made a strange sound and her eyes flew open, confused by the flicker of something darker, mysterious in his eyes before he quickly masked it.
‘Right. One sip, you said.’ He tapped the nearest bag. ‘Now, let’s have it.’
‘You hotshot businessmen are all the same. Way too impatient.’
She placed her mug on the table, unzipping the first bag and hauling out a folder.
He tilted his head on an angle to read the spine. ‘What’s that?’
‘A list of every restaurant in Melbourne. The new list I’ve been compiling over the last six months.’
Her tummy quivered as she glanced at the folder, at what it meant for her future.
‘I’m ready.’
His eyes sparked with understanding and she wondered how he could do that. He’d read her mind, whereas Richard hadn’t a clue what she’d been thinking after three years of marriage. Then again, considering what he’d been up to, he probably hadn’t cared.
‘You’re going back to work?’
‘Uh-huh. Thanks to your chef whipping up those amazing meals and letting me get my hand back into critiquing, I reckon I’m finally ready.’
She gnawed on her bottom lip, worrying it till she tasted the gloss she’d swiped on this morning.
‘Think I’m crazy?’
His eyebrows shot up. ‘Crazy? I think it’s brilliant. Just what you need, something to focus on, get your mind off losing Rich.’
She hated the pity in his eyes, hated the fact she still had to fake grief, still had to pretend she cared.
She didn’t.
Not since that first incident four months into her marriage when the man she’d married had given her a frightening glimpse into her future.
She’d thought Richard was the type of guy to never let her down, the type of guy to keep her safe, to give her what she’d always wanted: stability, security—something she’d never had since her dad had died when she was ten.
But Richard hadn’t been that guy and, from the accolades of his adoring public and coworkers, she was the only one who knew the truth.
That Richard Downey, Australia’s premier celebrity chef, had been an out-and-out bastard. And it was times like this, when she had to pretend in front of one of his mates, that an all-consuming latent fury swept through her.
If he hadn’t upped and died of a heart attack, she would’ve been tempted to kill him herself for what he’d put her through, and what she’d discovered after his death.
‘This has nothing to do with Richard. I’m doing it for me.’
Her bitterness spilled out in a torrent and she clamped her lips shut. He didn’t deserve to bear the brunt of her resentment towards Richard. She’d wasted enough time analysing and selfflagellating and fuelling her anger. That was all she’d been doing for the last year since he’d died—speculating, brooding over a whole lot of pointless ‘what-ifs’.
What if she’d known about the affair?
What if she’d stood up to him and for herself, rather than keeping up appearances for the sake of his business?
What if she’d travelled to India with her mum when Khushi had first asked her years ago? Would any of that have changed her life for the better?
‘I didn’t mean to rehash any painful stuff for you.’
Shaking her head, she wished the simple action could wipe away her awful memories.
‘Not your fault. It’s not like I don’t think about it every day anyway.’
He searched her face for—what? Confirmation she wasn’t still grieving, wasn’t so heartbroken she couldn’t return to the workforce after wasting the last few years playing society hostess to a man who hadn’t given a damn about her?
What he saw in her expression had his eyes narrowing in speculation.
‘You should get away. A break, before you get sucked back into the full-time rat race. Take it from me, a certified workaholic, once you hit the ground running you won’t have a minute to yourself.’
She opened her mouth to protest, to tell him that as a virtual stranger he could stick his advice, but he held a finger to her lips to silence her, the impact of his simple action slugging her all the way to her toes. It had to be the impulse to tell him to shut up rather than the brush of his finger against her lips causing her belly to twist like a pretzel.
‘A piece of advice. Seeing you six months ago, seeing you now, you’ve held together remarkably well considering what you’ve been through, but it’s time.’
He dropped his finger, thank goodness.
‘For what?’
‘Time for you. Time to put aside your grief. Move on.’
He gestured to the stack of folders on the table between them. ‘From what I’ve heard, you’re a damn good food critic, one of Melbourne’s best. But honestly? The way you are right now, the tears I saw when I made a simple flyaway comment about an oven, what you just said about thinking about Rich every day, holding down a regular job would be tough. You’d end up not being able to tell the difference between steak tartare and well-done Wagyu beef, let alone write about it.’
She should hate him for what he’d just said. It hurt, all of it. But then, the truth often did.
‘You finished?’
She knew it was the wrong thing to say to a guy like him the instant the words left her mouth, for it sounded like a challenge, something he would never back away from.
‘Not by a long shot.’
Before she could blink, his mouth swooped, capturing hers in a heartbeat—a soul-reviving, soul-destroying, terrifying kiss that stirred her dormant body to life, setting it alight in a way she’d never dreamed possible.
She burned, swayed, as he changed the pressure, his lips coaxing a response—a response she couldn’t give in her right mind.
But she wasn’t in her right mind, hadn’t been from the second his lips touched hers and, before she could think, rationalise, overanalyse, she kissed him back, an outpouring of pent-up passion from a shattered ego starving for an ounce of attention.
Her heart sang with the joy of it, before stalling as the implication of what she’d just done crashed over her in a sickening wave.
Ethan, the practised playboy, Richard’s friend, a guy she barely knew, had kissed her.
And she’d let him.
Slivers of ice chilled her to the bone as she tore her mouth from his, staring at him in wideeyed horror.
She couldn’t speak, couldn’t
