by JC Harroway
He grins and follows my orders with surprising enthusiasm.
When he joins me at the stove, I reach up on my tiptoes to loop a spare apron over his head. ‘To protect your shirt,’ I say, boiling up at my proximity to him. Sparks zap between us, lighting his eyes, which are full of heat and laughter and promise.
Oh yes, he’s missed me too. The sexual undercurrents sizzle hotter than the flame of my beloved professional range.
I hand him the wooden spoon. ‘You have a very important job.’ I indicate the pan under which I’ve switched on the gas. ‘Just keep stirring.’
He laughs, tying the apron strings around his trim waist. ‘Sounds simple enough. I must warn you, though—I burn water.’ The pan spits as he stirs the minced onion and beef marrow through the butter that forms the base of the risotto.
‘You’ll be fine. I’m an excellent teacher, if a little bossy.’ I step close to inhale the delicious steam wafting from the pan, our arms brushing. ‘This recipe—Risotto alla Milanese—is from northern Italy. Some people omit the marrow, but trust me when I say it adds so much flavour and richness. You’re going to love it.’
‘I can’t wait. What’s in the oven?’ His stomach growls in that moment and we share a look and a laugh.
‘Ossobuco—slow-roasted beef shin.’ I cut a couple of slices of ciabatta and place them on a wooden platter with a dish of olives in oil, homemade sundried tomatoes and slivers of prosciutto. ‘Something for the chefs,’ I say, dipping some bread into the olive oil and raising it to his mouth.
He holds my wrist and wraps his lips around my offering, licking the oil from my fingers.
To cover the trembling of my body, I take an olive and pop it into my mouth. At this rate, dinner might become breakfast. With one eye on Sterling’s pan, I return to chopping the herbs for the gremolata that will finish the dish.
‘Tell me about your rough few days.’ I need a distraction from wanting to rip off his clothes. I tip the risotto rice into his pan and motion for him to keep stirring.
He swallows his second mouthful of bread—he even eats sexily—and washes it down with red wine. ‘I was supposed to meet with my business partners, Monroe and Hudson, in Tokyo this week, but I had a family thing. A cousin of mine, Dale, died of lymphoma. I took my mother upstate for the funeral.’
I pause what I’m doing, my heart lurching, and touch his arm. ‘I’m sorry. Were you and Dale close?’
He shrugs, looking conflicted. ‘I’d sometimes spend the summers with him at my uncle’s place. Dale and I would show off to impress girls by diving from the dock at the lake nearby.’ He flashes a small smile at the memory.
‘Now, why can I imagine that so vividly...?’ I laugh, sloshing a ladleful of beef broth into the risotto pan he’s manning.
‘I wanted to come back to New York after the service, but Mom wanted to stay the night.’ He falls quiet and pensive.
Knowing he takes care of his mother does something to me. I look at him anew. He’s kind and dedicated. Profound and honourable. ‘I’m glad you and your mom have each other.’ A familiar, almost envious ache burrows between my ribs.
Another shrug, this one concealed with a glug of wine. ‘She’s lonely after my stepfather died.’ His eyes turn dark and turbulent and tension radiates from his body. ‘She’s not happy about me selling Brent’s.’
I hold my breath, wary of jeopardising our renewed closeness. ‘Perhaps that’s because she doesn’t know how you truly feel about him.’
He stills, the wooden spoon coming to a halt.
I rush on. ‘It might help if she understood why you’re rebranding and selling the company. I’m sure she’d be supportive.’
He begins stirring more vigorously, and the poor risotto takes a beating. ‘I don’t know, but I’m tired of his influence. I’m trying to make something positive out of the past. She’s never discussed it with me,’ his voice drops, telling me he’s opening up, ‘but I know Marcus emotionally abused her too.’
My throat burns for him, the boy he was then and the man he is now. He’s caring and protective. He’d have hated not being able to defend his mom. ‘I’m sorry that happened to you both. But she’d likely be sad to know you’re struggling with the past because you didn’t want to disappoint her. Because you were sheltering her.’ My heart aches. He loves this woman. He’s spent his life shielding her from an unpalatable truth.
I ladle some more broth into the risotto, my voice tight with empathy. ‘Stir, please.’
He sighs half-heartedly, a small smile breaking out at my command.
‘I’m not struggling with the past—I’m trying to lay it to rest.’
‘By proving you’re a better businessman than he was?’ I ask without judgement.
‘Yes. What’s wrong with that?’
‘Nothing. I think that goes without saying. You’re so much more than a world-class businessman. You have nothing to prove. For example, you’re pretty good at stirring the risotto, a job I was only trusted with when I’d graduated through fresh pasta making and kneading bread dough.’
I smile wider, trying not to think of all the other things he’s good at.
That we’re standing in my kitchen—a place of happiness and contentment for me—about to share a meal he’s helped me prepare, terrifies me. I never expected to find any common ground with this man outside of the bedroom. He still has the capacity to ruin my business, but seeing him in an apron doing something as ordinary as cooking, hearing how he loves and cares for his mother... I see him in a new light.
Do I already have feelings for him?
No—it’s just compassion. If I’d experienced his degree of bullying growing up, who knows what I’d be prepared to do to avenge a loved one...?
‘So, you and Monroe are amicable enough to still work together?’
Why am I asking about his ex-wife? We’ve prepared dinner in the kind of relative harmony that makes me homesick for my parents. They must have done this a thousand times—cooked a meal with love, side by side.
‘Monroe and I are friends now. That doesn’t mean we didn’t have to work hard to keep Bold intact after the divorce. But if something is important enough to you, you do what needs to be done.’
I nod as danger buzzes through my head like a swarm of angry hornets. That’s exactly how I feel about Hamilton’s. Except now there’s the possibility of something more, both professionally and personally, that meeting Sterling has brought into my life... It’s confronting. Uncomfortable and liberating all at once.
I want to avoid another heavy discussion so I make small talk while we eat. Sometimes all the evidence you need to see that life is pretty good is a tummy full of wholesome food and good company. When he devours everything on his plate, his praise vocal and plentiful, I want to kiss him. There’s no better feeling than someone enjoying something I’ve cooked. Well, perhaps one better feeling, which still involves kissing.
We eat dessert—creamy panna cotta—in the lounge, where we talk some more about our favourite parts of New York. I’m distracted, re-living our journey through the lens of those many kisses we’ve shared: wild, passionate kisses; angry, vengeful kisses and heady, diverting kisses that block out the world.
Tonight, being here with Sterling, I feel as if we’re safe inside our own sanctuary. As if we’re the only two people who exist. As if he’s enjoyed being here as much as I’ve enjoyed having him.
‘You have a lot of books,’ he says, observing my jam-packed shelves.
‘Yes. Many of them were my parents’. I’m reading my way through their library.’
‘And the vinyl collection?’
‘Also theirs.’ I rise and place one of my favourites—‘Big Band Swing’—on the turntable. I return and sit beside him on the sofa. Intimate music swirls around the room, drawing us closer like magnets. Red wine and delicious food and his proximity ha
ve me in a state of heart-thudding arousal, but also something more—the desire for the same connection we shared at the stove where we laughed and flirted and seemed to develop a greater mutual understanding.
Almost as if we click together.
Can I be close to him and still protect myself from the fear that he’ll hurt me, not just my company? If I let him in, can I still continue to find where I belong in this busy, lonely, changing world?
I take a shuddering breath that feeds me with courage. I’m so tired of being afraid. ‘Would you like to stay the night?’ I don’t want him to leave. I feel as if I’m finally getting to know him, and despite the fact that it scares me, I’ve invited him into the very heart of my life: my home, my memories, my past.
‘I’d love to stay.’ His smile is both seductive and uncertain, a combination that’s wildly attractive and makes my pulse fly.
I want to spend the night re-learning everything I thought I knew about him. I understand his motivations and reasons. His desperation to be finally free of his past resonates with me on a deep level that makes me feel a bond to him. I too wish for some peace from overthinking every decision and asking is this what my family would have wanted? I crave a pathway forward that bursts alive with hope and possibility after every tentative step I take.
Sterling slides his fingers into my hair and guides my mouth to his kiss. He takes his time exploring, as if it’s our first kiss, as if he’s in no hurry.
I try not to compare this kiss to our others, but in light of all we’ve shared today, it feels as if I’m letting him in emotionally. An alarming pounding of my heart mixed with exhilaration flips my stomach.
I pull away to straddle his lap and tilt his head back to kiss him once more. Greater awareness seems to blossom between us with every brush of our lips. Every gentle glide of fingertips against skin. Every shared breath.
A new confession fights for freedom as I pull back to gulp air. ‘It’s my birthday tomorrow and I don’t want to wake up alone.’
Shock slashes Sterling’s expression. ‘Why didn’t you say something earlier?’
I shrug in answer. My grandparents tried, but I refused to celebrate my milestone after my parents died. Without them it seemed pointless. ‘I don’t make a big fuss of it—I prefer to have a quiet day of remembrance, recalling the happiness of birthdays past when my family was all together.’
His stare simmers with emotion that’s mirrored in me. His compassion surrounds me, as palpable as if I’m in his arms which draw me close. ‘You won’t wake up alone.’ He brushes my lips with his. ‘I’ll be here.’
To shut out the vulnerable feeling his words unleash, I tackle his shirt buttons and kiss a path over his face and neck and chest.
His expression is taut with concentration as we unhurriedly divest each other of clothing. We might have done this a million times; it feels so familiar and perfectly choreographed.
But we’re new to this connection and it steals my breath.
I bury my face against his neck to hide. I’m aware of him locating a condom from his discarded pants. He rolls it in place and then cups my breasts, lifting one to his mouth. I drop my head back and allow pleasure to snatch away my thoughts. Live in this moment—the perfect end to a perfect evening.
Even if he doesn’t spend the night, this is already the best birthday I’ve had in years.
With our eyes locked, I lower myself onto him, my heart straining to be closer to his with every beat.
‘Ava.’ He groans as I start to rock my pelvis. I want to close my eyes to install a barrier, but I don’t. What if he doesn’t feel the same way I do: that this time is different? More intimate.
With a clenched jaw, he splays his hands on my hips and guides me, dictating the rhythm, perhaps to assuage his own mounting desire.
The first flutters of my climax force a gasp from me. I curl my fingers into his shoulders as if I’m clinging to the edge of a cliff, about to hurtle headfirst into the unknown, but I can’t break our eye contact. It’s silent communication: I see you. I know you.
Our stares stay glued, our wordless connection intensifying with every second.
A rush of feelings pours through my veins as I surrender to my orgasm. I could no more stop it than I can stop the spasms wracking my body as Sterling holds me tight and pumps out his release with a feral yell. When I open my eyes, I see the same confusion that I feel tightening my throat etched into his expression.
Lost for words, I collapse against his sweat-slicked chest, my heart a panic of stuttering beats.
What if he deserts you? Takes your trust and your feelings and disappears?
With each restorative breath I talk myself back from the ledge. I’m good. Just because it feels so right in his arms, doesn’t mean I need him in order to find a place where I belong. I can figure out where that place is tomorrow. I can worry about Hamilton’s and sleeping with the enemy tomorrow. I can examine these emotions waking up inside me tomorrow.
We head for the shower, renewed desire already coiling around us.
Tomorrow will come soon enough.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sterling
THE NOISES OF the city stream in through the open window of Ava’s bedroom. The glow from the streetlights casts her beautiful body in relief. We haven’t stopped touching each other since the delicious dinner we prepared together. Since we shared parts of ourselves previously locked away behind mistrust and resentment. Since I sensed her loneliness and realised that the complexity of what we’re doing is beyond casual.
Risky.
My opening up about Marcus and Mom and Brent’s felt both wrong and right. This woman’s hold over me leads me to be vulnerable. Perhaps because she puts herself out there, too. Perhaps because she’s strong enough, because of her own loss, to handle my ugly truths.
You could cut free those ugly parts...
That’s why I’m casting off Brent’s. Finally walking away from the last tie to the powerlessness of my past. Yet there’s a tiny part of me that wonders if Marcus’s words and predictions were true. Yes, I have it all financially, but the idea of returning to my dark penthouse tonight with its sleek, minimalistic décor feels empty. Compared to spending the night with Ava at her cosy apartment—cooking, laughing, kissing and touching... No contest.
Perhaps it’s just her that makes all the difference.
My fingers dig into her hips reflexively. A satisfied smile kicks up her beautiful mouth. The pleasure that fills every inch of my body ebbs, replaced with the familiar hot licks of shame and guilt I feel whenever I look at her. I understand what Hamilton’s means to her, and if this vulnerable feeling didn’t remind of me of how weak I was as a child under Marcus’s control—how I failed at the relationship I tried to have with Monroe—I’d consider selling her back the equity. Or just handing over Hamilton’s so she can create a legacy to be proud of. One that commemorates her loved ones.
Except I’ll still need to find a solution for Brent’s. Marcus controlled my young life. Controlled my mother and disparaged my father. His hold was so pervasive; he even played a part in ruining my marriage. I can’t be that weak again. I can’t go back, so the only way is forward.
Watching Ava in the kitchen earlier, I realised the tense, combative version of her I’ve witnessed to date is nowhere close to the real woman I’ve seen drooling over menus. When relaxed and focused on creating the mouthwatering dishes we ate tonight, she became the animated and passionate woman I see now. Full of fire. Alive with humour, her energy incandescent.
That’s the woman I can’t scrub from my mind for even a second. That’s why she was the first person I wanted to see when I arrived back in New York after the funeral. That’s why I couldn’t walk away tonight.
She strokes that stubborn lock of hair back from my forehead, the silence between us comfortable.
You don’t want t
his to end—that’s why you didn’t go home tonight.
But how long can it last? I’m going to ruin this easy connection we have. She’ll hate what I still intend to do to Hamilton’s, especially after she showed me her great-grandmother’s piano.
Could I help her start up a restaurant? It’s what I do, after all, fund start-ups. Surely with her heritage and her passion and her talents, any venture in which she partakes will be a roaring success.
But we won’t be a part of each other’s future. With the completion of her report, which sits on my desk, Ava’s contract for Bold is now fulfilled. There’s no reason to keep seeing her, apart from the urgency that rides me hard whenever we’re apart. I’ve had plenty of time to experience that need in the three days since Chicago. Even now, lying in her bed, there’s no end in sight.
Fuck—this can’t be about feelings. I’ve been there, done that with Monroe. I failed. I let her down. I allowed Marcus into my head when I should have been focused on making my marriage strong. How easily my self-beliefs toppled, for all my success. Because I only flourish at business, and given Marcus is dead, no amount of prosperity will achieve my goal of besting him. Every time I’ve tried to put emotions on the line in my personal life, it’s been a disaster. Confronting Mom over Marcus—I tried before I left home. She became emotional and cried, confessed her concerns about me growing up without a father figure. Rushing into my marriage with Monroe only to discover Marcus was right.
I can’t risk another failure by taking a chance on Ava. But I can reassure her that I’m the one with issues. She may feel in professional limbo, but at least her personal life can be fulfilling in the future.
‘You asked about Monroe.’ I grit my teeth to stave off imaginings of Ava with another man. I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling as pricks of guilt rain down on me at how badly I let Monroe down when she needed me most. ‘We met at university in London.’ Newly engaged, I’d taken Monroe home to New York to show off my new fiancée and the ring I’d saved up to purchase to my mother.