Forbidden To Taste. JC Harroway
against the crisp white china... I might as well have served up school dinner’s congealed semolina pudding with a blob of jam.
The curious looks of the rest of the party burn the exposed parts of me like the heat of the industrial stoves in the kitchen. I lift my chin, likely seconds away from an escort from the premises by Security.
Drake pushes his chair back and stands, swiftly followed by Kit, who has either finally placed me as the widow of Drake’s best friend, or shares his older brother’s innate good manners.
‘What are you doing here?’ He frowns, his hands hanging at his sides. Touching, even the polite social pleasantry of a peck on the cheek, wasn’t our norm. While Sam was alive, and considering the amount of time the two spent together, on and off duty, I fought hard not to resent his cool indifference.
And then Sam died, and with the exception of a few stilted words at his funeral we’ve had no contact beyond those uncashed cheques.
Until now—my botched plan.
‘Are you here to see me?’ He looks around, still trying to explain my unorthodox presence.
‘No...yes.’ Colour rages up my neck. The small white lie I told his PA informed me of his dining plans. But I’m supposed to be seizing the day, making my own luck, not bungling my best chance at my dream job. I tell myself my muteness is simply fatigue—days spent job-hunting in this unfamiliar city, an inbox full of rejection emails, lonely evenings waiting for my break—and nothing to do with seeing him again.
‘I see.’ His frown cuts into me, making my feet shuffle, about to run for the kitchens. But giving up on my fresh start, my dream, my future, is not an option.
‘Do you...do you work here?’ says Drake.
My throat constricts, making my swallow almost painful. I hadn’t considered a public interrogation. ‘No... I... Not yet. I just... I’d really love for you to try my dessert.’
The proof really is in the pudding. Outside of credentials, there’s no better way to show him I have the skills required to work at the Faulkner.
I take a deep breath, preparing to explain myself, even in front of an audience, when the real waiter returns carrying a bemused expression, Horny Helen’s espresso and three affogato. He stares between Drake and me, his professional smile slipping to one of confusion.
I look away from Drake as the flames reach my face. What was I thinking? Worst plan ever born of carpe-diem-style desperation.
‘May I have my espresso, please?’ Horny Helen says to the waiter, who places his offerings on the now crowded table.
‘Should I bring an extra chair, Mr Faulkner?’ He addresses Drake, looking slightly nervous for his job no doubt, although he wasn’t the waiter on a ciggie break out the back that I managed to con earlier. Dressing the part, faking lateness and a cocky smile earned me access to the staff entrance past the security lock even without the monogrammed uniform.
Drake lifts one brow. ‘Would you like to join us?’
My face must be singed by now. Certainly my stomach is on strike and trying to flee my body. Lonely, desperate gooseberry, Kenzie. I shake my head and squeak out a no.
Drake, his confusion raking me in a way that makes me want to check my blouse buttons haven’t popped open, takes control of the bizarre situation I’ve created. ‘Kit, you remember Kenzie Porter.’
Kit smiles, kisses my cheek and introduces me to his girlfriend, Mia.
‘And this is Ashley Morris,’ says Drake, his stare cool but persistent on me. Ashley offers a sickly-sweet smile and sips her espresso, her attention returning to Drake as if staking her claim.
She needn’t worry. He’s obviously just shocked to see me. From the very first time I met him and Sam in that bar all those years ago, Drake’s never looked at me in that way.
I look away from the woman, who is exactly Drake’s type. Although I’m only here for a job, my ribs pinch as if I’ve run a marathon on a full stomach, the second-best feeling confirming I shouldn’t have come to once more have my face rubbed in you’re not good enough.
I struggle to swallow the surge of bitterness. What was I thinking? Drake is no friendlier than when Sam was alive. Less so, in fact. The idea he might help me would be laughable if my eyes weren’t already hot with humiliation.
A familiar helpless panic closes its fingers around my throat. I bite the inside of my cheek, chasing away the stray emotion. I haven’t cried for three years and I have no intention of breaking my dry spell. Forcing the brightest smile possible, I scan the group, latching on to Mia’s open, friendly face.
‘Well, it was lovely seeing you again and great to meet you, Mia, Ashley.’ I need to get out of here before the burn in my eyes becomes liquid, before I’m forced to relive the rejection to my application for the Faulkner’s sous-chef position in person and with Drake’s date for an audience.
‘Sorry for interrupting.’ I back away. In the light of my and Drake’s less than cosy reunion, my long shot now seems ludicrous. I spin on my heel, ignoring Drake’s ‘Wait!’, my strides weaving between the elegant tables as fast as the tightness of my skirt will allow.
I push through the kitchen doors, duck past several actual waiting staff collecting their orders and grab the denim jacket I’d stuffed behind a stack of empty produce crates next to the walk-in freezer.
By the time I hit the alleyway behind the hotel and suck the freezing air into my gasping lungs, my whole body trembles with the spent adrenaline of futility.
What an idiot. Why did I think my reception from Drake Faulkner of all people would be any warmer, any more personal, than the two-line rejection email?
We’re looking for someone with more experience...wishing you luck in your career...
I bite the inside of my cheek, staving off the well of emotion, unsure which rejection has my stupid eyes scalding—that of Drake’s head chef, or that of the man himself.
I scuff the toe of my shoe at a blob of welded-on chewing gum on the road, the shame directed inwards. Drake had greeted me with all the warmth of the strangers we are. Just because I thought I could convince him to take a chance on me with my dessert stunt doesn’t mean he’d be anything but consistently distant and frosty.
With my chest tight and my jumpy muscles cooling in the bitter November chill, I shrug into my jacket and drag my feet in the direction of the Underground.
The slam of the door bouncing off the brick wall behind startles me. I spin, clutching my chest. Drake, his face slashed with a scowl, heads my way with singular purpose and an intent expression, his suit jacket billowing out from his trim torso.
My previously defeated heart picks up the pace. Not only did my deflated soufflé of a plan fail, I’ve also ticked off the man with power to grant me a shot at my dream. When I fled, trailing my dignity, I was counting on him making some excuse for my unexpected appearance and continuing with his date. Now he’ll want an explanation, and, with the humiliation pounding through my bloodstream and facing a wall of his imposing but unfriendly manliness, I’m in no position to present my best argument.
I blurt the first thing that comes to mind, attack being the best form of defence. ‘What are you doing? Aren’t you on a date?’
He ignores me and strides closer, his long, muscular legs filling his dress trousers to perfection, each ominous footfall a clip from his tan leather brogues. My belly takes a nosedive—I’ve always loved brogues.
When he comes to rest in front of me I inhale a gulp of the damp air, wishing it were a shot of Dutch courage.
His thick brows dip over incredulous eyes. ‘What am I doing here...?’ His harsh expression could back me up a couple of paces but I stand still for the face-off. ‘That’s my question for you.’
I gape wordlessly. His chest seems