A Heat of the Moment Thing

by Maggie Le Page

  I returned to the breakfast bar and hovered. Art may not be his thing, but cooking definitely was. I inhaled, savouring the aromas. “Need a hand?”

  “No, this is almost done. You could take these to the table for me, though.” He put a green salad and a basket of rolls on the breakfast bar.

  “Thanks,” he added, with a just-for-me smile.

  It was as I took the salad through that I noticed the photo frames. Clustered on the sideboard, they fired my curiosity. The rest—artwork, cushions, furniture—could have graced any modern man’s home. But these photos, all higgledy piggledy with their non-matching frames? They were personal.

  Photos offered insights into the people they belonged to. What would these tell me about Matt? Nosiness got the better of me.

  My eyes immediately latched onto the largest photo. Matt in a triumphant man-conquers-mountain pose, backpack at his feet, grin on his face, snowy peaks at his back. Determination, success, and love of the outdoors. Nothing new there. I moved on.

  To the right stood a shot of the two brothers, taken years earlier. Matt, smiling and broad, next to Stef, then a teenager, solemn and slender. The contrast between the boys couldn’t have been greater, yet once more I was struck by their uncanny resemblance.

  A much older image caught my eye, the colours yellowed, the focus less sharp. I picked it up and held it to the light. The boys were young this time, but their eyes were still unquestionably Matt and Stef. They sat, one on each knee of a giant of a man, his sheer size accentuating Stef’s tiny frailty. The man could’ve been Matt; Matt with a number one buzz cut.

  This was their dad, then. I smiled at him as he smiled at me, hugging the boys close, his love plain to see.

  I scanned the other photos, but nowhere could I see someone who might be Matt’s mum. Where was she? What had happened that these photos weren’t telling me?

  Matt placed our meals on the table with a flourish. “Voilà. Dinner is served.”

  “And wine to match.” He set aside the first bottle of wine, opened a fresh one, and half-filled the second of our three glasses.

  I held up the older photo for Matt to see. “Your dad?”

  He smiled, nodded, and held out my chair for me.

  I joined him, self-conscious as he helped me with my seat. “You don’t have to play waiter all night, you know.”

  “No? I was hoping for a good tip later on.”

  I bet he was. And I wouldn’t mind giving him one, either—which meant I was right back at square one on the whole Affair versus Career debate, dammit.

  “Where did you learn to cook?” I asked, with the most unsubtle subject change ever.

  “I’ve been playing in the kitchen as long as I can remember. Dad cooked all the family meals, and I used to help out.” He gave a wry smile. “Actually, I probably wasn’t much help at all, but Dad made me feel like I was helping.”

  “Well, this salmon is divine. Here’s to Dad.” I raised my glass. “He taught you well.”

  Matt’s glass met mine. “He taught me all sorts of things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Stuff.”

  Matt fell silent, and I wondered what was going on in that head of his.

  Time for another subject change. “Stef looks pretty frail in those early photos,” I said.

  “He was.”

  “Is he able to walk?”

  Matt reached for a ciabatta roll. “When he gets over himself and makes an effort.”

  I started to speak, then thought better of it. Then thought again and said it anyway. “I’m sure he’s doing his best, Matt. I mean, it must be really hard for him. Every day’s a challenge.”

  “Of course it’s bloody hard for him.” He stabbed his knife into the roll. “But life is hard. You either lay down and die, or you tough it out.”

  He was right, of course. Still, I could see how, faced with Stef’s daily struggles, the lay-down-and-die option might have some appeal.

  Matt sighed, put down his knife. “Look, Stef can walk. It’s not easy for him, but if he practised he’d get better. He needs to build up his strength and stamina. His life depends on it. But I can’t tell him that. Me, of all people. Imagine how he’d feel.”

  I said nothing because what could I say? Matt was good-looking, strong and capable; a powerhouse of a man. Stef came from exactly the same genes, yet his body was a frail, twisted, defective, altogether lesser version. It was as if Stef had ended up with all the physical leftovers, and had to watch Matt enjoy the banquet.

  It couldn’t be easy for either of them.

  We chewed in silence.

  “You two seem to get on well, at least,” I eventually offered.

  “We have to.”

  This time the silence was shorter.

  “But yes,” he conceded. “I suppose we do get on pretty well.”

  “Are you alike?”

  Matt’s face contorted. He looked away.

  “No,” he said, his tone harsh. “He has a body that doesn’t work.”

  “Hey.” I reached across the table and gripped his hand. “Are you alike?”

  For a moment he didn’t respond. Then, with a deep breath, he met my eyes. “We’re so alike it’s scary.”

  I smiled. Interlaced my fingers with his. “Guess he must be a great guy, then.”

  * * *

  I lingered in the kitchen, chatting as Matt stacked the dishwasher.

  “Right,” he said. “Are you ready for dessert?” He reached around me for a fresh pan.

  I wasn’t convinced I’d ever need to eat again. Still, dessert was dessert. I sucked in my belly. “Sure. What are you going to wow me with this time?”

  He threw me a grin. “The Frobisher Special.”

  Brown sugar followed cream into the pan. He added a dollop of butter, then fired up the gas.

  I watched as he stirred. “Can I help?”

  “Sure. If you stir this for me, I’ll make the coffees.”

  He stepped back from the stove, still stirring, and beckoned me over. I moved into the space he’d made and took the spoon from him, trying not to notice the heat of his body at my back.

  I stirred but forgot to breathe.

  “Like this?” I asked, just for something to say.

  “Exactly like this.” His breath fell hot on my neck.

  I shuddered. Blew out my breath silent and slow, then worked that pan with the sort of focus usually reserved for driving exams or lion taming. The slight drag of my body against his as I stirred was a lesson in hyper-awareness.

  He squeezed my shoulders and finally turned away. “I’ll make the coffees. Once you’ve got that melted, turn the heat down low, okay?”

  What was a girl to do? All sexual tension and nowhere to go, I kept stirring, casting occasional glances at Matt. He was playing this—me—well. Too well. If I didn’t watch myself I’d be jumping his bones by the end of dessert. Which might be exactly what I needed . . .

  . . . Or exactly what I didn’t need. Let’s face it, his reputation as T&T’s most determined bachelor had been well earned. I was just his latest challenge. Once that challenge was over he would still be my boss.

  But he didn’t feel like my boss tonight. And I didn’t feel like I was merely a challenge.

  “How’s the sauce going?” Matt asked.

  Cripes. The sauce. I looked down, discovered it was bubbling, and quickly reduced the heat.

  “I think it’s almost done,” I said. Not that I could tell.

  Maybe I should taste it, just to be sure. It smelled delicious. And it was loaded to the gunnels with calories, so odds were on it would be sinfully good.

  The sauce, thickening now into golden brown nectar, enticed me. Taste me, taste me. My finger hovered over the pan. My mouth watered. Another glance Matt’s way—not looking, all good—then I quickly touched forefinger to spoon and closed my mouth around the stolen sauce. My taste buds whooped with excitement. This sauce was miraculous.

  I dipped the spoon
back in the pan, blew to cool it, then swiped a healthy finger-load. It was a food quality check, that’s all. Nothing to do with my sweet tooth. I withdrew my finger, opened my mouth—

  Matt’s hand closed around my wrist.

  I started, looked up, blushed.

  His eyes danced. “Couldn’t wait, huh?”

  “Quality control.” I composed my expression into one of serious scientist.

  “Ah. And the quality is adequate?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll tell you in a minute.”

  I tried to raise my finger to my mouth but, instead, it headed away from me and straight towards Matt’s mouth. I slitted my eyes at him and pulled harder. He smiled, but still my finger continued inexorably in the wrong direction.

  “That’s my finger,” I said.

  “That’s my sauce,” he countered.

  My finger approached his lips. A pulse leapt in my throat.

  “I stirred it,” I said.

  “You certainly did.”

  Since I couldn’t get my finger to my mouth, I’d have to bring my mouth to my finger. I moved my head closer. His eyes met mine over the top of my finger. Sauce trickled down towards my palm. He smiled, then closed his lips around my finger and sucked.

  I gasped. Was instantly wet, hot, and ready. The spoon clattered into the pan.

  His tongue trailed up and down my finger with seductive intent. He released my moist, sexed-up finger and moved on down to my palm, his tongue claiming every last sweet calorie.

  I dragged in a raggedy breath. “Well? Is the quality adequate?”

  He looked up. Held my gaze with his dark, dark eyes.

  “Oh yeah.” My finger stood to attention between us. “The quality is more than adequate.”

  Stef appeared in the doorway and cleared his throat.

  I leapt back from Matt, reclaiming my finger and hiding it from view.

  “Hi,” I said. “Want some dessert?”

  Stef hesitated, flicking a look of enquiry Matt’s way. He was asking his brother permission to gatecrash, I realised. Decent of him.

  Matt waved him over. “Why not? There’s plenty.”

  Stef ventured closer. “Thanks. What’s on offer? It’s not . . . ?” His eyes lit up. He wiped his mouth. “Awesome. Granny’s date and butterscotch pudding.”

  “Matt just taught me how to make the sauce,” I said.

  Stef’s eyebrows rose. “He did?”

  I nodded. “My hips will never be the same.” I wiggled them for emphasis.

  Matt cleared his throat, averted his gaze. “Neither will I if you keep that up,” he muttered.

  Stef glanced at his brother, and his mouth quirked up at one corner. Then, directing his words to me, “He gave you Granny’s world-famous butterscotch sauce recipe?”

  “Is it really world-famous? Wouldn’t surprise me. I can’t believe it only has three ingredients.” I dipped my pinkie in the saucepan and licked it with deliberation, in case Matt happened to be watching.

  Stef sighed. Turned back to Matt. “Bruv. You know this means you’ll have to marry her, right?”

  Matt grinned. Stef grinned, too.

  I couldn’t decide whether they were sniggering because the odds of Matt ever marrying were non-existent or because Stef had caught Matt out. Concluded it was probably the former and I’d look stupid if I didn’t fight back.

  “That’s a damn high price for a recipe,” I said.

  Stef sniggered.

  Matt quirked an eyebrow, then proffered a warmed square of date cake. “No price is too high for this pudding, honey. Make sure you pile on the sauce. May as well get value for money.”

  Chapter Twenty

  I sat on my bed, knees hugged to my chest, chatting to Dani’s reflection as she adjusted her hair.

  “You should’ve seen him, Dan. He’s amazing in the kitchen. Actually”—I smiled to myself—“he was amazing full-stop.”

  She pulled her hair into an elaborate French-looking style. “Well, at least he fed you up before he tossed in the M-word.”

  Even as she said it, fresh panic lodged in my throat. I’d thought I could keep things professional with Matt. I’d been wrong.

  “It was his brother’s M-word, not Matt’s. What Matt wants is a quick fling with no strings.” I sighed. “And that’s so not me, Dan.”

  She tilted her head to one side, studying her reflection. Murmured, “It’s not working.” Then, to me, “Are you sure about that?”

  “What? Him, or me?”

  “Both. Either.” Her fingers did some magic and suddenly her hair had body as well as elegance.

  “How do you do that stuff with your hair?” I yanked at a couple of my own frizzy curls and sighed. “I can’t do anything with mine.”

  “Product, darling, product.” She smiled at her reflection then turned to face me. “Ever heard of taking a risk, Becs?”

  “My hair’s—”

  “Not your hair, silly. Matt.”

  I huffed. What did she think I was doing? I was working with the man, wasn’t I? If that wasn’t risk-taking, what was?

  Dani sat on the bed beside me and ran her finger down the conference programme. “Hey, a cocktail evening! What will you wear?”

  “No idea.”

  Maybe I should wear a sack. Something really ugly, something that would drive Matt away. Nothing else seemed to be working. I’d done everything I could think of to avoid getting involved with Matt. I’d even executed Dani’s distraction plan. But we’d gotten personal. Way too personal.

  Dammit, what was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I just be happily single, like Liz?

  Dani opened my wardrobe. “Come on, show me your glad-rags. Cocktail evenings are fab. Think networking. You’ve got to knock ’em dead.”

  “I don’t want to knock him dead.”

  “I said them, not him. Knock them dead.” She gave me a sly look. “I’d quite like to meet this boss of yours.”

  God, no! It was bad enough that I was in lust with him, without my gorgeous sister wedging her stiletto into the mix. She’d end up with the man I wanted, and I’d be the shrivelled, dried-up old spinster who spent Christmases with them and wished her life was mine.

  Thankfully, before I could answer she started hauling out clothes for inspection.

  “That, maybe? No.” She flung it on the bed. “Hmm, this one, then? Oh, God, yuk!” It flew in the same direction. “Good grief, yellow?” She shuddered and threw it on the pile.

  And so it went on, until she turned to me and demanded, “Where are your clothes, Becs? These are antiques. Cast-offs. It’s all so freaking nineties.”

  “Style never dates.”

  Her derision lanced me. “Then start buying clothes with style instead of cheap price-tags.”

  What could I say? I hate shopping for clothes. I’ve always hated it. She’d just summarised my whole approach.

  “Nothing ever fits,” I sulked. “Not that you’d understand. Your body’s so perfect you’d get away with any old scrap of fabric.”

  “Oh, get over it. Your body’s your body and you can look like a frumpy old has-been, or you can”—she struck a pose—“work it.”

  I slumped next to my rejected clothes. “Whatever.”

  She grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder. “Stop sulking. We’re going shopping.” She shook her hair loose, made for the door. “Better bring your credit card.”

  * * *

  With military precision we descended on Covent Garden.

  Dani didn’t so much as glance at Fix, she even gave Raquelite the cold shoulder, and when I suggested Moreton Spry—my personal favourite; Mum’s, too—she just snorted. “Trinny and Susannah would have a field day.”

  “Hey, that’s a bit rough. It’s not like I’m refusing to spend money. I’m happy to buy something.” I stopped at a likely-looking window. “What about here? They’ve got nice evening wear.”

  “Becky. You need sophisticated. You need stunning. You need more than a high s
treet chain-store look.” She strode purposefully on.

  I clutched my wallet a little tighter and trotted after her. Maybe this whole shopping-with-Dani thing wasn’t such a good idea.

  She turned into a close, cobbled street away from the crowds and at last slowed to a measured pace.

  “Wow,” I said, drawn to the eye-catching window displays. “I didn’t even know this street existed.”

  “At your age that’s ridiculous.”

  “I’m only thirty-one! I’m poor!”

  Dani stopped and rounded on me. Uh-oh.

  “Look.”

  Yep, she meant business.

  “It’s all a matter of priorities. Crikey, Becs, it’s not about doing the quickest shopping trip ever . . .”

  Actually, it was. Get in, spend the money, get out.

  “. . . It’s about finding the right look.” Hands on hips, she cast a scathing eye over my comfortable but not-very-pretty garments.

  “Hey, less of the evils. These aren’t my party clothes.”

  “Do you want to blow Matt away,” she demanded, “or not?”

  “Yes. Definitely.”

  I reconsidered. “Actually—no.”

  I shuffled my feet. “Oh, I don’t know.”

  She looked at me quizzically.

  I grimaced. “It’s complicated. But when all’s said and done he’s my boss so, really, I shouldn’t go there. Right,” I decided. “I’m not going there. That’s it.”

  She snorted. “Sure it is. So let me get this straight. You’re happily single . . .”

  A determined nod of my head. “Yes.”

  “. . . And totally not interested in your boss . . .”

  A determined shake of my head. “Not anymore.”

  “. . . But you’ll show him what he’s missing just because . . . ?”

  Another nod, this time rather less determined. “Just . . . because.”

  We didn’t have a future—not in the longer-than-a-fortnight sense—but I still wanted him to see me at my very best. Was that so wrong? “Does there have to be a reason?”

  Dani flapped a dismissive hand. “Whatever. This is where you buy your dress.”

  “Fine.” I gathered my pride around me. “Let’s get it over with.”