Forbidden To Taste. JC Harroway

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