Forbidden To Taste. JC Harroway
I put down my wine before I hurl it at the wall.
‘I’ll work hard, I promise. I’m not asking for handouts,’ she adds, her eyes wide as she reaches for her denim jacket and rummages in the pocket. ‘In fact...’ she holds out an envelope ‘...I also came to return these.’
I stare at her offering as if it’s packed with plastic explosives, the hairs prickling on the back of my neck. ‘What is it?’
When I don’t take the envelope from her, she huffs and places it on the sofa between us like a barrier.
‘The cheques you sent.’ Her eyes harden.
My stomach rolls. She may as well have kneed me in the balls. I temper a sigh while I process what feels like a slap in the face. ‘But that money is for you.’
Guilt money.
She looks away as if she knows what’s coming and wants to hear it less than I want to utter it or admit the ugly truth.
I say it anyway, because if she hasn’t cashed a single one of the cheques I’ve sent her over the years I need leverage. Blackmail. ‘I promised him I’d look after you.’ I force the words out, inviting Sam into the room—a major cock-block for me and a reminder for her: some promises still apply. ‘And I want to help.’
My stomach rolls—of course I made promises to Sam, too. The promise of time to sort his shit out, get his house in order and come clean to Kenzie.
One look at the wistfulness in her beautiful eyes at the mention of his name tells me he didn’t, and my burden doubles in weight as if gravity no longer exists.
A determined pout forms on her soft, plump lips. ‘I appreciate that, Drake, I do, but I don’t want your money. I don’t need it. And you can help me by giving me a chance to get a job.’
There it is—her steel, her independence. Fucking attractive qualities I’ve always secretly admired.
‘I know you don’t need it.’ She’s the strongest woman I know. Facing her losses with the bravery of a whole squadron of men.
Her eyes dart away, perhaps finding the carpet, this particular shade of charcoal, fascinating. But she’s right not to trust me. Right not to need me. She’s unaware, but I’m a snake in the grass. I’d never have played my hand—in my mind, she’ll always be Sam’s—but thoughts can betray as much as actions. Did my thoughts make me as complicit as Sam, who had everything I dared to crave, but failed to honour its value?
I aim for nonchalance with my shrug, ignoring the colicky twist of my gut that remonstrates. ‘I just wanted to ease your burden. Help the only way I could.’ The money helped me to keep my word without losing my mind.
I should have stayed in touch. Should have worked harder to fight my attraction from day one so I could uphold my promise to my friend with more than financial assistance. She would have needed more than money these past three years—solace, company, practical help. Sam’s army pension probably covers her mortgage, but not much else. And now with London prices... And besides, I swore. Made a vow to look out for his woman and her sister. If Sam were here, he’d tell me straight up—I’m a shitty friend. But then, at the end, he was a shitty husband...
‘Why are you so stubborn? A promise is a promise.’ Every married soldier has his brothers at his back and I had Sam’s back.
Every time except that last time. The only time that counted...
‘I prefer determined. That’s why my plan was supposed to entice you—I don’t want your money. So, do I get my shot?’ The set of her jaw tells me she isn’t going to back down and, if there are three years’ worth of cheques in that envelope, nothing I say tonight will change her mind and convince her to accept what I can easily afford.
I close my eyes, wishing I could close my mind to the dilemma as easily. Of course, the only thing my brain latches on to is the delicate scent of the woman next to me on the couch. The warmth of her body seeping across the pathetic slice of space between us.
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