‘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
