have been a fail if we hadn’t had good coffee.’
‘It was far from a fail, Lizzie,’ Jesse said. ‘I think you can chalk up your first day as a success.’
‘Don’t say that,’ she said quickly. ‘We don’t want to jinx ourselves.’
He quirked a dark eyebrow. ‘I didn’t put you down as superstitious.’
‘You know how theatre people are full of superstitions? So are restaurant people. No one would be surprised if I had the building blessed, maybe brought in a feng-shui expert. Or burned sage to get rid of any bad karma from the previous business on this site. Maybe even hung crystals in strategic places. And don’t even think about whistling in the kitchen. Especially a French kitchen.’
‘You’re kidding me?’
She shook her head. ‘A lot happens in restaurants. First dates. Break-ups. Celebrations. Illicit liaisons. They leave energy. We want good energy. Opening day of a new restaurant is rather like the opening night of a new play. The cast. The audience. The need to have butts on seats. So let’s just say I’m cautiously optimistic about how today went and leave it at that.’
He laughed. ‘Okay, I’ll grant you that. But I still say—’
Lizzie swiped her thumb and first finger across her lips to zip it. ‘Don’t say it or I’ll blame you if anything goes wrong.’
Jesse pretended to cower. Lizzie laughed and ushered him through the back door to the car park. She punched in the alarm code, followed him out and locked the door behind them.
For the first time an awkward silence fell between them. The door that led upstairs to her apartment was only a few metres to the left. Did she invite him upstairs? Be alone with him again? She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about how exciting his kisses had been. How much she’d missed him. How maybe she had misjudged him. Would it be wise?
She gestured to the door. ‘I can offer you a coffee but I suspect that might be the last thing you want to face right now.’
‘I wouldn’t say no to a beer,’ he said.
‘I’ve got some in the fridge upstairs. I could do with one too.’ She gave a sigh that was halfway to a moan of exhaustion. ‘There’s nothing I want to do more than take off these clogs and kick back.’
The apartment over the café was compact but Sandy had done a wonderful job of refurbishing it for her and Amy. With polished wooden floors throughout, it had been painted in muted neutral tones with white shutters at the windows. Furniture comprised simple, comfortable pieces in whitewashed timber and a plump sofa and easy chairs upholstered in natural linen. The living room window framed a magnificent view of the harbour. The effect was contemporary but cosy and Lizzie’s heart lifted every time she came through the door.
‘You’ve settled in,’ Jesse said as he followed her through to the small but well-equipped kitchen.
‘I just need to get a few more personal touches in place before Amy gets here. Is it “thank you number gazillion and two” if I say how much I appreciate the work you did here?’ she said. ‘Sandy told me how much of this place is due to your efforts.’
‘Enough with the grovelling,’ he said with a grin. ‘Just get me that beer.’
Lizzie grabbed two beers from the fridge and cut lime quarters to press into the bottle necks. She handed one to Jesse and carried her own through into the living room. ‘No food to offer you, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘It’s all downstairs.’
‘I’ve been snacking on stuff all day,’ Jesse said. ‘I don’t need any more. How do you stay so slim working with all that delicious food?’ He cast an appreciative eye over her figure.
‘I learned early on to only have very small servings—just tastes really. Then there’s the fact that cooking is hard physical work. I’m standing all day every day.’
She flopped down onto the sofa and kicked off her clogs. ‘My feet are killing me. They’re always killing me. My feet, my knees, my back. It’s so good to sit down.’
She wiggled her toes, rotated her ankles, but it didn’t do much to ease the deep, throbbing ache in her feet. Damaged feet were an occupational hazard of being a chef.
Jesse sat down on the sofa next to her. ‘Let me rub your feet for you.’
Lizzie’s gaze met his and there was a question in his eyes that asked so much more than she knew how to answer.
She knew saying yes to his suggestion would be going beyond the bounds of their tentative friendship. But she longed to have his strong, capable hands on her feet, stroking and massaging to ease the pain. Stop kidding herself: she longed to have his hands on her body, full stop. She had gone beyond denying her attraction to him. But was this foot massage a good idea?
‘There’s some peppermint lotion in the fridge,’ she said. ‘It’s more soothing when it’s chilled.’
Jesse returned from the kitchen with the peppermint lotion. He sat down on the sofa again, put the container on the coffee table. ‘Swivel around on the sofa and put your feet across my legs.’
It seemed an intimate way to start a foot massage but she didn’t protest. The alternative was to have him kneeling at her feet and that wouldn’t do.
Her feet were so sore that Jesse’s first firm, sure strokes were painful and she yelped. ‘Just getting the knots out,’ he explained. He then settled into an easier rhythm, probing, stroking, squeezing with his strong fingers and thumbs, smoothing in the cool, sharply scented lotion.
She moaned her pleasure and relief. ‘This is heaven, absolute heaven. Where did you learn to massage like this?’
‘Nowhere,’ he said. ‘I’m just giving you what you seem to need.’
‘Oh,’ she said, not meeting his gaze.
She didn’t know what to say to that. What she did know was she had to keep thoughts of other needs, and the way Jesse might meet them, on a very tight rein.
Her whole body thrummed with the pleasure of what his hands were doing to her heels, toes, soles. She’d never thought of feet as sensual zones but what Jesse was doing was nothing short of bliss.
‘I’m just going to lie back and enjoy every minute,’ she said, settling further back into the cushions, shifting her feet to fit more comfortably on his thighs.
‘You do that,’ he said in that deep, resonant voice that had become so familiar. Everything was beautiful about Jesse. His face. His voice. His hands—especially his hands. She moaned again as he massaged the pain away so that now his touch brought only pleasure.
She closed her eyes, zoned out into another world that focused on the rhythmical stroking of Jesse’s hands on her feet; the scent of peppermint mingled with the faint aroma of coffee that clung to him; the sound of their breathing, his strong and steady, hers becoming slower, calmer. She could hear the tick, tick, tick of the kitchen clock in the silence of the apartment. Please don’t stop—don’t ever stop.
Eventually, when her feet felt utterly boneless, he finished by stretching out her toes one by one, squeezing
