish still haunts me... Sam was a lucky bastard in many ways.
‘Yes. I had a crazy plan to surprise you so you could taste it.’ Her eyes dip to her lap.
‘So...you’re what? In catering? A pastry chef?’
She shakes her head, her face rosy. From the wine? The fire? Or is she embarrassed she’s been forced to come to me, of all people? Someone who, despite being her husband’s best friend, abandoned her after his death?
‘After Sam I...I needed a new direction. Something for myself.’ Her stare clings, as if begging me to understand.
I nod, my own shell cracking to let a tiny confession free in solidarity. ‘I understand—I was lucky to have a job here to fall back on, after the army.’ I don’t add how it saved me—stopped me from going mad with grief and guilt, and stopped me from going to her and confessing bottled-up feelings I had no right to own.
She smiles and continues. ‘Tilly is a woman now.’ Her eyes soften at the mention of her sister and she swallows hard.
I freeze. If she cries, I’ll have to give in to temptation and hold her. I won’t be able to stop myself.
‘She doesn’t need me quite so much as she did growing up.’ She collects herself, brightening. ‘So I retrained in a field I love.’ Excitement turns her eyes alive with golden spangles. ‘I’ve always wanted to cook professionally. And I’m not bad. I never once poisoned you, did I?’ Her mouth twists, a flash of sass that evokes a hundred convoluted memories.
I offer her a genuine smile, my first since I turned to find her behind me in the dining room downstairs. ‘That’s fantastic. You always sent the most amazing cookies. Every guy in our unit buzzed around Sam when those parcels arrived like flies around sh...’
I break off.
Kenzie laughs then smiles, a bittersweet offering that tells me she’s thinking about Sam.
I lean away from temptation. ‘Well, it looked delicious. You’re a great cook.’ Is she after my approval, a reference, a recommendation?
‘Thanks.’ Her eyes are full of doubt, of hesitancy. ‘I guess I thought if I just came to you and asked, you might feel obliged...you know...because of Sam. This way, I hoped my food would speak for me. It was a stupid stunt.’ She takes a glug of wine and I want to reach out and touch her, comfort her, certain she’s never done anything stupid in her life, even as I discreetly glance at my watch and wonder how quickly I can see her on her way.
‘Tell me how I can help?’ I’ll give her anything I’m able to give. Make up somehow for the lonely years of hardship I caused her.
She chews her lip, looking momentarily lost.
My thumb moves rhythmically over the stem of my wine glass as I battle the urge to touch her. Would her mouth be as soft as it looks? What would those expressive eyes tell me if I crossed the line? To fuck the hell off? That she’s never ever once thought of me that way...? That I’m betraying Sam’s memory, just by thinking of her with anything beyond cold, consolation-prize friendship?
Nothing I don’t already know.
She collects herself, holding my eye contact with a tilt of her chin. ‘I hoped if you tasted something I’d made, you’d see how serious I am now I’m free to pursue a career, not just...pacify me because of our...past connection.’
Connection... Fuck, that’s a passionless and depressing descriptor. But accurate.
‘And, having already been declined, I knew it was a long shot.’ Her shoulders droop as she watches the flames of the fire.
All my protective instincts flare to life and my fingers make a fist around the stem of my wine glass. ‘Declined?’
She nods. ‘It’s no big deal.’ A gut-twisting, sad little smile. ‘Breaking into the top restaurants is hard, even outside London. Believe me, I’d have stayed in Bath if I had the choice. But Tilly moved here to study at the London School of Economics and, even though she wants her independence, some days...she still struggles. It made sense for me to be close, for...emergencies.’
Then it registers in a single icy deluge. She lives here now. On my doorstep. I tamp down my increa
sed breathing. This is bad news. How will I sleep at night knowing she’s somewhere in my city, but not in my bed? Close, but still out of bounds?
My lust-addled brain finally slots it all together. ‘You applied for our sous-chef position?’
Another nod, the excitement back in her eyes. ‘I know I’m inexperienced in a restaurant of the Faulkner’s calibre.’ She turns her body to face me, perched on the edge of the sofa. I zone back in to what she’s actually saying rather than just the way her luscious mouth forms the words. She’s so animated, her breaths come in soft pants.
‘I told myself to grasp my big chance, now that I’m free to focus all my energy on what I want. I just need a shot. A trial even. A chance to prove I’m up to the job and willing to learn.’
This is her passion. Something she’s put on hold while she raised her sister. Something she might have achieved sooner, if my actions hadn’t made her a widow.
Yes hovers on my lips. I clamp them together. She’s enough of a temptation across the country, but in my space every day... And the glimmer of hope behind her guarded, afraid-to-dream expression may as well be a shower of hurled knives.
Euphoria drains away, slashed to shreds. I stiffen to hold myself in place and clear my throat. ‘Well, I believe we already have a trial set up for someone else—a Dominic Brown.’
She shakes her head, her eyes dulling but her chin lifting with grit. ‘I see. Couldn’t we take it in turns? Work alternate shifts. You’ll get two for the price of one.’
Every beat of my heart hurts. It’s in my power to help her. But it’s too dangerous. She sees the refusal forming on my tongue and jumps in.
‘I’d put in the hours, more than the hours. I have great references, and if I’m not up to it, if it doesn’t work out, no hard feelings.’ Her cheeks flush as she grows increasingly hopeful.
It’s a physical blow under my ribs to see that look on her face. This means more to her than a job. More than taking care of Tilly. It’s personal. She lost her parents, stepped into the role of Tilly’s caretaker, sidelined her own dreams. That she’s come to me, of all people...the last person who deserves her trust...
