by JC Harroway
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 from? 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.’
Is she flirting...? My smile is feeble. She’s looking at me like she’d love nothing better than a session of verbal foreplay, culminating in a round or two of high-calibre fucking, right here on the stainless steel, but her eyes are red-rimmed and she’s pale, probably about to drop with fatigue.
Plus, I’m no hero.
‘I have a few skills.’ The pan sizzles, breaking the tension and splattering my shirt.
‘You should let me make that—you don’t want to get grease on your suit.’ I feel her stare slide down my body to my toes.
Fuck my suit.
‘I’m tough. You haven’t lived until you’ve eaten lukewarm boil-in-the-bag stew in the middle of nowhere.’
She wrinkles her nose. ‘I’ll take your word for that.’
I slide the eggs onto a plate and add some milled black pepper with a flourish. I disguise my turmoil with a dash more of bossy. ‘Now, eat my substandard omelette and then go home, have a bath, work out all those kinks with a long, hot soak.’
Stop. Don’t imagine her naked and wet, water running down her phenomenal body... Thank fuck she can’t read the one-track nature of my far from friendly mind.
She rolls her eyes, covering a yawn with the back of her hand. ‘Sounds like heaven.’ She reaches for the fork. ‘But I only have a shower—bathroom’s too small for a bath.’ She takes a bite of the omelette, moaning with pleasure.
‘I have a bath,’ I say, surprising us both. ‘Why don’t I take you home to mine—it’s just around the corner—you can have a soak and sleep in my spare room?’
Damn and fuck it all to hell.
She looks up. Swallows.
Say no.
Say yes.
I hide behind clearing away the ingredients and wiping down the stove. Why am I so set on littering my own path with the ultimate in temptation?
When I look up she’s staring, but quickly covers her indecision with a smile. ‘Sounds like a plan...if you...don’t mind.’
I shrug like it’s no big deal, while my heart beats its way into my throat. She’ll be in my house. In my bath. Sleeping in my spare room.
I fall back on my old mantra: hands, eyes and filthy mind off.
She covers another yawn. ‘Excuse me. I have to be back here for the early shift in five hours.’
‘Great, it’s sorted.’ While she finishes the omelette, her little moans of appreciation pulsing my dick, I keep my back to her, don rubber gloves and begin to wash up the bowls and cake tins filling the sink.
‘How had you planned on getting that home?’ I tilt my chin at the cake, which is at least thirty centimetres high—not the easiest thing to transport across London on the Tube.
‘I hadn’t thought that far ahead... Taxi.’ She shrugs, washing down omelette with a sip of wine I poured. I scrub at
the cake tin, my attack on the burnt-on dollop of cake mixture doing little to distract me from the sight and sound of Kenzie enjoying my food.
‘I didn’t really have much time to make a birthday cake this year, and Tilly’s getting a little old—’
‘Can you ever be too old for a birthday cake?’
She points her fork at me. ‘Good point. Anyway, I’ve been making them for Tilly for years, since Mum and Dad died. It’s a family tradition, one Mum started and now I continue—can’t mess with tradition.’ Her eyes lose focus for a second, and I dry my hands on a tea towel, fighting the urge to go to her, hold her, kiss the sadness from her lips. To tell her we—her, Tilly and I—can make new traditions...
‘That’s a nice tradition.’
She nods, her eyes darting away, but I’ve already seen the sheen in them. ‘I tried to keep those family times alive for Tilly. Birthdays, Christmas—Mum and Dad always made them special.’
I turn away, an intruder to her private moment, even when every cell in me wants to comfort her for the things she’s lost. ‘I’ll have the cake delivered tomorrow.’ She starts to protest but I hold up my hand, silencing her assertions that she can cope. ‘Just let me do something for you, take care of...this simple thing.’
Take care of you.
I step closer, my chest so tight the words I manage to push out surprising us both. ‘Let me keep my promise.’ Try to be your friend. Try to make up for what you’ve been through because of me. ‘Please.’ The last is a gruff whisper, my throat closing on the word. Because not only am I the shittiest friend alive, to both Sam and her, but I also have the grubbiest intentions where this beautiful woman is concerned.
She nods, her big eyes round.
The victory leaves me so conflicted my chest aches. I knew she’d be the death of me...
* * *
Having Kenzie in my home is akin to an eternity locked in the London dungeons, every lash to my raw back a sentence, because I can almost taste how different my life might have been if I’d approached her instead of stepping aside for Sam.
I saw her first. Saw her the second we walked into the club, at the bar with her friends, her stunning face hard to ignore and her laugh infectious. The next time I looked her way, scoping out her ring finger, Sam had spotted her, too. And then she looked in our direction, catching his eye and quickly looking away. I should never have taken his wager, literally putting my fate in the outcome of a coin toss.
She’s so tired, I take her straight to the spare room, every step she takes at my side a self-inflicted flogging. Hiding my mistake, I turn down the covers on the bed, silently praising Fiona, my housekeeper, for keeping everything shipshape. I catch Kenzie eyeing the huge bath in the en suite with longing, so I detour there, robotically turning on the taps and adding half a bottle of bubble bath to the steaming stream of water.
‘There are fresh towels on the warmer and a new toothbrush in the drawer.’
Kenzie nods and smiles like I’ve handed her a winning lottery ticket. She heels off her shoes and removes her coat.
I’m still standing here, probably with drool on my chin, waiting to be invited into the bath, the bed... I force my body into submission and force my eyes away from the swell of her breasts beneath her simple white T-shirt.
‘Well...goodnight.’ I make for the door, clearing the tightness in my throat. ‘I’m going into the office early tomorrow, so I can drop you off for your shift.’
A small smile. ‘You don’t need to do that.’
‘I’m going anyway.’ A lie. Who goes into the office at seven on a Sunday morning?
She nods, her eyes heavy... I tell myself it’s with fatigue, rather than the longing I hope to see. ‘Thanks, Drake.’
I’m in my own bathroom cleaning my teeth when I look up into the mirror and see the smear of vivid green icing she must have rubbed on my cheek back at the Faulkner. She’s managed to talk to me all evening with a straight face. My bark of laughter breaks some of the tension coiled in me, only for it to be replaced with a profound ache.
Fuck, she’s incredible. I glance at the closed bedroom door, every muscle straining to go to her.
I sober quickly, tossing down my toothbrush with disgust.
The blast of hot water from the shower does little to settle my strung-out nervous system. How am I ever going to sleep knowing everything I want is just across the hall? Knowing how good it felt to cross into forbidden territory?
It’s three-fifteen by the time my head hits the pillow, the cool sheets a balm to my fevered naked skin—I always sleep naked.
My last thought, one of wishful thinking, that the chances of Kenzie walking in here and finding me this way are depressingly slim. My dick hates the odds.
What feels like only five minutes later I’m being shaken awake. My heart thunders as reality and sleep merge, images of Sam running ahead of me, just out of reach, lingering. I stretch out my hand—he’s so close I see the weave in the fabric of his combat gear, but then he slips through my fingers like the acrid smoke filling my lungs.
I emerge fully into reality. The room is dark, but Kenzie’s silhouette and big eyes are easily recognisable in the shaft of light from the hallway.
‘Are you okay?’ she whispers, releasing my arm.
I sit up, scrub my hand down my face, the roar of blood through my head as deafening as the explosion that took Sam. ‘I’m fine—’ I clear my aching throat. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘You were having a nightmare—calling out in your sleep. Sorry. I thought it best to wake you.’
Fuck, that’s the second one this week.
She rubs her arms. She’s wearing her T-shirt and underwear, her bare skin scattered with goose-bumps. A chill has settled through the room—it must be close to dawn. I reach for the throw at the end of my bed and drape it around her shoulders, while I try to straighten my head.
Kenzie tugs the blanket across her chest and tucks her bare legs up under herself. ‘Was it bad? It sounded bad.’
With a sigh, I switch on the lamp. ‘I’m okay. I don’t have them anywhere near as frequently as I used to.’ But the subject matter is always the same—Sam. Chasing after him, only to watch him get blown up, the knowledge it should have been me slamming home with the predictable inevitability of a high-speed collision.
‘Was it Sam?’ She reaches out, her touch whisper-soft on my arm, torture and redemption.
I stifle a groan. ‘Don’t do that.’ She snatches her hand away and I quickly intercept, grasping her fingers and holding tight. ‘I don’t deserve your comfort.’
But I’ll fucking take it, suck it dry, if that’s the only part of her I can have.
‘What do you mean?’ Her eyes widen with alarm.
I step back from the edge of the precipice. ‘Nothing.’ I grip tighter, silently begging her not to push for answers. Not now. When I’m naked and she may as well be. When the vestiges of my nightmare cling, dragging me down into the familiar pit of endless guilt.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ It’s barely a whisper, as if I’m a frightened animal. But the only thing to fear is keeping control of my burgeoning feelings for this woman. Feelings I’m struggling to contain.
I shake my head, squeeze her fingers. ‘I’m fine. I’m sorry I woke you.’
Time to get her out of here.
‘You didn’t.’ She looks down at our still clasped hands. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’
My pulse soars, but that’s not a hangover from the nightmare. ‘You should go back to bed.’ Now. Before I do something stupid. ‘It’s freezing.’
She nods but her only movement is her warm fingers pressing against the back of my hand.
I’m trapped by my nakedness and the hard-on that roared to life the minute my body registered her proximity. And by the fact that touching her is exactly where I want to be.
Am I strong enough to fight it?
‘Thank you for today,’ she says, lifting her eyes to look at me from under her lashes.
‘What for?’ My throat is sandpaper-rough.
Ask me to kiss you again. Ask me to fuck you again.
‘For all of it.’ She smiles and my heart pounds. ‘Helping Tilly, brunch, washing up, making me food and running me a bath.’ Her eyes are searching as a slow sigh gusts out across her lips like she wants to say more but is holding back.
‘No problem.’ My voice croaks. The only problem here is if she doesn’t leave soon, I’m going to do something we’ll both regret. Something unforgivable, because she made her position clear today.
Fuck, why didn’t I sling on some tracksuit bottoms to sleep in? At least then I could climb out of bed, make her a glass of hot milk and tuck her back into the spare bed, out of reach.
I glance at the door, the slant of light from the hallway. ‘I’d take you back to your room...but I’m...kind of naked under here.’
She lifts her eyebrows, her lips parting. ‘You are?’
I shrug. Did I imagine the way her eyes sparked? I must still be dreaming, making up the shit I desperately want to see. Because it’s over, right...? Friends, she said.
Her eyes cling to mine while we breathe. And stare. And wait. For what, I’m not sure, but I want to break the spell as much as I want to run around the dark-shrouded streets of Chelsea stark bollock naked.
‘Do you regret it?’ she asks, a whisper.
If I weren’t so fascinated with her lips, I’d have missed the question completely.
My pulse thrums painfully in my head. ‘Regret what?’ All I can think about is how I want her so bad I can already taste her.
Her shoulders rise and fall with rapid, shallow breaths, her tongue darting out to moisten her bottom lip. Her reply is whisper-soft, as if she’s afraid to speak any louder in case the words become too real. ‘What we did.’
My heart stops altogether. Regret it...? I’ve fucking replayed it a million times, reliving every incredible second until I’m drunk with its rightness. I shake my head, my tongue thick in my mouth.