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
