by JC Harroway
I plough on, the harsh ‘it’s over’ in my head providing focus. ‘One day, I’d like to have my own restaurant—nothing grand. Just an everyday, wholesome-food kind of place.’
He nods, his eyes full of warmth and encouragement. ‘Sounds good. I can see you responsible for expanding waistlines all over the city.’
My stare drops to his lithe torso, his muscular bulk visible through the fine wool of his sweater. I can’t help myself.
‘Thanks.’ I roll my eyes and toss a packet of sugar at him from the selection in the centre of our table. ‘Only I’d love to employ adults with special needs. Adults like Tilly.’
He nods, perceptive eyes probing. ‘You miss your old job as a teacher’s aide?’
He remembers I worked at a special educational-needs school. I smile, the flush reaching my face. ‘I got made redundant shortly after Sam died.’
Shock streaks over his face and his skin pales. ‘I’m sorry.’
I laugh, taken aback by his reaction. ‘You weren’t to know. It’s hardly your fault.’
He swallows hard, his eyes a little haunted. ‘I’m still sorry you had to go through that on top of everything else.’ His fingers curl into a loose fist next to mine on the table.
I hold my breath—I can almost feel his touch, but the moment passes. ‘It’s okay—I used my redundancy pay to pay for chef school. And here I am.’
His smile builds, forcing the corners of his eyes into a fan of creases. ‘Good—I’d say you’re at least halfway to your dream already.’
For a moment I’m overcome with an unnamed emotion. This is what I wanted when I came to him—someone to believe in me enough to offer me a chance.
His eyes are still on me, so I try to pull myself together. ‘So, if we’re going to be fiends now, tell me one of the things I’d find surprising about you, apart from your impressive, encyclopedic knowledge of all things Harry Potter.’ I stop myself from prying about a wife and kids. I don’t want to know if Drake has aspirations for future marital bliss.
He laughs, but the laugh doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s hardly a difficult question. He’s still cagey. Still doesn’t want to talk about himself.
‘Let’s start with work. Do you enjoy being a hotelier?’
His smile grows into that boyish twist. ‘I do, actually. A complete change of pace has really helped. Of course, I have to spend quite a lot of time at the gym to counter the delicious food, and my degree wasn’t much use, but I learned the ropes quickly—couldn’t have Kit and Reid outsmarting me.’
I laugh. All three Faulkners are savvy businessmen who grew up learning the family business. I doubt either of his brothers could outsmart Drake, and they definitely don’t out-suit him.
‘And your father is almost retired?’
‘Yes. A good thing.’ He grins and my belly flips. ‘He’s getting a bit forgetful. Too many G and Ts at the golf club, probably.’
To distract my wandering mind from that smile, I check the time. ‘Bugger. I need to go. I don’t want to be late.’ I stand, tugging on my coat and untangling my scarf from the strap of my bag while Drake pays the bill, despite my protests.
He puts his hand in the small of my back as we leave the warm, crowded restaurant. ‘Don’t worry—we’ll take a taxi.’
Inside the cab, it hits me like a lead weight: his kindness towards Tilly, the passion we share for good food, his belief in my fledgling dream—now we’ve reacquainted, I can’t mess this up with something as trivial as...lust, no matter how great the sex and how much I’d love a repeat. I have few enough friends, or even contacts, in London.
Sucking in a breath, I pull up my big-girl pants. ‘Thanks for everything today. So—we’re good? You and I?’
His stare lifts from my mouth, inscrutable, where all morning it’s been clear, open and friendly. ‘I’d say we’re good.’
‘So, friends?’ The term chokes me but I force a smile, letting him know I won’t be pawing at him for any more orgasms.
Before he can confirm our new-found status, my phone pings, covering my erratic reaction with an incoming text.
I show Drake the picture from Tilly, who declined his invitation to brunch in order to fill her new bookcase with her Harry Potter collection.
Drake laughs—a deep rumble coming up from his chest. ‘Gotta love Harry.’
His laugh, like his smile, gives me butterflies, the tense moment of seconds ago likely a figment of my imagination. ‘Yes, who knew you were such a nerd...?’ I bump his shoulder with mine and then instantly regret touching him—my body wants more than friends.
‘Has she been to the Harry Potter studio tour?’ he asks.
I roll my eyes, grateful he’s steering us back to safety. ‘Six times, but it’s on her birthday wish list.’
‘Perhaps we could all go together—I haven’t been for years.’
I nod, my chest hollowed out. My determination to shelve the sex solidifies. Tilly and I have a new friend.
‘It’s a date,’ I say as we pull up outside the Faulkner, my blush flaring when I realise the phrase I’ve tossed out.
He nods. ‘A date.’ Drake pays for the cab and we head in different directions, while I try to see his friendship as something more than a consolation prize.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Drake
I CLOSE MY laptop and fist my hands on the desk, finally admitting no amount of work can distract me from the thoughts that have dogged me for the past twenty-four hours.
Kenzie.
I expected the brush-off the minute she opened the door to her flat. She was right to steer this away from the murky waters of no-strings sex, because that only works for people with no prior feelings. Kenzie and I...we have history. We’re complicated. And spending today with her was a mistake.
Discovering she lost her job just after Sam died and seeing first-hand the impact of Tilly’s growing independence left my stomach so contorted I could barely swallow a morsel of the food I’d raved about.
She needed me, needed someone, and I wasn’t there for her because of my burden of guilt and my need for self-preservation.
And don’t get me started on the sex...
I don’t begrudge her the safe space to help her back into the intimacy saddle, and being friend-zoned where I belong should offer relief. Instead, I’m crawling out of my skin.
If we’re going to be friends now...
So, friends?
I think Drake will be your friend, too, don’t you, Tills?
I push away from my desk with enough violence to send my chair crashing to the ground four storeys below but for the reinforced glass that gifts me a view of Sloane Square.
I should be happy. I had one night to slake my long-held attraction. Of course I pretended we were on the same page—the last thing I want is to make her feel guilty for what we did. And friendship is the logical and mature next step.
Except I’ve always wanted more and now I know—one night with Kenzie won’t be enough.
I don’t blame her for slotting me into a platonic role. I’m her husband’s friend. Of course she would regret what we did. And I aided her decision by shutting down with the finality of a fucking mousetrap.
My stomach lurches as guilt robs my breath.
She deserves better than a man with secrets. A selfish man who caused her dire predicament three years ago and then walked away, leaving her to deal with the fallout alone. And she’s more alone now than ever. She needs a friend. The last thing I can be.
Because a real friend would be honest.
I scrub a hand over my tired face, so torn the floor should be littered with my pieces. I groan aloud and thump the arms of my chair, impotence dragging my twitchy body upright with the speed and grace of a man three times my age.
I can do this. Be her fucking friend.
I can keep my gu
ilt hidden and do it for Sam.
I can do it for Kenzie.
Snagging my jacket, my phone and my keys, I start to head down to the lift for the underground car park. As I pass the foyer my eyes stray to the staff entrance leading to the kitchens.
Kenzie’s domain.
I busied myself with some paperwork this evening, deliberately staying away from the kitchens. If Rod gets any whiff of my connection to Kenzie, it might jeopardise her fair shot at the sous-chef position. One I made happen, despite knowing I’d somehow end up in my current untenable position.
I dawdle in the foyer, picturing Kenzie at work and ignoring the odd looks I’m attracting from the night manager behind the front desk. How is she faring under Rod’s brusque tutelage? Did she make any part of the delicious beef Wellington I had delivered to my office four hours ago?
My stomach growls, the tender meat and rich mushroom and red-wine sauce a distant memory. I skipped dessert, as I always do. But perhaps there’s some delicious concoction left in the fridge. It’s 2:00 a.m. The restaurant closed two hours ago. But I have nothing at home to appease this uncharacteristic sweet craving, the only craving allowed. It’s as if my body knows it can never have another taste of Kenzie, so it’s compensating with common or garden sugar.
Fuck it; if I want a midnight snack instead of driving around to Kenzie’s flat and knocking her awake for more sex, I can damned well have one. I can spend an extra hour on the treadmill tomorrow.
Decision made, I head for the kitchen, certain whatever I find will taste sweeter just knowing Kenzie might have had some hand in its creation.
At the door to the kitchen I come to a standstill. The lights are still on. I catch movement through the glass.
My pulse races. She’s still here.
Her back is to me. She’s busy. Concentrating. My tired arse forgets the time, my hunger banished. One glimpse of her and I could run the London Marathon.
I push open the door, rearranging my face to hide ninety per cent of my delight.
‘Why are you still here this late?’ I let the door swing closed at my back.
She jumps, startled, spinning to face me, one hand covering her heart. The piping bag she’s holding spurts out green icing onto the stainless-steel bench.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you—’
‘You scared the shit out of me—’
We talk together and then laugh together.
‘I’m going to throttle Rod if he’s pushing you this hard.’ The urge to go to her, to kiss her, leaves me brusque.
‘Whoa, there’s no need for that look. Rod doesn’t know I’m here.’ Her eyes dance in the lights focussed on the bench and on the cake she’s making.
‘Which look?’ I stand taller, preening and fucking peacocking under her inspection.
She waves the piping bag in my direction, mirth flashing in her eyes. ‘You know, that scary regimental sergeant-major look.’ Wisps of hair have escaped from her ponytail to kiss her flushed cheeks and she has a smear of icing sugar on her forehead. I love that she’s comfortable enough to tease me.
‘I’m not scary.’ Unlike wanting you or envisioning never touching you again... Heat boils in my belly and I succumb to the roar inside my head—forget friends.
I want her.
Same as always.
This sexy, sassy woman. A woman who’s had to fight to make life for herself and her sister better. A woman who dunks biscuits in her tea, tries to hide the sheen of moisture in her eyes when she’s proud of Tilly and pretends she’s Slytherin when really she’s Hufflepuff.
Kenzie quirks one eyebrow. ‘I think you could be. And you’re still here, too. Working late?’
‘For my sins.’ Her corner of the kitchen is a bomb site. Cake tins fill the sink, bowls filled with different-coloured icing are spread over the bench and the floor is dusted with flour.
‘I’m sure you don’t have any.’ She laughs and my smile threatens to slide from my face.
If only...
She looks around at the mess, as if seeing it for the first time. ‘Oh... I’m going to clean up. I’m almost done.’ She returns to the cake, piping rosettes of icing around the base of the three-tiered creation with expert speed. ‘I’ll be out of your hair in ten minutes.’ She looks up, eyes uncertain.
‘I don’t care if you’re moonlighting. As long as you don’t burn yourself out.’ I step closer to watch with fascination as she swirls and pipes with proficient accuracy. Then I take in the whole cake. ‘You made Hogwarts!’
The cake has a castle on the top, turrets, flags, a quidditch pitch, the whole shebang. ‘She’s going to love that.’ Of course—Tilly’s birthday.
Kenzie grins, nodding and swirling the cake around on its stand with a flourish. ‘I know, right? Her birthday is Thursday—today was my only late shift and I thought no one would mind if I stayed behind to use the kitchen.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘You’ve seen my tiny flat...’ She trails off while she twists the icing bag tighter, looking uncertain. ‘I...I bought all my own ingredients...’
Clearly our ‘friendship’—fuck, I hate that word—is still so new, she thinks I’m checking up on the Faulkner storeroom.
‘I don’t give a rat’s arse that you’re using the Faulkner kitchen to make Tilly’s cake.’
She smiles and laughs at me in the same breath—it’s a heady combination that makes me want to smear her lips with icing and then kiss it off... Then I remember the time. See the fatigue behind her eyes and the mess in the sink.
‘But pulling an all-nighter and traipsing across the city alone in the early hours—that requires a scary sergeant-major look, I’m afraid.’ I remove my jacket and roll up my shirtsleeves.
Nervous laughter. ‘What are you doing?’ Her eyes widen.
‘I’m helping you so you can get to bed. Have you eaten dinner?’
She shrugs, retuning to her piping, and I growl under my breath.
She laughs off my reprimand. ‘I planned to, but we had ninety-six covers tonight. Then I started baking and...I forgot.’
‘So the last thing you ate was my chicken waffles this morning?’
‘Yeah.’ She abandons the cake and fists her hand on her hip.
I curl my fingers into my palms to stop myself reaching for her, to stop myself pushing her hair back from her face, wiping that smear of icing sugar from her forehead and holding her until everything battling inside me calms.
Instead I stride to the fridge, yanking open the door to peer inside. ‘Finish the cake. I’ll make you some food and then do the dishes.’
This is what friends do. They look out for each other. Minus the great sex.
Kenzie huffs, but she’s already distracted with her piping once more. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll clean up and then I’ll head home.’
‘Ridiculous...?’ I take eggs and mushrooms from the fridge and grab a pan from overhead. ‘I’m not the one who hasn’t eaten since brunch.’
Even tired, she shoots me an insolent smile. ‘You cook?’ Swirl, pipe, swirl, pipe.
Her provocative tone imbues me with vigour. I forget cooking, her tiredness, even breathing, and stare as if seeing her for the very first time. When she’s concentrating, the tip of her tongue touches her top lip. Fucking adorable.
I viciously crack the eggs into a bowl to stop myself taking the piping bag from her hand and reminding her of the innumerable benefits to our friendship like I’ve wanted to all day.
‘I’m not bad.’ Certainly better than nothing. ‘When was the last time someone made you a simple meal?’
She shrugs. ‘You’re right—I have no idea.’ She watches me whisk eggs. ‘Thanks.’
I grow another inch taller. ‘You know, you don’t have to do everything alone, right...?’
Let me take care of you.
Whoa, where did that come fro
m? She’s not mine to care for. Never can be.
She stops what she’s doing, sobers, a small wrinkle forming between her brows. ‘I’ve been doing it for so long—just me and Tilly.’ She shrugs. ‘I guess it’s just easier not to rely on other people.’
People who let you down? Hurt you? Leave you?
She looks away and I swallow bile. She doesn’t know it, but I’m on that list. I let her down in the worst way. Sam and I went to some war-torn hellhole overseas and only I returned...
Losing my own appetite completely, I focus on her midnight snack. The mushrooms may as well be cardboard for all the finesse of my slicing, but at least all my fingers are intact by the time I’ve finished. I need to pull my head out of my arse.
Wanting her again is selfish.
If only I’d stayed strong. Turned down her life-changing proposition. Now I’ve had one taste—I’m ruined.
Kenzie groans, stretching out her back muscles. I grit my teeth and toss the mushrooms into the pan, the spatter of too-hot oil on the back of my hand a reminder of what is at stake.
She tosses the piping bag down, removes her chef’s hat and adjusts her hair. ‘There, finished.’
I take a second to admire her arse in the white trousers, which are covered in smears of chocolate, and then I tear my eyes away and tip the egg mixture into the sizzling pan. ‘Good. Come and sit down.’ I place a stool at the bench. This is bad... I’m acting like her friend, but I have no right. She’s open and caring and wants companionship and I’m a closed book, keeping things from her, and lusting.
She looks at my omelette. ‘That smells delicious—I had no idea I was so ravenous, thank you.’
I freeze. She’s too close, too tempting, and then she steps closer still and reaches up. ‘You have a splash of something, right here,’ she says, brushing one finger over my cheek and then stepping back with a satisfied smile. ‘Kitchens are messy places.’ She indicates her splattered chef whites as evidence.
‘Thanks.’ I breathe, but it’s a struggle.
She leans back on the bench and watches me finish making her meal with a small, slightly mocking smile. ‘So, you’re handy with a screwdriver, you’re Gryffindor, know the rules of quidditch and you cook.’