by JC Harroway
I drag in air. It would be so easy to reach out. To touch her. To have all my fantasies confirmed in the flesh.
I snap my eyes open and sit a little straighter, sucking on my discipline.
I groan aloud at my lack of options, rub my hand over my face, the length of the day and its unexpected turn finally draining the last of my energy.
But she’s done waiting for my answer. ‘It’s okay. I understand.’ Kenzie stands and places her glass on the table. ‘Don’t worry. Just forget I came.’
Forget? Not fucking likely. I’ll probably relive every second throughout a long, sleepless night. I stand, too, my thoughts tripping over themselves to break free as coherent sentences.
‘It was great to see you.’ I wince. Is that the best I can do?
‘Thanks for the wine,’ she says, grabbing her stiff, wet denim jacket, the defeat in her eyes buffeting my resolve.
She’s reached out to me after all this time. It’s my fault she needs a job.
‘Wait.’ I can offer her a chance. I’ll just have to double my morning gym routine so I’m completely exhausted if and when I do run into her in the corridor. Yeah, no amount of burpees or pull-ups will counter the urges she inspires.
She’s halfway to the door when I catch up. This time when I touch her elbow, there’s no fabric barrier to block the potent lust that thrums through my blood. My hand slides down the smooth length of her bare forearm until my fingers encircle her delicate wrist.
My pulse rate doubles. I was right—her skin is as soft as my imaginings. She looks up from my hand, her face so familiar, but foreign at this proximity. My fingers twitch involuntarily. With one small tug she’d be in my arms...pressed against my aching chest...her mouth on mine...
I swallow the watermelon in my throat. I have no right to touch her. No right to make her any promises, the ground I’m on so shaky I may as well be standing on a fault line.
But she’s not asking for promises, just a chance.
I’ll just have to steer clear.
‘I want to help...with a trial in the kitchens,’ I say. It’s the least I can do. All I can do. Everything else in my head is strictly prohibited.
‘Really?’ Her smile rearranges the organs in my chest, each jostling for space in the too-small, confined space.
I nod. Control fraying. If she’s going to look at me like that...
‘Drake... I... Thanks.’ Her voice is husky, tentative, my name decadent on her beautiful lips.
Blood whooshes through my skull. She’s too tempting, my intentions too grubby. And I’m still touching her. Why hasn’t she snatched her hand away?
‘It’s nothing.’ So much less than she deserves.
‘It’s something to me.’ The gratitude in her eyes fades, replaced with something else. Something that makes my breath catch. Something I must imagine. She’d never look at me that way. Never trust me enough. Not if she knew everything.
I should move. Let go of her wrist. Tell her it was great to catch up after all these years and send her home in my car.
But I’m frozen.
Frozen in time, to our first meeting. Frozen in those heady seconds of possibility when all three of us—Kenzie, Sam and I—were strangers in a bar. Then, I planned to buy her a drink, invite her out, get to know if we had anything in common beyond attraction, which, for me, was pretty instantaneous.
The medieval-torture device strapped to my chest cranks another notch tighter. Breath strangled. Without stepping back I release her wrist, waiting for the tension to snap, but if anything the air around us thins.
She tilts her head. ‘I’m glad I came...’ A small sigh blows over her plump bottom lip, her gorgeous mouth perilous temptation. And closer than ever before.
The urge to kiss her roars back to life, hijacking my brain, my body and my sanity. I’m steel-hard now, straining the fly of my trousers. Her eyes suck me in. Muscles primed to break the restraints, I’m about pull her close, to cover her mouth with mine, when she emits a nervous laugh.
Steps back.
Shakes her head.
‘I’m sorry.’ She covers her heated face with her hands.
I’m doused head to toe with ice. I scrub a hand through my hair, a fist forming. What the fuck...? I must have imagined the last few seconds—that look on her face, her rapid breaths and dilated pupils. There’s only regret in her eyes now.
My mouth opens and then closes. Do I play the gentleman, breeze over what my body is desperate to interpret as...a moment? Our first.
She drops her hands from her face and looks away with a snort of embarrassment. ‘Clearly I need more help than a job.’ She’s bright red now, braving it out with a flash of humour and a roll of those expressive eyes. ‘If you want to help me out beyond giving me a chance in the kitchen,’ she looks at her shuffling feet, ‘perhaps you could help me over my dry spell.’
My brain impulses blink in and out like static. WTF...? She made light of those momentous words, which have hurled us into a forbidden, previously uncharted no-man’s-land.
‘I...’ I’m gaping, synapses firing so hard I’m surprised my head doesn’t explode. Surely she doesn’t mean what my brain and dick have concluded?
‘What are you saying?’ I croak out, too dazed by testosterone for subtlety. Does she mean for me to help, personally—hell, yes—or is she asking me to set her up with some other dickhead? Over my dead body. But, even if my libido has made the correct interpretation, nothing can happen between us.
Can it?
Kenzie looks down and buttons her coat. The amusement leaches from her face, leaving only the pallor of earlier. ‘I’m sorry, Drake—that was unfair.’ She raises her wide, vulnerable stare from the carpet and takes in a shuddering breath, eyes full of remorse.
Unfair? Nothing about our circumstances is fair.
‘God, I’m such a desperate idiot. Forget I ever came here.’ She yanks at the door handle, the metal slipping from her frantic fingers in her haste to flee.
‘No... Wait.’ I want to rewind the last minute. Have a rerun. Hold her captive until she clarifies exactly what she meant.
A metallic click warns me she’s succeeded with the door.
I snap to attention.
‘Kenzie, wait—’
‘I’m sorry.’ She’s off out of the door and halfway down the corridor before I’ve pumped enough blood back into my head for my nervous system to work.
‘Wait.’ I yank my phone from my pocket, everything I want to say locked in that secret place I’ve guarded for so long, it’s like a fucking panic room. ‘I’ll call my driver to see you home.’
She turns, her breathing still fast, shakes her head. ‘I’ll be fine.’ She trots down the corridor like she can’t get away from me quick enough.
I take off at a run, skidding to a halt just as the lift doors close.
I wedge my arm into the closing space. ‘He’s waiting at the main entrance. Please—it’s late.’ She can run—she should run—but I won’t have her in danger.
She nods, eyes wide.
I lock my knees, balanced on a knife-edge. One step and I’d be inside with her. One word and I’d know to hope or to try to rein in the fantasy her comment unleashed.
Static clears. Restraint returns.
I think of Sam. Remove my hand. Wait for tense seconds.
Kenzie’s emotions mirror mine, the doors closing on the regret on her face.
CHAPTER THREE
Kenzie
I’M THIRTY MINUTES early for my first shift at the Faulkner, despite the nerves riding me, threatening to make me flee back home. I believed I’d blown my chance by my behaviour, but Drake’s text yesterday shows the strength of his loyalty to Sam:
Come to the Faulkner at nine sharp tomorrow.
That he would still offer me my shot after I practically propositi
oned him... My face heats again at the memory of my confession that it’s been too long since I was intimate with someone and my suggestion he might be the one to help.
I’d almost made a fool of myself.
Almost kissed him.
Drake Faulkner of all people.
A man who was practically a brother to Sam. A man of honour and integrity. A man who’d never think of me as anything but Sam’s widow... He showed me that by keeping his distance all these years, and his cool reception in the restaurant two nights ago proved nothing has changed.
Was I that lonely, that sexually frustrated or just curious to explore the flicker of attraction that, had I not once been married to his best friend, had potential to flare like a blowtorch...?
I worry at my lip, shake any notion that isn’t strictly professional from my head and focus on filling out the Faulkner’s paperwork. I’m going to cook my arse off, wow the restaurant’s Michelin-starred head chef and stay the hell away from Drake. Clearly my lonely, neglected libido can’t be trusted around hotness of his calibre...
Why has it chosen now to come out of hibernation? Not once in the past three years have I looked at a man in a sexual way. Not even during the rocky last year of my marriage to Sam, when I had the perfect justification had I wanted, was I tempted by another.
Why now? Why Drake? Yes, I’m ready to get my life back on track, but am I ready to embrace intimacy again?
I add my signature to the bottom of the form with a flourish of finality. This is my chance to build something for myself, a career I’ve been too busy to pursue, here, close enough to Tilly to support her burgeoning independence. I cannot screw this up. Especially not with any further ideas of kissing Drake Faulkner, sex with Drake Faulkner or making Drake Faulkner see me as more than the wife of his friend.
I take a cleansing breath and hand in the forms. The Faulkner’s Human-Resources manager passes me a temporary security card and leads me upstairs. In the stairwell, the scent of onions and garlic and red wine waft to my nose. My stomach clenches, but with excitement. I touch the pristine chef whites folded in my bag, buzzing to get started.
‘The boss wants to see you. He’ll introduce you to the rest of the kitchen staff.’ The woman from HR swings open the door and points me in the right direction down a nondescript corridor. ‘Second door on the left.’
Behind the scenes, the luxury of the Faulkner the guests see persists with the same plush carpet and soothing decor. I suck in a deep breath, a little intimidated by meeting Rod for the first time, which is probably why I come to an abrupt standstill in the doorway when I find Drake sitting behind the desk, talking on the phone.
Heat shunts my entire body up in flames as my eyes latch to his moving mouth. I almost kissed him. Almost begged him for the sex he would have probably treated his date to, had I not gatecrashed.
Drake’s green eyes land on mine, pinning me to the threshold.
No smile of welcome. Just that impenetrable stare, which could mean anything from I’m seconds from tearing off your clothes to I’m still smarting at your inappropriate behaviour.
I lift my chin and stare back. There’s no shame in admitting you haven’t had sex for three years. That you’ve been busy rebuilding your life, regaining your confidence and changing career paths. And I made myself a promise, packed it safely in the boxes with my belongings when I moved to London—no more putting myself last. Time to make something happen.
Of course, kissing Drake hadn’t been one of those promises.
Drake’s brows slant downwards and his mouth tightens. ‘I’ll call you back.’ He disconnects the call while I dither in the doorway, torn between running to the nearest fast-food restaurant advertising a vacancy and riding out my mortification.
I stand tall. We’re adults. I’ve been looking after myself and my sister since the age of twenty-one, since the death of our parents in a car crash. I can handle one inconvenient little sexual attraction...
‘Hi.’ I didn’t actually touch a single hair on his glorious head. I can laugh off the rest—hypothermia and too much wine... Not that we’ve ever teased each other, as if we both subconsciously knew playing it straight guaranteed the boundaries stayed in place.
Drake stands, beckoning me inside and showing off his broad chest in another of his crisp shirts. ‘Good morning. Are you all signed in?’ I guess we’re not going to talk about my overt proposition. He’s right. I, too, should pretend it never happened and get on with proving myself worthy of the vacancy.
I nod. Perhaps women come on to him so often, he didn’t even notice. A flash of foolish disappointment clouds my buoyant mood. But then, what was I expecting from the ice king? Hi, Kenz. I’ve thought about what you said and I’d be happy to break your sexual dry spell—now, then, doggy or missionary first...?
I swallow at the lurid images my shrivelled ovaries have helped me create and press my thighs together. The man standing in front of me dressed for a boardroom fills his suit like he belongs on a billboard, but clearly my interest isn’t reciprocated.
I drag my eyes away from the open neck of his shirt, deciding it’s best to forget I all but pestered a man who could barely tolerate a cordial conversation with me for sex.
‘Thanks for this—I really appreciate the opportunity.’ I rub at my wrist, remembering the illicit heat of his fingers on my skin. I must have imagined the way his eyes dipped to my mouth and his head lowered a fraction as we invaded previously uncharted personal space.
He grimaces, as if he’s recalling the fool I made of myself. ‘No need to thank me. Have you been to HR?’
I nod, my head wooden.
He’s definitely not going to bring up my confession. Rather than congratulate my escape, that he couldn’t have noticed me mooning up at him, it feels like a backwards step. Last night, talking with him by the fire... I’ve never felt closer to this man I’ve known for years, but don’t really know.
My feet shuffle backwards, embarrassment a thread tugging me to a safe distance. ‘Well. I’m sure you’re busy enough without welcoming the newbie. I’ll just...head to the kitchen...’
‘Not so fast.’ He cuts off my nervous over-talking. ‘I’ll show you the way.’ He waits for me to vacate the doorway and indicates the route, while he shrugs back into his suit jacket.
My pulse may as well be a ping-pong ball bouncing all over the place. This is stupid and hardly the behaviour of a grown woman with her shit together. I suck in a breath, preparing to reveal the elephant in the room.
But Drake interrupts. ‘I told you Rod is...temperamental.’ He holds open the fire door and ushers me though. Professional. No touching. A perfect gentleman.
‘But we don’t tolerate harassment or bullying here at the Faulkner.’ He shoots me a serious look. My steps inch closer to his, as if of their own accord. A fraction closer and our arms might brush. I exhale through pursed lips—I’m playing with fire, but can’t seem to stop. Is this loneliness or liberation? Grasping the possibility of moving on with my physical life as well as my professional one?
‘Anything of that nature—I want to hear about it, understood?’ He pauses to hold open another door.
I’ve never seen him so...protective.
An almost giddy bubble of laughter rises up to escape. ‘I can handle myself, don’t worry.’ I’m warm all over, a foreign feeling I know better than to trust. But I can surely enjoy the concern he probably offers all new employees for a few heady seconds...
He pauses, turning to face me, giving me the decadence of his undivided attention. My clothes, a sweater and jeans, cling too tight at the look on his face, which reminds me once, not so long ago, this urbane man was a soldier.
‘I mean it, Kenzie—I want to hear about any misdemeanours, verbal or...physical.’
His concern washes me with heat. Mmm...misdemeanours. Then nerves spoil it, causing me to snort out a laugh.
‘What’s he going to do? Dice me into tiny pieces with a chef’s knife? Hide me in the walk-in freezer?’
Drake’s mouth flattens as if he’s smelled something unpleasant, but he doesn’t elaborate. And then we’re off again. ‘I’ll show you where the chef whites are kept and then I’ll take you to the staff changing rooms.’
‘I have whites.’ I force my eyes away from the clench of his muscular arse as he walks. I shouldn’t notice, but there must be something in the London water. I can’t decide if I prefer him in his tailored suit or his combat dress.
Drake opens another door, flicking on lights, and I follow him inside a long, narrow storeroom lined with shelves.
‘The Faulkner whites are monogrammed.’ He strides to the back, his hand rifling through the piles of crisp white laundered uniforms.
‘I can find the right size, if you want.’ I know the Faulkner brothers have a hands-on attitude when it comes to running their chain of London-based hotels, but his attentiveness seems above and beyond, even for the widow of a friend. ‘I’m sure you have more pressing things on your agenda?’
Drake turns, thrusting the garments at me with a grim expression, his obliging orientation now a distant memory.
I glance down.
He’s guessed my size correctly.
When I smile up in thanks, his brow is pinched in a frown, his dark eyes unreadable. His hands fist in his pockets, the bumps of his knuckles showing through the fabric. He’s wary, looking at me like he expects me to strip right here and beg him to shag me out of my desperate state.
I sigh. Here is as good a place as any. No more chickening out. He deserves a thorough apology and more of an explanation—time to clear the air. I put him in a shitty position that night, just because I’m embracing my new life a little too thoroughly, and he handled it with the levels of discretion and integrity I’d expect.
‘Look, Drake, about the other night—’
‘I can’t stop thinking about what you said.’ His confession rushes out, his words clashing with mine, his voice low, gruff, and his eyes the emerald colour of a wine bottle.