From bestselling author JC Harroway comes the second book in the Billionaire Bachelors series! Drake Faulkner knows that Kenzie Porter, his best friend’s widow, is off-limits—but that just makes him want her more...

At one time she was the woman Drake Faulkner wanted more than anything but couldn’t have—and now she’s the last person he needs in his life. But when Kenzie Porter, the widow of his former best friend and army comrade Sam, turns up asking for a job at his luxury London hotel chain, the memories return.

Drake is eager to help her, but he knows that doing so will only lead him toward temptation. He doesn’t want to sully the memory of his best friend by falling for Kenzie all over again. There’s a reason he’s been avoiding her for three years: a dark secret about the day she and Sam got together—and about the day Sam died on the battlefield.

But from the moment the pair lock eyes, the sexual connection between them is electrifying. They both know that acting on their forbidden desire for each other would cross a line, but how far can they push the boundaries before someone gets hurt?

Lifelong romance addict JC HARROWAY lives in New Zealand. Writing feeds her very real obsession with happy endings and the endorphin rush they create. You can follow her at jcharroway.com, Facebook.com/jcharroway, Instagram.com/jcharroway and Twitter.com/jcharroway.

Also by JC Harroway

A Week to be Wild

Her Dirty Little Secret

One Night Only

Billionaire Bachelors

Forbidden to Want

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Forbidden to Taste

JC Harroway

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08693-6

FORBIDDEN TO TASTE

© 2019 JC Harroway

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my wonderful editorial team,

specially Sareeta and Charlotte.

Thank you for all your help, support

and general awesomeness.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE
Kenzie

I HOVER IN an alcove just outside the kitchen, unstable on the modest heels I’m wearing as part of my impromptu waitress uniform. I take a second to drag in a bolstering lungful of air. Now I’m here, my plan seems crazy. Audacious. But I need to capture his attention somehow.

I spent the whole day perfecting the desserts precariously balanced on my arms in the tiny, ill-equipped kitchenette of my one-bedroom flat. I even carried them here in a catering box on the Tube. Seeing them splattered on the plush carpets of the Faulkner’s fine-dining restaurant because I’m having scaredy-cat second thoughts... Not an option.

The mental slap works. I straighten my shoulders, poised on the brink of my opportunity. I watch the waiter leave the table of interest, a rage of nervous energy jolting me into action—chin up, strides bold, and an air of I totally belong in one of London’s most upmarket eateries with four dessert plates balanced on my arms.

My teenaged waitressing experience keeps my jittery body upright, my serene facial expression in place and my thumb out of the salted-caramel cheesecake as each step brings me closer to the man with the power. But the short walk, which had seemed like a marathon, is over in seconds, and I arrive at his table breathless and adrenaline-depleted.

The sight of Drake up close rattles my bones so hard I have to clamp my jaw to prevent my smile becoming a grimace full of chattering teeth. Not that the four diners would notice—they’re deep in conversation, each handsome brother focussed on his date.

And I’ve always been invisible to Drake, hence tonight’s subterfuge.

I slide a surreptitious glance his way, using the seconds before I’m spotted to assess the ways he’s changed in the three years since the funeral—his face a little more angular, a sprinkle of telltale grey disrupting the inky blackness at his temples, perhaps a few more laughter lines—his appearance familiar but reminding me that we’re strangers.

He’d been a soldier three years ago, every forbidden inch of him lean and buff and rigidly disciplined. Not that I’d looked too closely. But photos Sam had sent from wherever they were posted always featured the handsome duo—my husband and his best friend.

I shudder at the exposed memories and the unexpected surge of heat. I’m only human, and Drake Faulkner is eye candy personified for any woman.

The woman with him now, presumably his date, laughs, her possessive hand on his forearm and her smile wide and captivating.

I swallow the sour taste in my mouth—Drake and I have never had that kind of relationship. We’ve never even been friends. Not really. Yes, he’s sent financial assistance in the regular cheques over the years, but our relationship was cordial at best, a fact that gives me a moment’s hesitation as to what I think I’m doing, about to interrupt what is obviously a double date.

I lift my chin, remembering I only want one thing from Drake Faulkner and it’s not his charity or his seduction. It’s the only reason I’d seek out anyone’s help: Tilly. My sister needs me close by in London—not as much as she used to need me, admittedly—and I need this job opportunity to get my life back on track.

I hold my breath and pray Drake’s past friendship with Sam will grant me that chance as I place my offering in front of Drake’s date. Her attention is firmly fixed on him, earning me a few more seconds of anonymity to deposit another two desserts in front of the other couple at the table, who are similarly oblivious to my presence. I recognise Drake’s brother, Kit. Last I’d heard, he, like the other two Faulkner brothers, was single, but this woman is clearly more than a date. Heads close, non-verbal communication in the form of heated looks, fingers toying with each other’s on his thigh and a cloud of barely repressed lust permeating the air—I flush, a voyeur to their intimacy.

I look away, eyes burning with envy, and place the last plate before Drake. And wait. My blood roars through my head at my barefaced effrontery. At this point a real waitress would leave, but I hover at Drake’s elbow, my own stomach so knotted I doubt I’ll ever eat again.

Without turning to look at me, Drake eyes my dessert and says, ‘Miss, this isn’t what we ordered.’ His voice is older, too. Or perhaps it always carried that rich baritone timbre, which slides over me like bittersweet chocolate sauce...

Drake’s companion flicks a look of barely concealed contempt my way, probably at my interruption of her dream date with one of London’s most eligible bachelors. But the thing foremost in Horny Helen here’s mind is the last thing I’d want from Drake of all people.

I smooth my damp palms down my black skirt. ‘Compliments of the chef, sir.’

Horny Helen sweeps her gaze over my waitress-style outfit, a derisive curl to her lip. Has she noticed that my plain white blouse doesn’t bear the Faulkner monogram of the other waiting staff uniforms? I don’t work here. Yet. And I’m not here for a waitressing job.

The other two occupants of the table join the staring contest Drake’s date has instigated. Kit’s brow furrows, presumably as he tries to place me. But we’ve only met a handful of times. I hope his amnesia will last long enough for Drake to taste my dessert.

Taste it. Give me a chance.

Horny Helen pushes her plate away. ‘Could I please have what I ordered? Es-press-o.’

She enunciates every syllable slowly, as if she assumes English isn’t my first, or even my second, language. Condescending cow.

My eyes dart to the back of Drake’s head, snagging on the golden skin between his shorn hairline and the top of his collar, while my head swims at the spicy masculine scent of him—so close, but permanently out of bounds.

Tense seconds stretch, and an ominous silence crawls over my skin.

I mentally rehash my bold, perhaps foolhardy plan and reach the same conclusion—I’m desperate. If I want to be close to my sister and chase my own dreams of one day taking charge of my own kitchen, I’m all out of options.

Drake turns his head.

‘Kenzie...?’ His shocked eyes latch on to mine from underneath his frown. Then surprise clears, replaced with the inscrutable distance of every look that has ever passed between us since the day we met.

Cool, distant, polite.

‘Hi, Drake.’ My voice is breathier than I’d like. I tell myself it’s the high-stakes gamble of my mission. ‘Good to see you. Please try the dessert.’

Drake blinks, as if I’ve asked him to solve world hunger in the next thirty seconds. He doesn’t even look at the exquisite creation on his plate, which took me most of the day to prepare—the curls of dark Belgian chocolate, the flecks of gold leaf, the shiny smear of decadent salted-caramel sauce 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 twice as broad as he slings his hands in his trouser pockets, the fabric stretching across his hips. I lift my stare from his crotch, swallowing the heat in my throat. Hopefully it’s too dark for him to see my blush, and I can always blame the sub-zero temperatures.

‘What was that all about? The dessert?’ He nods at my outfit. ‘You pretending to be a waitress?’ His nostrils flare, his mouth tight with annoyance.

My shoulders sag. I’ve disrupted his date with the delightful Ashley, his bollocks are probably starting to freeze and my pathetic dream for a fresh start lies in tatters.

The adrift feeling, which has plagued me these past few months, returns with stinging force that makes me want to run or hide or fight. But which is the best tactic to convince Drake?

‘I...I hoped to get your attention.’ Hoped he’d see me, not just Sam’s widow or Tilly’s sister—but a woman with her own skills, aspirations, ambition. ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now I see it was a mistake.’ Drake’s undivided focus, him looking at me in this new, disconcerting way, is potent—like standing too close to a bonfire.

‘Forget it. Go back inside. She doesn’t look the type who’ll wait for ever.’ The damp air has turned into a mist of freezing drizzle—the kind that seeps into your bones. I belatedly fasten the buttons of my jacket, although the front of my blouse has already become transparent.

‘Well, you have my attention.’ His eyes narrow, as if he finds my bullshit decidedly suspect. ‘And what type does she look like?’

Why would he care what I think of his date? Or perhaps she’s his girlfriend. It would be a first for him, but then what do I know? This man is a virtual stranger—despite all the years we’ve known each other. And would he leave a girlfriend to chase after a woman he barely tolerates and hasn’t seen for years?

‘She looks like your type, Drake. Sorry for the interruption. Goodnight.’ My tight smile sticks on my frozen face as I spin away. But then I’m brought to a halt by the touch of his hand on my arm.

‘For fuck’s sake—you can’t just leave like this.’ He peers down at me, his irritation lessened but still brooking no argument. ‘Not until you explain what’s going on.’ He drops my arm, pinning me in place with the force of his intense stare alone.

I tilt my chin, my humiliation already complete. ‘It was a stupid long shot. I should have remembered that you owe me nothing.’ Absence, it seems, doesn’t make this man’s heart fonder. I cross my arms and grip my elbows in an attempt to conserve some heat and hold myself together.

‘Explain. What was a long shot? And why did you run out?’ He waits, his jaw tight and his breath whitening the air as his order echoes in the alleyway.

I press my lips together. I’ve nothing left to lose. I came here determined to seize the day but, now I’m face to face with this somehow different but equally stand-offish Drake, I’m not sure I want to expose myself or justify my fragile fledging dreams to his cool indifference. If he’d treated me to one whiff of welcome, a hint of pleasure at my appearance, perhaps I’d find the extra courage.

When my teeth rattle he sighs as if abandoning his search for answers, shrugs out of his suit jacket and drapes it around my juddering shoulders.

‘Thank you.’ I look down, too cold to protest, and tug the lapels across my chest. And then I’m hit with his scent, a waft from the fabric, a heady cloud of deliciousness that’s foreign and yet vaguely familiar.

I look up, my breath caught in my throat. We’ve never stepped this close before. A rare, awkward, one-armed hug constitutes the sum of our physical contact.

But he doesn’t back away.

‘You’re welcome.’ His voice drops, low enough to sound seductive to my rusty eardrums, although the remnants of the scowl linger behind his eyes.

I roll back on my heels, my frozen toes protesting at the surge of blood with a vicious throb. I should abandon the fight. Walk away from further explanation. But my feet have forgotten the way. I’m frozen with indecision, clinging to the lip of my coveted new life. Not a great position for a woman on an audacious mission...

In a last-ditch attempt to save myself the shame of exposure, I toss out, ‘You know it’s rude to keep a woman waiting, right?’ Since when did fleeing the effect his stare has on my pulse trump talking my way into a life-changing opportunity?

He grins a humourless grin and looks away, shaking his head as if he can’t believe my obstinacy. And yet here we are, his evening in tatters, my plan abandoned, standing in the rain at a stalemate.

‘Come back inside. We’ll talk in the warm.’ He scoops up my elbow in one of his big hands and directs my stiff form towards the kitchen’s entrance.

I dig in my heels, heart hammering. The last thing I want is to return to the scene of the crime. To explain my sad, lonely, unemployed status to both loved-up couples... But I’m too cold, damp and bone-weary to put up much of a fight beyond backtracking.

‘Look. I’ll call you tomorrow. Explain everything then. That’s probably what I should have done in the first place,’ I wheedle. Yeah, that would have been a better plan. Why didn’t I think of it sooner? ‘Go. Enjoy what’s left of your evening.’

He sighs, casting me a withering look. ‘I sent her home. I sent them all home.’

I gasp. ‘Why?’ A stupid flare of hope flickers in my chest, gooey and warming.

‘Because dinner’s over and I want to hear your explanation.’ He pauses on the top step and I want to look away from his semi-transparent shirt, which clings to the defined muscle he hasn’t lost since leaving the army.

He wants to hear my sob story—isn’t that why I came?

Of course, now my elevated heart rate and clammy palms have less to do with nerves or humiliation and more to do with hormones. Because his hand on my elbow, even through two layers of fabric, is deliciously alien enough to remind me I’m a woman.

A woman on a mission to reclaim her life.

All areas of her life...?

I bite my lip, stifling a groan. His innocent, non-sexual touch—strong, in control, commanding—is that good. Because it’s been three long years, and something about Drake—his confidence, the control he wears like the discipline of the soldier he was—it’s sparked my long-dormant body to life.

I slide my arm free of his hand, my fickle stomach rolling at my traitorous turn of thought, and he keys in the entry code on the panel beside the door.

The breath judders into me, delivering another dose of warm, Drake-scented air from his jacket. But there’s no margin for whimsical flights of sexual fancy here. I’m here for a job, and he’d never think of me in that way.

He’s Sam’s best friend.

Sam, my dead husband.

I swallow acid. I’m simply overwhelmed, my body’s reaction to his dismantling looks and his warm touch a product of too long without any sort of male contact. Or perhaps I can blame the stress of formulating and then executing my plan, the chance of new purpose in my life now my sister is grown.

The electronic click sounds and he swings the door inwards. ‘Let’s get you inside.’ His stare slides over my face and then dips lower, taking in my sodden clothes. ‘Get you warmed up. And then we’ll talk.’ Those green eyes of his penetrate. ‘You’ll talk.’

My belly rolls again, bossy, commanding Drake not something I’ve ever experienced. That it warms me more than irritates makes me snappy. ‘Huh? What is this, an interrogation? Gonna shove bamboo skewers under my fingernails? You’re not in the army now.’ My petulance forces heat to my stinging cheeks. I need to get a grip before I blow this chance to smithereens. The ultimate in self-sabotage.

‘Yes, but I still have the moves.’ Drake smiles, an unguarded twitch of his lips an expression I’ve rarely seen directed my way.

My breath turns to thick syrup. Is he...flirting?

The flare of warmth in his eyes and the mischievous twist to his full mouth thrusts my neglected body into meltdown. I expect a cloud of steam to start rising from my head.

He holds the door open, the welcoming light and warmth beckoning. ‘It’s your call, but we can do this in comfort or out here where it’s pissing down.’ A shrug. ‘I’m happy with either.’

He waits, as if he has all the time in the world. As if he’s immune to the sub-zero drizzle. As if he’s still used to the discomfort and discipline of the army.

Now I’m not certain if the shivers racking my body are temperature-related or a tug of war between my conflicted urges—to run from his dark, unfathomable looks or to follow him and prolong the conversation, which is already our longest and most addictive.

I step inside, dragging my attention from the wet shirt plastered to the contours of his chest. I shouldn’t find this man in any way attractive. He doesn’t need me, would never want me, and just acknowledging his good looks and the effect they have on my only-human pulse floods my throat with the bitter taste of betrayal.

But Sam’s not here. I’m twenty-eight. This reaction to Drake proves I’m not immune to the charms of the opposite sex...or at least the charms of this man. Am I going to remain celibate for the rest of my life?

Yes, I haven’t wanted anyone else these past years, but I’m a woman and Drake fills his suit the way he used to fill his uniform—fit, virile, a man at the top of his game. I’d have to be dead to not feel the zing of electricity through the cobweb-strewn parts of my nervous system.

And there’s no escape from him. From his deep stare, dark and penetrating, from the past we share, convoluted and confusing, or from my aborted plan and the explanation I owe him.

I try to slow my breathing as I follow his long strides, his broad shoulders and dominating height obscuring our direction. This is what I wanted—his attention. All I have to do is plead my case and hope to salvage something, even if it’s just my dignity. So why do I feel ready to concede the fight and flee the ring?

CHAPTER TWO
Drake

MY PULSE SPRINTS like an excited fucking puppy as I lead her from the staff entrance and along the corridor towards the lift and the Faulkner’s private suites. That I’m even taking her to the hotel rooms I only use if I’ve been working late or if I’m entertaining a date sounds an air-raid siren in my head.

A warning the glutton for punishment in me shuts out.

But Kenzie and I going upstairs isn’t a date. The selfish part of me wishes ‘us’ were that simple.

In truth, there is no ‘us’.

The achingly familiar visceral blow provides a perfect reminder to my dick, which had perked up the minute I’d seen her in the restaurant.

My army discipline helps to dispel images of all the filthy sexual things I’d like to do with her—things she’d run from if she knew. As it is, I’m tempted to drop to the carpet and pump out a hundred push-ups to put myself on the safe side of exhaustion.

Because the woman standing across the narrow corridor from me, her guarded hazel eyes shooting me cautious looks, may as well be a nun, she’s so untouchable.

And pissed.

I’m a bossy bastard when the need arises, and McKenzie Porter ignites that need like no other. I slowly inhale. A fucking stupid move that drags her subtle feminine scent into my head, where it has no place being and maximum potential to test my restraint.

Why is she here, in the flesh? Not just the dream version—the one I’ve spent considerable time with over the years. And what the hell was tonight about?

I open my mouth to ask again and then clamp my lips together. She’s freezing, her body still trembling. At least I can no longer hear her teeth chatter.

Instead I scrub at my hair and try to work out her stunt with the dessert. She’d wanted to get my attention, she’d said. Well, all she had to do was walk into the same room. If I were a heat-seeking missile, she’d be the sun...

‘I’m sorry I messed up your date.’ A flash of vulnerability, of bravery, ghosts her eyes and I want to tell her she can gatecrash all my dates.

Whoa... I haven’t spent all the years I’ve known her keeping her at arm’s length just to screw it all up in one move.

‘You didn’t. It was pretty much over.’ She interrupted the tail end of a satisfactory evening of good company, excellent food and the potential for meaningless sex. Pity a five-minute conversation with Kenzie eclipses a hundred meaningless encounters, as evidenced by the surge of testosterone I’m currently battling, my body as attuned to her presence as high-voltage power lines to an approaching rainstorm.

I force my mind to the mundane, willing my libido to obey orders. Sharing army barracks and tents with thirty other men helps to master control of the body parts that have a life of their own. And the technique, one I’ve practised a thousand times in her presence, reminds me of the first time I saw her, a mere thirty seconds before my best mate caught her eye.

I swallow the bitter taste with a silent curse. I’ve tried, but I’ve never been in control of my feelings for this woman—the intervening years, her falling for and then marrying Sam, and then losing him, may as well count for zilch.

I want her.

I’ve always wanted her.

And it’s never been an option.

That’s why I’ve stayed the hell away. Not only have I always coveted my best friend’s woman, but Sam is no longer here to punch me in both of my two faces, as I deserve.

And what I definitely don’t deserve is Kenzie.

The guilt and self-disgust turning my stomach deals with my hard-on. Yeah, not happening, bud.

The lift arrives and we step inside the brightly lit and mirrored cell. I lock down my trapped-inside emotions behind the neutral facial expression of my reflection while I wonder how the fuck I’m going to manage the next thirty minutes until I can get rid of her without taking a cold shower.

‘Have you and Ashley been dating for long?’ she asks, leaning up against one wall, her beautiful eyes huge and tinged with doubt. ‘I hope she’ll forgive you for cutting things short to...deal with me.’

Deal with her...? Can she read my fucking mind? See all the filthy ways I’d like to deal with her? Does she know that she stars in dreams that jerk me from sleep, leaving me soaked in sweat and harder than steel? I’ve had stern words with my subconscious, but it’s persistently twisted.

‘We’re not dating. Just casual.’ All my interactions with women over the years can be classified that way. Anything more serious would have demanded comparisons I knew deep inside would only highlight the gaping chasm between reality and the fantasy of what might have been with this particular woman.

I look away, feigning fascination in the digital display that tells me I only have thirty more seconds to endure being this close to her in an enclosed space, which may as well be a torture chamber. I slow my breathing to ward off the head rush and slide my eyes over the source of every erotic fantasy I’ve had since the day we met, forcing myself to look beyond the perfection of her combination of features.

‘You’re pale.’ With cold, fatigue or something else? I curl my fingers into fists to stop me from pulling my jacket tighter around her frame and buttoning it up to the neck to protect her from my lecherous stare. I grip the handrail. I only have so much self-control—another reason staying away was easier.

She shrugs. ‘I’m okay.’

I scour her face for clues. Then my stomach plummets as if the lift were descending, not ascending. Is she ill? Is that what she’s come to tell me? She could be dying for all I know. Outside what I struggled to ignore while Sam was still alive and what I’ve pieced together through social-media stalking in the three years since his death, she’s a stranger.

Because I’ve kept her that way in order to atone and for self-preservation.

Panic subsides as I remember the dessert. She came with a mission. I know she had a passion for cooking. But she and her autistic sister, nine years her junior, live in Bath. A long way to deliver dessert.

Another surge of adrenaline traps my breath. Is Tilly sick? Do they need help? Money? Am I the only person she can turn to? I swallow razor blades. Have I neglected her? She must miss Sam. She’s far too young to be a widow. And too fucking beautiful.

My heart stutters frozen as another thought occurs: I have no idea if she’s seeing someone. Three years is a long time for celibacy. I fight the urge to make fists, the idea of some worthless bastard laying his hands on her souring a perfectly satisfactory Michelin-starred dinner.

Enough.

One glimpse of McKenzie Porter and my regimented life turns to chaos. I suck it up. Repeat the mantra: thoughts, eyes and hands off. She’s Sam’s.

I’m about to bang my head against the wall of the lift to knock some sense into my libido-ridden brain when it slows, releasing an electronic ping so welcome, I’m mentally fist-pumping the air at surviving the journey.

‘We could have talked downstairs in the bar, you know,’ she says, a flash of admonishment in her pretty eyes reminding me of the times she bawled out Sam for some bawdy, barrack-room joke.

The doors glide open.

‘Three years is a long time.’ A lifetime. ‘I’d say that warrants a...private reunion, wouldn’t you?’ I hold out my arm for her to exit.

Her mouth thins with censure. ‘I’ve only just moved to London; if you’d wanted to find me sooner, you knew where I was.’

The urge to kiss that sensual mouth slams into me with previously unexperienced force. How can this woman do that to me? Is it just the forbidden thing...? I never considered myself such a puerile arsehole, but hey...anything that helps me keep my hands off her.

She pauses outside the lift. I indicate the direction, and she precedes me down the hallway with a sexy flounce of attitude.

‘I did.’ She’s right. I’ve known where to find her all these years, but couldn’t be a part of her life. ‘And if you needed me, you could have called.’ The lash of guilt slashes between my shoulder blades. Have I punished her, too, in punishing myself for wanting her, for keeping secrets, for plunging her into a life without Sam? I bite back a wince, my jaw aching where my teeth grind together.

By castigating myself and avoiding temptation, I’ve neglected my obligations—the promise made to Sam when neither of us believed it would need to be honoured.

It was better to keep my distance. Better for her because she wouldn’t have wanted to hear what I had to say, and better for my unscrupulous conscience. Because even when I oh, so briefly held a sobbing McKenzie in my arms while she grieved for another man—a man we both loved, a man I made promises to, a man I kept secrets for—my thoughts weren’t wholly innocent.

At the suite door, the only one at this end of the corridor, she turns, big eyes finding me in the gloom, burrowing through my self-protective skin. ‘Yes, well, I wouldn’t be here either if I wasn’t desperate, believe me.’ She flushes and blinks, looking away.

Desperate? My mind races with possibilities, turning my stomach. I let her down, but it was better for her this way. And the sooner I warm her up and get her talking, the sooner I can send her on her way.

‘Great,’ I bite out. ‘You don’t need me and I’ve done a shit job of keeping in touch.’

Her glare dissolves into mocking humour. ‘Fair assessment.’

I unlock the door and activate the suite’s lighting, swallowing the real reasons I stayed away from this forbidden woman. Those damaging words are locked deep inside, out of harm’s way. Harm to Kenzie, to the memory of Sam and to any hope of being in her life in the future. Distant acquaintance is better than nothing. Distant acquaintance keeps me sane.

‘So, coffee? Tea? Something stronger?’ Fuck, I need something stronger. I unbutton my cuffs and roll up my rapidly drying shirtsleeves, the previously comfortable ambient temperature in the suite now stifling, thanks to her presence.

‘Do you have any wine?’ she asks.

I nod, reaching into the cupboard off the entranceway for a spare towel, holding it at arm’s length in offering.

‘Thanks.’ She takes it with a grateful smile and towels the ends of her hair. She’s still wearing my too-big jacket. A mark of possession that pumps my blood faster. How would she look in one of my shirts and nothing else? How would her skin react to the scrape of my facial hair, a map to every place I’ve been lucky enough to run my mouth?

‘Take a seat and I’ll get you a glass.’ And a bucket of water for my own parched throat...

I head to the kitchen, activating the sound system for the distraction of some background music. I select a bottle of wine from the rack, not that alcohol is a good idea around her but I need to keep my restless hands and hungry mouth occupied until she leaves.

Silently, I give myself a talking-to—I can handle a little self-discipline: I’m an expert around Kenzie’s particular brand of temptation. And just because she’s turned up on my doorstep, nothing has changed.

I carry the wine and glasses into the lounge, finding Kenzie holding her hands out to warm in front of the fire.

‘I switched it on. I hope you don’t mind?’ she asks, hesitant.

‘Of course not. It’s put some colour in your cheeks.’

She smiles, shrugs out of my jacket and places it on the chair. I look away, telling myself that, when she’s gone, I will under no circumstances inhale the fabric to catch her lingering scent. But then she removes her own denim jacket and my fucked brain fries.

Her white blouse is partially see-through from the rain. I’m gifted a flash of lace straining across the fullness of what I’m a million per cent convinced are spectacular breasts, before I look away to pour wine with a trembling hand.

Damn, don’t think about her breasts.

‘Would you like to borrow a change of clothes?’ I ask. ‘A robe?’ A scream sounds in my head. The last thing I need is her removing any more clothing, even in another room. Fuck, another country is too close for comfort. I swallow, tearing my thoughts away from her naked, crying my name as she comes on my tongue...

‘I’ll be fine, thanks.’

I hand her a glass. Her smile widens as she scans the bottle. ‘Mmm... Pinot Noir—my favourite.’

‘Oh...?’ I shrug, pretending I didn’t know that tiny detail. Despite the nuclear meltdown happening inside my body, I turn up the fire, the small gesture worth the sweat it will cost me when she gifts me another of those killer smiles.

She takes a seat and I slide onto the sofa next to her. I can do this—keep things PG. Foster a relationship of fond acquaintance, connected by our love for Sam.

Remembering my manners, I raise my glass, touching it to hers while I force my face to conceal the turmoil tumbling inside, like jagged rocks before the hard edges have been polished. ‘Cheers. To...chance meetings.’

Not friends. Never that.

I take a sip, the wine tasting acidic. I should have toasted Sam. Perhaps he’s the reason she’s come to talk. My temples start to pound, the conflict in my head seeking an escape route.

She covers her small frown with a big gulp of wine. ‘So I take it you left the army?’ She crosses slim legs covered with sheer black stockings.

I look away from her legs, grateful for the perfect distraction. ‘Yeah. I’d done two tours. And...after...’ I clamp my lips together, the wine now burning through my internal organs.

Her expressive eyes freeze, and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. The last thing I want to talk about is that day—the worst day in both our lives, I suspect.

‘I needed a change of direction. The timing felt right.’ I release the rest of the breath I’ve been holding. I’m not ashamed that I suffered PTSD—most people would under the same circumstances—but opening that can of worms will lead to more questions than I want to answer. Time to find out why she’s really here. ‘So what about you? You needed something from me?’ Another slash of guilt pierces.

She swallows, nods, looking down at her lap, where she finds a fleck of fluff on the hem of her skirt. ‘I am sorry I interrupted your evening.’ She snorts a mirthless laugh. ‘Looks like neither of us will be getting laid tonight, although for you, I guess, it hasn’t been as long.’

I practically spurt wine. Is she deliberately trying to torture me with images easily accessed in my vast Kenzie-themed spank bank? And does that mean she hasn’t had sex since... Sam?

I swallow the brick in my throat, too turned on to think straight and too scared to ask, in case I’m wrong and the answer brings up my dinner. ‘So why did you come? You have my attention.’

Round eyes settle on mine, a hint of vulnerability shining there, although she’s the strongest person I know. ‘I...I wanted you to try my dessert.’

‘So, you made that dessert?’ Before Sam died, she worked as a teacher’s aide, helping kids with special needs, a job that allowed her plenty of time and flexibility to care for a teenaged Tilly.

Of course, she’d been a fantastic cook, always trying out new recipes on Sam, Tilly and me, her ‘guinea pigs’, on the few occasions I couldn’t get out of an invitation to their home without looking like an arsehole. Her roast beef with homemade horseradish still haunts me... Sam was a lucky bastard in many ways.

‘Yes. I had a crazy plan to surprise you so you could taste it.’ Her eyes dip to her lap.

‘So...you’re what? In catering? A pastry chef?’

She shakes her head, her face rosy. From the wine? The fire? Or is she embarrassed she’s been forced to come to me, of all people? Someone who, despite being her husband’s best friend, abandoned her after his death?

‘After Sam I...I needed a new direction. Something for myself.’ Her stare clings, as if begging me to understand.

I nod, my own shell cracking to let a tiny confession free in solidarity. ‘I understand—I was lucky to have a job here to fall back on, after the army.’ I don’t add how it saved me—stopped me from going mad with grief and guilt, and stopped me from going to her and confessing bottled-up feelings I had no right to own.

She smiles and continues. ‘Tilly is a woman now.’ Her eyes soften at the mention of her sister and she swallows hard.

I freeze. If she cries, I’ll have to give in to temptation and hold her. I won’t be able to stop myself.

‘She doesn’t need me quite so much as she did growing up.’ She collects herself, brightening. ‘So I retrained in a field I love.’ Excitement turns her eyes alive with golden spangles. ‘I’ve always wanted to cook professionally. And I’m not bad. I never once poisoned you, did I?’ Her mouth twists, a flash of sass that evokes a hundred convoluted memories.

I offer her a genuine smile, my first since I turned to find her behind me in the dining room downstairs. ‘That’s fantastic. You always sent the most amazing cookies. Every guy in our unit buzzed around Sam when those parcels arrived like flies around sh...’

I break off.

Kenzie laughs then smiles, a bittersweet offering that tells me she’s thinking about Sam.

I lean away from temptation. ‘Well, it looked delicious. You’re a great cook.’ Is she after my approval, a reference, a recommendation?

‘Thanks.’ Her eyes are full of doubt, of hesitancy. ‘I guess I thought if I just came to you and asked, you might feel obliged...you know...because of Sam. This way, I hoped my food would speak for me. It was a stupid stunt.’ She takes a glug of wine and I want to reach out and touch her, comfort her, certain she’s never done anything stupid in her life, even as I discreetly glance at my watch and wonder how quickly I can see her on her way.

‘Tell me how I can help?’ I’ll give her anything I’m able to give. Make up somehow for the lonely years of hardship I caused her.

She chews her lip, looking momentarily lost.

My thumb moves rhythmically over the stem of my wine glass as I battle the urge to touch her. Would her mouth be as soft as it looks? What would those expressive eyes tell me if I crossed the line? To fuck the hell off? That she’s never ever once thought of me that way...? That I’m betraying Sam’s memory, just by thinking of her with anything beyond cold, consolation-prize friendship?

Nothing I don’t already know.

She collects herself, holding my eye contact with a tilt of her chin. ‘I hoped if you tasted something I’d made, you’d see how serious I am now I’m free to pursue a career, not just...pacify me because of our...past connection.’

Connection... Fuck, that’s a passionless and depressing descriptor. But accurate.

‘And, having already been declined, I knew it was a long shot.’ Her shoulders droop as she watches the flames of the fire.

All my protective instincts flare to life and my fingers make a fist around the stem of my wine glass. ‘Declined?’

She nods. ‘It’s no big deal.’ A gut-twisting, sad little smile. ‘Breaking into the top restaurants is hard, even outside London. Believe me, I’d have stayed in Bath if I had the choice. But Tilly moved here to study at the London School of Economics and, even though she wants her independence, some days...she still struggles. It made sense for me to be close, for...emergencies.’

Then it registers in a single icy deluge. She lives here now. On my doorstep. I tamp down my increased breathing. This is bad news. How will I sleep at night knowing she’s somewhere in my city, but not in my bed? Close, but still out of bounds?

My lust-addled brain finally slots it all together. ‘You applied for our sous-chef position?’

Another nod, the excitement back in her eyes. ‘I know I’m inexperienced in a restaurant of the Faulkner’s calibre.’ She turns her body to face me, perched on the edge of the sofa. I zone back in to what she’s actually saying rather than just the way her luscious mouth forms the words. She’s so animated, her breaths come in soft pants.

‘I told myself to grasp my big chance, now that I’m free to focus all my energy on what I want. I just need a shot. A trial even. A chance to prove I’m up to the job and willing to learn.’

This is her passion. Something she’s put on hold while she raised her sister. Something she might have achieved sooner, if my actions hadn’t made her a widow.

Yes hovers on my lips. I clamp them together. She’s enough of a temptation across the country, but in my space every day... And the glimmer of hope behind her guarded, afraid-to-dream expression may as well be a shower of hurled knives.

Euphoria drains away, slashed to shreds. I stiffen to hold myself in place and clear my throat. ‘Well, I believe we already have a trial set up for someone else—a Dominic Brown.’

She shakes her head, her eyes dulling but her chin lifting with grit. ‘I see. Couldn’t we take it in turns? Work alternate shifts. You’ll get two for the price of one.’

Every beat of my heart hurts. It’s in my power to help her. But it’s too dangerous. She sees the refusal forming on my tongue and jumps in.

‘I’d put in the hours, more than the hours. I have great references, and if I’m not up to it, if it doesn’t work out, no hard feelings.’ Her cheeks flush as she grows increasingly hopeful.

It’s a physical blow under my ribs to see that look on her face. This means more to her than a job. More than taking care of Tilly. It’s personal. She lost her parents, stepped into the role of Tilly’s caretaker, sidelined her own dreams. That she’s come to me, of all people...the last person who deserves her trust...

‘I don’t think it’s a good idea.’ Fuck, that’s lame. I have to do better than that. ‘Our executive chef can be difficult to work for.’

Her lips thin. ‘I’m not asking for a freebie or special treatment.’ She rushes on where I would have interrupted. ‘Just an opportunity to see if I have what it takes. The same as Dominic.’

I stroke my chin, juggling the pros and cons of Hobson’s choice. Unless I find somewhere else to eat, I’ll see her all the time. I could work at the Faulkner Group offices with Reid and Kit. Then I’ll most likely only bump into her on the days I meet with Rod, our temperamental head chef, who has a large say in the hiring and firing of those in his kitchen. But I’m a Faulkner. The bosses’ boss. If Kenzie wants a trial, I could make it happen.

Then I wince as my gut twists. Rod is a notorious ladies’ man. He fucks all the single waitresses and half the married ones. He’s the very reason we have a sous-chef vacancy. The idea of him working day in, day out with Kenzie...

No. I’ll have to send her away. Crush her dream. It won’t be the first time I’ve ruined her life. 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 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 propositioned 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.

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