Frozen Heart, Melting Kiss
Ellie Darkins
“Thanks.” The word came out breathy, unsure. As she heard her voice she knew she had to do something, and now, if she was going to stop herself getting hurt. This had gone more than far enough already.
“It’s fine now,” she said, trying to pull her hand away. But Will kept a firm hold on it, using it to pull her fractionally closer, until her chest was pressed against him.
And then he froze. He dropped her hand and turned away from her, and she glimpsed his hard-set expression twisting into a grimace.
Relief and disappointment flooded Maya, and she leant back against the sink. She kept her eyes on the floor until she could look up at him with an indifferent expression.
“Let’s carry on,” she managed eventually.
For the first time she could remember she wished she wasn’t in her kitchen. She wished she could escape upstairs, hide away from this man and the dangerous effect he had on her. But she’d committed to help him, and she wouldn’t go back on her word.
Frozen Heart, Melting Kiss
Ellie Darkins
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ELLIE DARKINS spent her formative years as a committed bookworm, devouring romance novels. After completing her English degree (which had Mills & Boon® novels on the syllabus!) she decided to make a living from her love of books. As a writer and freelance editor her work now entails dreaming up romantic proposals, hot dates with alpha males and trips to the past with dashing heroes.
When she’s not working she can usually be found manning the desk or sampling the coffee at her local library, or out for a run—listening to an audiobook, of course.
For Betty
Contents
Cover (#u00de23d4-e73e-595e-9c2f-7698bf0685f5)
Introduction (#u333088a4-020a-5fc9-8f40-01d8f423ea7b)
Title Page (#u016f9887-2437-5404-b163-dcd816448966)
About the Author (#u7c448d4b-d79f-5883-9f15-0d6a302d5dee)
Dedication (#uec7b2dd0-53bf-5c89-9572-97cec1199ac3)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_44681110-f8c2-57e7-9d83-9d35ccb66aa6)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_c924449e-fca5-526a-8922-6c8c3b5cc3f5)
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_7c04dbcc-8300-5fe7-b262-30227151df8d)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
EXTRACT (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_621397dd-9734-58a7-96ec-03fcee2639ce)
‘YOU ARE GOING to try this one.’
Maya Hartney forced the corners of her mouth up into a professional smile while she waited for Will Thomas to bite. Behind her back she clasped her hands to stop herself chewing at a nail.
She’d tried dozens of combinations of dishes for this tasting, even though squeezing in an extra job next month was pushing her business to its limits. But it had been impossible to say no when Rachel, Will’s assistant, had pleaded with her so earnestly to consider catering for an Appleby and Associates gala dinner.
These moments, waiting for a client to try one of her dishes, were nerve-racking but necessary. Once they’d taken a bite her nerves gave way to sheer pleasure. She loved to watch people enjoy her food. Ever since the first time it had happened, years ago, when she’d first cooked for her university housemates, it had given her a physical thrill. The joy that her food brought showed in the small smile people gave as they closed their eyes and savoured the taste for a moment. Now, ten years later, she lived and worked for that moment.
And she’d never had reason to doubt her food’s capacity for bringing joy. Until now.
Will Thomas had already refused to try her starter, and her flutter of nerves congealed into a lump of dejection as she realised he probably wouldn’t try this course either.
Maya swallowed awkwardly, thinking hard, wondering where she had gone wrong. Her late night last night had seemed worth it, if it meant she had this dish just right, but there must be something that she’d misjudged. She bit her lip for a second as she ran through the possibilities in her mind and her pulse picked up speed as she considered improvements she could make. Maybe the dressing was a little too acidic? But then he hadn’t even tried it, so he wouldn’t know that. It must be the presentation that needed more work. The rest of the meal would have to be perfect to get this pitch back on track.
It had nothing to do with the fact that her mouth had watered the first second she’d seen Will Thomas and he’d met her gaze with steel-grey eyes. It was because she’d felt the chill of his presence since the second he’d arrived, and her whole body had wanted her to resist it. To fill the room with light and colour so that the cold couldn’t take hold of her. She’d fought too hard against it to let it in now.
There wasn’t a splash of colour anywhere in the office: grey walls, grey carpet, glass table and black leather chairs. She’d not experienced a chill like this for ten years, and would be a happy woman if she never felt it again. There was colour in every part of her life these days, displacing cold grey memories; now this room threatened to undo a decade’s positive thinking.
When Will Thomas had walked in the room had suddenly made perfect sense. Charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, black hair with just a few flecks of silver at the temples. Grey eyes that bore an expression as clinical as their surroundings. Despite all this attraction had prickled at her skin, along with a warning, and she’d had to take a breath to steady herself.
His gaze had left his smartphone only briefly, dropped from her face to trace the contours of her curves and finally she’d seen a brief spark of heat in his eyes. The light had been there for just a fraction of a second before he’d caught it, extinguished it, and taken a step away from her, his eyes snapping back to his phone.
She’d crossed her ankles to stop herself taking a step forward, sensing that he wanted space, trying to respect that. Her eyes, though, had seemed desperate to pursue Will Thomas, to roam over the lines and planes of his face, down to where his shirt, crisp and starched and white, was open at the collar.
She’d introduced her starter: a salad of hand-harvested scallops, pan-fried and served with rocket and prosciutto, finished with a dressing it had taken two full evenings to perfect. He’d given it a derisive look and asked her to move on, his fingers twitching on the screen of his phone. Email withdrawal, she assumed. She’d catered for enough business dinners to recognise the symptoms. But the knowledge that he was choosing to check his emails over trying her food made her restless. Her food always spoke for her—what was she meant to do with someone who refused to listen?
On this man those chiselled cheekbones and intriguing silver eyes were entirely resistible.
She closed her mouth and bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from a very unprofessional outburst.
He had to try this dish. She was certain that it would fix their impasse. If he would just give the food a chance she could still win him over. She’d sourced tender duck from a nearby farm and selected only the most beautiful vegetables from her local supplier. The herbs had come from the garden of her cottage in the Cotswolds and the sauce, a delicate balance of wine, red berries and orange, was—as of last night’s final run-though—perfect.
She wanted it to be right, needed it to be perfect, because if she could no longer rely on her food what else did she have to offer?
Taking a step towards him, she brandished the fork.
‘You are going to try this one,’ she repeated with renewed determination.
She tried to paste the smile onto her face again to soften the blow, but there was no disguising the fact that this was an instruction, not a request, and her frustration had made her words short and sharp.
Will met her gaze and seemed to study her; his eyes narrowed while he inspected her features, as if weighing up his opponent. He slipped the smartphone into his pocket and took the fork from her.
‘Do I have a choice?’
Maya couldn’t be certain but a ghost of a smile had seemed to flicker at the corner of his mouth. His eyes left her face only briefly as he forked a mouthful of the meat and dipped it into the sauce. She grew warm under his relentless scrutiny and thought again of that moment when she’d first seen him. His eyes had widened when he’d noticed her standing in the conference room, as if he couldn’t quite take her in, as if he didn’t understand her. She didn’t want to be difficult to understand. She had no interest in being enigmatic. What she needed was for him to like this dish, to restore her belief in her food—in herself.
For a moment as he chewed she thought she’d done it, that her food had broken this man’s icy resolve. He closed his eyes for a moment, and she was sure he was savouring the flavours she’d worked so hard to blend and perfect. His body stilled, his breathing was slow, his fingers were at rest on his phone. The muscles of his face hinted at a smile. But then in an instant it was gone; his eyes snapped open and she saw only indifference.
‘That’s fine.’
Fine? Fine? Perhaps she’d imagined it, she thought. That moment when it had seemed, however briefly, that he had been won round. Or maybe she hadn’t, and he was just determined for some reason not to enjoy her food, whatever she put in front of him. Anger at his uninterest prickled—how could he be so determined not to enjoy something she had poured her joy and happiness into?
This wasn’t going to get any better, she realised then. She just had to find a way to get through this. To protect herself from the barbs of his coldness until she could get out of there. She relaxed her hold on her anger, bringing it to the fore, letting it protect her from his cold indifference.
‘Dessert?’ she asked, dreading the response, dreading the rejection, but wanting to get it over with.
‘I’m sure you’ve got that under control.’
‘Blackberry fool?’ Why not show him how his dismissal hurt? she thought. It wasn’t as if he would even care or notice. And it might make her feel a little better.
His eyes held hers and she felt the heat in her face sink to her belly when he continued to stare at her. She shifted under his scrutiny, trying not to wonder what he was thinking, why he was studying her irises. It seemed that her anger could reach him where her food hadn’t.
Will raised an eyebrow. ‘It sounds like you’ve got the measure of things, Miss...’
‘Maya’s fine,’ she said, her words still terse.
‘Maya,’ he repeated, his voice a little less steady than it had been.
He took a deep breath and she saw a blank mask descend over his face, shutting out whatever it was that had flashed between them in the past few seconds. It was a pattern, she realised. A few seconds when his features flickered with emotion, some pleasure or enjoyment. And then he chased it away, locked his face down hard. His voice too, when he spoke next, was the model of professionalism, his words hard and steady.
‘Thank you for coming, Maya. Leave your quote with my assistant and someone will be in touch.’
Anger fought for room with sorrow and the pain that had haunted her since her childhood. Will had shut her out in a fraction of a second. It had taken him the space of a blink to forget whatever it was that had made him pause and consider her the moment before. And she couldn’t help but remember how her parents had so easily done the same.
He’d reduced everything that she’d created to a string of numbers on a spreadsheet. A simple calculation that took no account of love and passion. She couldn’t meet his eye—didn’t know if he was even trying to as she shook his hand. As he walked out she let her frustration loose as she tossed cutlery and crockery back into bags and boxes and then packed away the barely touched food.
She tried rationalising what had happened to make herself feel a little better. It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested in her food, it was just that he only cared about the numbers. Perhaps she should have guessed the moment he’d walked into the room that this was just another business meeting for him.
She’d never been so infuriated by anyone in her life, she thought as she headed out to her car. It wasn’t just his lack of enthusiasm for her food, it was the way that he’d seemed completely unwilling to let himself enjoy it, his determination to see life in columns and cells. He’d only tried one course out of three: her food had never stood a chance of impressing him because he had never been prepared to let it.
That thought drained her anger, sapped the tension from her muscles, as she remembered the last time her passion been faced with pure indifference.
Even if she was offered the job she knew she wouldn’t be seeing him again. She knew that to cook, and cook well, for that man after today’s disaster would be impossible—a complete waste of good food and time, and too close to too many bad memories. She couldn’t do it.
* * *
Will glanced at his watch and then back over his shoulder as he waited for Maya to come to the door. He shouldn’t be here. He’d tried to convince Rachel to do it for him, but she had told him that going against Sir Cuthbert Appleby was more than her job was worth, that he’d have to suck it up and do it himself. So he’d spent his evening crawling through Cotswold villages—time away from the office that he really couldn’t afford—in order to ask for something he desperately didn’t want.
He looked up at the front of the cottage as he waited and cringed. Just like Maya, the house was a riot of colour. Roses crept up the warm sandstone, over the door and up towards the thatch, and window boxes overflowed with bright-coloured flowers.
When she’d walked out of his office two days ago he’d thought—hoped—that he would never have to see her again. Even the thought of it had made his skin prickle. There was something about her that disturbed him, something that he couldn’t ignore no matter how much he might want to. In those moments when he’d dared to look her straight in the eye he’d seen her every emotion flash across her face. She’d worn her love for her food openly and extravagantly. He’d flinched away from it, intimidated in the face of such an outpouring of emotion, fearful of its effect on his iron self-control.
If he’d had any other choice he’d have stayed as far away from Maya Hartney as he could. What did he care who they hired anyway? He wouldn’t even have been doing the tastings if Rachel hadn’t sneaked them into his calendar. But then Sir Cuthbert—the senior partner in his firm, the man who held Will’s career in his hands—had spotted Maya as she’d been on her way out of the building and Will had been forced into a corner.
Sir Cuthbert had arrived unannounced in Will’s office.
‘What have you done to Maya Hartney?’
No greetings, no small talk.
‘What have I done to her?’ Will had asked carefully. ‘Nothing. Why? What did she say?’
By the time Will had admitted he hadn’t tried even half the dishes Maya had brought with her he’d known that he was in trouble. Sir Cuthbert had had that look in his eye. The one that told Will he wouldn’t want to hear what was coming next.
‘I’m worried about you, Will.’
Not what he’d expected. And his concern wasn’t necessary in the slightest.
‘There’s no need, Sir Cuthbert,’ he’d said, relieved that he wasn’t about to lose his job. ‘I admit I was a little preoccupied in that meeting, and I’ll make amends with Maya Hartney if I need to.’ He made a mental note to have Rachel send her something.
‘It’s more than that, Will,’ Sir Cuthbert had persisted. ‘You don’t take your holiday. You’re always the last to leave the office. Some mornings I wonder whether you’ve been home at all.’ He glanced down to the smartphone in Will’s hand. ‘You can’t be parted from that thing for more than a minute. There’s more to life and to business than the numbers, Will. It’s about people too. You need to take some time off or you’re going to burn out.’
Will had suppressed a groan, impatient to get back to work, not interested in cod psychology from his boss. ‘I’m grateful for your concern, Sir Cuthbert, really. But there isn’t a problem. I don’t need time off.’
‘This isn’t a request, Will.’
The older man crossed his arms and widened his stance, and for the first time Will realised he was serious. The man had no reason to question his commitment to his job. He put in twelve-, fourteen-, eighteen-hour days. Whatever it took to get the job done. He was more at home in his office than he was...well...at home. When he was there he was focussed. He tuned the world out, saw only his projects, the numbers. And now he was being reprimanded for spending too much time here.
‘I mean it. If you don’t take some time off I’m going to have some difficult choices to make about your role here. The pro bono work you’re taking on, for example.’
‘You can’t make me drop the Julia House project, Cuthbert.’ A swift shot of panic hit Will in the belly, but he pushed it away, determined to think this through logically, rationally. He smoothed back the sharp emotion until he couldn’t feel it any longer; he didn’t want to examine it or need to understand it. He just knew that ensuring the success of Julia House was an imperative. He had to make this work, so he focussed on fixing the problem.
‘I don’t want to, Will. I know it’s a good cause, and I know it means a lot to you. But you’re stressed and you’re tired and today you took it out on Maya Hartney. Make it up to her. Fix the problem and take a few days to recharge, get some perspective. Or I’ll have no choice but to cut back your non-essential work.’
How could he tell Sir Cuthbert that he hadn’t been rude because he was stressed, or tired? He felt neither of those things. Throughout his life he’d trained himself to feel nothing. To manage his emotions—keep them at bay. He’d been rude to Maya because she had unsettled him, scared him, and putting distance between them had seemed the safest thing to do. Now he found himself standing on her doorstep, half hoping she wouldn’t answer the door, worried about what it could lead to if she did.
Will wasn’t sure what it was about her that had heated his blood and demanded his attention, but he’d had to force his eyes to his smartphone for the whole of their meeting just to keep any semblance of peace in his head. It had been years—more than a decade—since he’d last had to fight so hard to keep his cool.
He was used to meeting beautiful women. He was even used to taking beautiful women to bed. But he’d been blindsided by Maya’s bright colours, her wild hair and the vulnerable anger in her eyes. He didn’t want her in his head, and the gnawing feeling in his belly that had started when they met was disturbing. He was used to control. To taking what he wanted, giving what was desired and walking away with no one getting hurt. There was no reason to cede control here. She was just a little unusual. That was all. It was taking his brain a little longer to learn how to keep her at the same distance it did everything else.
Finally Maya came to the door. Back in the office he hadn’t let himself really notice her appearance. But there it had been easier to stop himself, to pull his eyes back to his smartphone or the safe grey of the walls. Now he truly opened his eyes to appreciate her. The first thing he noticed, of course, were the colours. She was wearing all of them. He was far from an expert in these things, but was it normal to wear orange and pink together? Did one normally add yellow to that mix?
There was more to see than colour, though. His eyes followed the curves of her body, noticing the way her skirt spilt over her generous hips, swinging gently as she shifted her weight to one leg and waited for his gaze to reach her eyes. He knew that he should be looking away, shouldn’t be indulging himself, allowing his guard to slip. But she fascinated him. Her very presence brought light and heat and energy. And, as much as he wanted those sensations gone, he couldn’t help but pander to his curiosity.
When his gaze reached her face she raised an eyebrow. His appraisal hadn’t gone unnoticed. And it seemed that the attention was not appreciated. Good. He dragged his mind back to his work, back to Julia House. This was business and nothing else. There was no way that he could let Cuthbert pull his project. He had given his word that he would secure funding without fail, and if that meant persuading an errant chef to get back onside, regardless of the unsettling effect that she had on him, then that was what he would do.
He firmed his stance and squared his shoulders. He would make this right.
Maya opened the door wide, and as soon as she clocked him her face dropped into a scowl. Her hands rested on her hips, one of them wrapped tight around a wooden spoon. She was not expecting his visit, and he wasn’t a welcome surprise. Well, good. He wasn’t exactly thrilled to be here either.
Will braced himself. He had the horrible feeling that this was going to get messy. And he didn’t do messy. Ever. He did cold and rational and detached, and he did it better than anyone else in the city. It was the only way to find any sense of peace. Looked as if she was going to make him grovel. And if he didn’t he would have to deal with Rachel’s disapproving silence in the office tomorrow. When she’d heard Sir Cuthbert demand that he take time off she’d appeared in the doorway of his office with a flyer and a plan.
‘Mr Thomas, I wasn’t expecting you.’ Maya brushed a smudge of flour from her cheek as she spoke.
‘You wouldn’t answer my emails, and we need to talk.’ He knew that he sounded brusque—terse, even—but he wanted to stay focussed. Regardless of the constant threat of distraction, he needed to think strictly business to get this deal done.
Maya squared her shoulders, mirroring his confrontational stance, but then a beeping sound came from inside the cottage. She hesitated for a second, still eyeballing him, before turning and walking across the hallway.
‘We can talk, if you insist,’ she called over her shoulder, ‘but I’m not going to change my mind and I’m not going to stop. I’ve got a sauce on the stove that won’t wait.’
‘Fine, fine.’
This hostile reaction had him on the back foot. He’d not expected this—not after her polite smiles in his office. But perhaps he’d underestimated the impact of his detachment. Perhaps she’d found those smiles harder to fake than he’d realised. He almost smiled himself—it would be so much easier to keep her at a distance when she was obviously keen to do the same. But he didn’t like the thought that he might have hurt her. That he was the cause of that fine line of distress between her eyebrows.
He hated that she had him concerned, and thought that he might have exposed a vulnerability. A chink in her bright flowered armour. Because that would mean a connection between them—something they shared. Something that couldn’t be undone or ignored.
He followed her through to the kitchen, his eyes drawn again to the shift of her skirt over her hips, the fabric clinging slightly to the curves of supple skin. He shook his head to clear his thoughts—again. This wasn’t him. He was in his suit, working, and normally that was a guarantee that nothing distracted him. But this attraction was more than just an unwelcome distraction; it was a threat to his control and to the detachment that allowed him to function.
He dragged his eyes away just before she turned around.
‘So, what can I help you with, Mr Thomas?’
Her tone was cool, and her manner no more friendly now that they were indoors. He was glad. It gave him every reason to respond with equal coolness. It kept her at a safe distance.
He spoke with cold, clipped tones the words that he’d rehearsed in the car. ‘I understand from Rachel that you won’t cater our function next month.’
‘I won’t.’
She turned away from the stove to face him head-on. The slight tremble in her clenched fists gave away her nerves, but her shoulders remained firm and he could see that she wouldn’t back down from him easily. He’d had no idea at the time that his words, his actions, had had such an impact. But he could see no other reason that she would be so hostile towards him now.
‘Can I ask why?’ He ground the words out through clenched teeth and suspected even as he was saying them that he would regret doing so. A niggle of guilt had been eating away at him and he was starting to see why. He’d offended her—which was something he’d never intended. His standoffishness has been purely a defence mechanism.
Maya sighed, and from the way her shoulders tightened and she turned away from him to stir the sauce on the stove he guessed that she didn’t enjoy conflict. Part of him was glad to have that insight; he saw a way to get what he wanted. If he pushed hard enough she’d back down just to avoid a fight.
She took a deep breath and then spoke. ‘As I explained to Rachel, I don’t think my food is right for your dinner. I think you will find another caterer who will better meet your needs.’
Her words sounded rehearsed, and though he was sure that she’d meant them to sound indifferent the edge to her voice and her vigorous beating of the sauce gave her away. Another twinge of guilt and a pang of fear fought for space in his belly. He’d had no idea that he’d hurt her feelings so much, and no real sense of how in jeopardy his project was until now.
He took a deep breath and tried to swallow the dry lump in his throat. ‘I’m aware that I didn’t give your food the attention it deserved when you came to the office, and I’m sorry that I was distracted during our meeting. We’d very much like to work with you.’ He had to get this back on track, he thought, rubbing the back of his neck.
‘Well, thank you for your apology,’ she said, still refusing to look at him, ‘but I’m afraid the answer’s still no.’
‘Why?’ he persisted, his voice growing softer, though he hadn’t intended it to. He was just changing tack, he told himself, just trying another way to get what he wanted. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t push her if he really needed to.
‘Like I said, I don’t think we’re well suited. I don’t think we’d work well together.’
She was still turned determinedly against him, her voice hard.
Will ran a hand through his hair, testing scenarios in his mind, trying to think objectively. Trying to find a rational, sensible business argument with which he could persuade her. ‘Your food was fine,’ he said, ‘and I’m not asking you to work with me. I’m asking you to cater a dinner.’
‘That proves my point exactly.’ She whipped around and met his eye, brandishing her wooden spoon like a knife. Her voice and the colour in her face rose. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘You thought my food was fine.’
Partly he was pleased. Glad to have a reaction from her at last, thrilled that she was turning to face him. But mainly he was concerned about what this flash of anger meant for Julia House. He’d crafted a business argument that he was sure would put things right. And it had made things worse.
Maya turned back and continued to thrash at the sauce, hypnotising him with the way her skirt swung with every movement. It took a few seconds for his brain to catch up with his ears and eyes. What was wrong with fine? Nothing. There was no reason for him not to hire her, and no reason he could see for her to object to him. But though she’d pulled herself together he had seen hurt and anger cross her face. He didn’t understand it, didn’t understand why she had so much invested in this food of hers, but he didn’t like that he’d upset her.
‘Maya?’ He wanted to leave. He didn’t want to involve himself in whatever it was that made this woman turn down business because he’d described her food as ‘fine’. But without her onside Sir Cuthbert could withdraw the company’s support for the charity. He stayed put.
Maya took a breath and turned around, pasting on the smile that he recognised from his office.
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t cook for people who think my food is “fine”. If I know you won’t enjoy the food, I won’t enjoy cooking it. If I don’t enjoy cooking it, what’s the point? The food won’t be any good and I won’t be happy.’
‘Is this a general rule?’ he asked. He forced a note of humour into his voice, hoping to lighten the mood.
The atmosphere in here was intense, and he could see from her tight muscles and hunched shoulders that Maya was a few wrong words away from an outburst that would put a permanent end to his project. Even putting that aside, he didn’t want to see that happen. Being so close to such a volume of emotion made him uneasy; he could feel his own emotions welling up in response, weighing heavily against the door that kept them shut away.
‘Do you always turn down business from people who don’t gush over your food?’ He tried to inject a little laughter, but his voice cracked and that door shifted when he saw the distress in her features.
‘I don’t know about a rule,’ she said, her voice weaker now, flat, as she stared down at the floor. ‘It’s never happened before.’
Will took a minute to think about this. He knew that he was the problem, and that the solution had to come from him. But he was trying desperately to see a way out of the plan that Rachel and Cuthbert had pincered him into. There had to be something. Because the thought of having to go through with it tightened his chest until he struggled to breathe.
‘Look, Maya. I know we don’t exactly see eye to eye on this; I don’t appreciate food like you do.’ He took a deep breath, tried to steady his voice. ‘But what if I was prepared to learn?’
He regretted the words immediately. He knew that as much as he would try to fight off the memories being back in a kitchen, oohing and aahing over delicious treats, would be close to torture.
‘What do you mean?’ She turned around and looked at him, surprise in her voice and on her face.
‘Back at the office you told Rachel that you’re running a cookery course next week, and that there was a space free. If I take the course, try to connect with your food, will you reconsider?’ He controlled his fear and his voice, but if he’d had any other choice, if this was any other project, he’d be running from here—from her—as fast as he could.
She eyed him carefully, her head tilted to one side. ‘I’m not sure.’
She turned to face him. The anger and the tension had left her stance, and instead she studied his face. The tightness in his chest lightened.
‘And that space is gone anyway. The client called me—they managed to find someone to fill it.’
‘Well, can’t you run it with one extra?’
Maya shook her head and went back to her sauce, stirring more gently now. But Will didn’t make a move to leave. He had to get her to agree, somehow, and she looked as if she might be thinking it over, reconsidering. Eventually, she spoke.
‘I can’t. There’s not enough space in the kitchen and it wouldn’t be fair on the other students. If you’re serious, though—if you really want to learn—I have some time the following week. I’ll have to fit in some development and planning work, but if you’re happy to work around that I can run another course.’
He gulped. ‘One on one?’
‘One on one.’
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_2d860c22-ea3c-5c6c-aae2-9d77e33bb540)
MAYA FIDDLED WITH her necklace as the car door slammed and forced her feet to the floor, determined not to be waiting for him at the door. This was a bad idea. The hurt she’d felt in his office was something she’d thought she was long past. The feeling of rejection was something she’d not felt since she’d last seen her parents. But after an hour in this man’s company self-doubt had been needling her non-stop.
If it hadn’t been for the flash of fear and hurt she’d recognised in his eyes—well hidden, but still just visible—she’d have turned him down again. But in the face of his desperation, and her curiosity, she’d known she had to think of some way to help him. And perhaps if she could get him here, get him to enjoy her food, those doubts would fade. Her faith in the joy she could bring with her food could blossom again.
She tidied away the last of her lunch dishes and surveyed the kitchen. It was always spotless, of course, but this morning, with summer in the air, it seemed to glow more than usual. It had been carefully designed to balance the charmingly old and the strikingly modern—the stainless steel of a professional grill with rich, warm Cotswold stone and aged oak beams. Perhaps the charm of the old cottage would mellow him, she pondered nervously.
Nervous anticipation spread through her body at the thought of being alone in the house with the man who had so riled and frustrated her. Their last two meetings had left her unsettled, and she knew that she was gambling with her emotions, with the happy life and the confidence that she had built for herself, and couldn’t quite recall why she had suggested this.
Because when he had come to her, asking her to reconsider, she’d seen a glimpse of something in his eyes that had made her pause—just for a second he’d seemed vulnerable. So different from the coolness she’d felt in his office—and she was curious. She had also seen what he’d been trying so hard to hide—he needed her. He was desperate for her help. And she’d found that she couldn’t say no, whatever it might cost her.
And then she remembered how he had looked at her, his wide eyes skimming her, almost in disbelief...how her mouth had watered and her lips had tingled at the sight of him...and she suspected she might have had an ulterior motive.
She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him in the days since they’d met. To start with it had been easy to ignore her attraction, to concentrate instead on her hurt and her anger at the way he had completely rejected her food—and, by extension, her. But since he’d come to her door, begged her to reconsider, she hadn’t been able to get those silver eyes out of her mind, trying to work out what was beneath.
The doorbell rang and she knew that it was too late for doubts and worries. She would make this work.
Smoothing back her hair, she forced her shoulders down and went to answer the door.
‘Will, welcome to Rose Cottage.’ He flinched as she said the words, and she had to school her features not to reflect it back to him. Acting on instinct, she reached out and placed a hand on his arm to reassure him. She hated to see anyone distressed, ached to make things right. But he pulled away from her abruptly, shock and annoyance on his face. She cringed; she’d only been trying to help and he’d rejected her. Again.
Now, of course, she was questioning the wisdom of having him here more than ever. But she had a chance to make this cold, indifferent man fall in love with food, to make his world a brighter, more joyful place, and she couldn’t resist it.
And the plan had one other redeeming feature, she supposed: Will was pretty easy on the eye. He wore another grey suit today—Maya doubted he owned any other colour—and a crisp white shirt, open at the neck. She guessed that he’d come straight from the office, no matter that it was a Sunday, and he had the look of a man who spent too many hours staring at a computer screen. But the austerity of his clothes highlighted the sharp steel of his eyes and the hint of shadow below his cheekbones. A calculating look came over those grey eyes then, and she could practically see the cogs turning as he tried to turn the situation to his advantage.
She looked over the evidence of his apprehension: set shoulders, grim face, flat voice. She realised that she was never going to convince him of the joys of her cuisine if they were both approaching the week like this. One of them would have to make the effort to brighten the mood in here. She’d pasted on a happy face often enough before; she could do it now.
There was no getting away from it: he was gorgeous. She’d noticed it the first time she’d set eyes on him. But even with those sharply defined cheekbones, the hint of stubble, the lips she was dying to taste, there was one flaw she couldn’t overlook. He just wasn’t quite...there. Any time she’d sensed she might be getting a look at the real Will Thomas, every time a conversation took a turn away from the strictly rational and objective, he’d disappeared into himself in an instant.
Sometimes the shutters just slammed down. At other times they wavered long enough for her to see something lingering—a tiny suggestion of past hurts, perhaps, that had made him the way he was. Whatever it was that she’d glimpsed, it was enough for her to know that getting involved would be bad news
She’d spent the first eighteen years of her life devoid of affection, lacking warmth and love. She’d been an unwelcome surprise to older parents, shunted from nannies to boarding school and back again, and she had never stopped trying to impress them, never stopped hoping that one day she’d make them proud.
Even when she’d gone to a prestigious university, as they had, and completed her history degree, as she’d thought they’d wanted, it hadn’t been enough for them. Her whole life she’d been a disappointment to them. But when she’d discovered her passion for food, the joy that she could bring to her housemates and friends with her cooking, she’d also found the warm glow she could create in a room. She wanted, needed, to live her life among people who were happy and contented, and she’d do everything she could to make those around her feel that way. So she’d used the money her parents had given her—she would have swapped it in a heartbeat for genuine affection, but that was the one thing they’d never offered—to start her culinary training and then her business.
She couldn’t, wouldn’t, allow herself to develop feelings for someone who was never going to be able to return them.
* * *
‘So, are you ready for this?’
Maya eyed the knives laid out on the scrubbed oak countertop and wondered if this had been the wisest move. It looked as if she had some sort of medieval torture lined up for them, and from the resigned, stoic set of Will’s face she could see that he was expecting nothing less. She didn’t like the thought of hurting him, and wondered again whether she was doing the right thing? But he had come to her wanting to learn, and she was determined to help, to bring him happiness.
‘I thought we’d start with something simple. So we’re going to cut a fillet from this fish—’ she gestured, smiling tentatively, to where she’d laid two gleaming fresh fish in a bowl of ice ‘—and then make a herb butter. It’ll be delicious.’
She’d hoped that some of her enthusiasm might rub off, but Will didn’t look convinced. His fingers were curled into tight fists and she could see the tension all the way up his arms to his shoulders. His eyes darted around the kitchen, before fixing on a spot in mid-air.
She looked up at Will’s face, trying to see how he had reacted to her suggestion. So far, no change. But she’d no choice but to plough on and hope that her gamble would pay off.
‘Here.’ She handed him the fish and the filleting knife and showed him how to clean and gut it. ‘What you need to do next...’
She started to explain, and caught Will’s eye as she looked up. He was watching her intently. Well, he might not be connecting with the food, she thought, but he did look determined to get this right. That was a start at least.
‘What you need to do next is feel for the spine through the flesh and just let the blade glide along that line.’
The look on his face told her that he was determined to follow her instructions, but the way he was gripping the knife made her nervous.
‘Just relax your hand,’ she said. ‘The knife is sharp, so you just need to guide it and let it do the work.’
He grimaced as he forced the point of the knife into the fish. He was overthinking it, trying to push the knife where he thought it should be going rather than responding to the feel of it in his hand.
‘Wait,’ Maya cautioned him gently, taking in his fierce expression and white knuckles; she didn’t want him to slip and cut himself. ‘You just need to be patient with it. Don’t rush.’ She moved closer to his side and laid her hand over his, easing his fingers back from where they were gripping the knife. ‘Loosen your hand.’
Will did as he was told, and suddenly Maya was aware of how much closer she’d moved. The whole of the left side of her body was pressed against him, and her right arm, reaching across her body to help Will hold the knife, was doing something outrageous to her cleavage. She looked up and saw that Will had just made the same realisation. The red flush spreading over her face and chest added another colour to that day’s collection.
She tried to step away from him, hoping that she hadn’t given away evidence of her attraction. The last thing she needed was him guessing about the feelings she was trying to chase away. She didn’t want them—knew that acting on her attraction was bound to lead to hurt.
As she moved away she felt the knife slip, and knew before it happened that it was heading straight for her index finger.
‘Ouch!’ she yelped as the blade nicked her skin. She tried to draw her hand away, but sliced deeper into her knuckle in the process.
Concern clouded Will’s face as he reached for her hand. ‘Are you okay?’
Maya tried to pull back; being close to him was too tempting, too good to be safe. But he took a gentle hold of her wrist as he examined the cut.
‘I’m fine, really.’
She pulled her hand from his, wanting to clear her head. He was making it impossible to think clearly. All she wanted was a little space, a little distance between them. But he kept moving closer. His face still screamed grim determination, only this time she was the subject. He would help her whether she wanted it or not. When he was standing so close to her, showing such concern for a little cut, she had to remind herself of what she’d realised out in the hallway. Indulging that flutter in her belly and the racing in her pulse when she looked at Will Thomas was a very bad idea. Nothing was guaranteed to hurt her like indifference did. And she knew first-hand Will Thomas’s capacity for that.
She headed for the first aid box she kept by the sink.
‘At least I didn’t bleed on the fish.’ There was a little shake in her voice as she realised the strength of her feelings and the depth of her vulnerability. ‘It’ll still be okay for dinner. And you were doing a great job before I slipped.’
‘You were doing great,’ Will corrected her.
She turned to look at him, taken aback by the gravelly tone of his voice. His face showed more distress than ever, and she wondered why.
‘You were fine; you just need to loosen up a little.’ She spoke guardedly, protecting her feelings and his. With one hand under the tap, she tried to open the catch on the first aid box.
‘Let me do that,’ Will said, walking over to her.
She tried to insist that she could manage, but he washed his hands and then pulled the box from out of her reach. When he turned back he had gauze, blue plasters and a bandage in his hands and a determined look back on his face.
‘Will, I think just the plaster will probably do it.’ Maya risked a chuckle, hoping that it would break the tension in the air, but Will ignored her and stepped closer.
‘Stop, Maya. Why is it so hard to let me help you? You don’t have to do it all yourself.’
What other way was there? She’d done everything for herself all her life. And then spent most of her adult life doing whatever she could for other people. No one had ever tried to take care of her before.
She looked up at him and forgot everything she had told herself about not letting him close. Lost every self-protective instinct she had nurtured since stepping into his office. He just walked straight through every barrier she’d erected, every promise she’d made to herself since they’d met. Instead of getting away, she wondered how she’d not noticed before how tall he was—another inch closer and he’d be able to rest his chin on her head—and explored the structure of his face from this new, sharper angle.
His eyes didn’t leave her face, though they darted between her eyes and her mouth as he reached across and turned off the tap. His forehead wrinkled and his eyes were serious as he wrapped gauze around her finger, applying pressure as he pulled her hand between them, and then reached for a paper towel. He scrutinised the cut, watching the red beads bloom from her skin, and then clamped the gauze down. Maya gave a little gasp of discomfort.
‘Sorry,’ Will said, and she saw that his concern was genuine. ‘But the pressure will stop it bleeding.’
She knew that, of course, but she couldn’t help wondering whether that was really why he was standing so close, why neither of them had taken a step back. She told herself that he was only so close because he was helping her. But she knew that she was kidding herself. She’d been drawn to him from the first time she’d met him, and it was only her rigid determination to protect herself that had stopped her imagining this intimacy before. She wasn’t sure that she had the strength to pull away now that she was here. She took a deep breath to steady the swimming sensation that threatened to make her sway.
When Will was satisfied the cut had stopped bleeding he carefully unwrapped a plaster and pressed it around her finger, catching her eye as he did so and watching her expression. Smoothing the edges down, he inspected the digit from several angles, ensuring that the plaster held firm, and then held it up for her approval.
‘Thanks.’ The word came out breathy, unsure, and as she heard her voice she knew that she had to act. She had to do something—and now—if she was going to stop herself getting hurt. This had gone more than far enough already. Maya looked up from her finger to Will’s face. ‘It’s fine now,’ she said, trying to pull her hand away.
But Will kept a firm hold on it, using it to pull her fractionally closer until her chest was pressed against him.
And then he froze. Maya watched reality crash through his face as he realised what he was doing. He dropped her hand and turned away from her, and she glimpsed his hard, set expression twist into a grimace.
Relief and disappointment flooded Maya and she leant back against the sink, trying to remember that space was what she had wanted. But his rejection stung her nonetheless. She kept her eyes on the floor until she could look up at him with an indifferent expression.
‘Let’s carry on,’ she managed eventually.
Will proceeded to hack the remains of the fillet from the fish. She briefly considered trying to help, but her last attempt had ended in a sliced finger. By the look of the way he was handling the knife this time around, if she tried to interfere now she was likely to lose a hand. For the first time she could remember she wished she wasn’t in her kitchen. She wished she could escape upstairs, hide away from this man and the dangerous effect he had on her. But she’d committed to help him and she wouldn’t go back on her word.
Things didn’t improve when she tried to explain the sauce. She’d hoped that a simple herb butter would be a good way for him to become familiar with the flavours of the different herbs from the kitchen garden behind the house. But his response when she suggested that he smelt and tasted each one was ‘nice’ or ‘fine’. And the increasing detachment in his gaze showed him retreating further from her with every prompt, shutting her out just a little bit tighter.
In the end, with her finger and her feelings hurting more than she wanted to admit, she decided she just wanted the day over with and gave up any pretence of trying to reach him. The sooner it was ready, the sooner they could eat, and then she could escape this stifling atmosphere that had invaded her home.
This wasn’t what her kitchen was for. She loved to share her passion with other people. Help them to discover a new talent, or develop a skill, or just eat chocolate pudding until they couldn’t move if that was what brought them pleasure. This room existed to make people happy, created the bliss that she needed to fend off the memories of her childhood. Or it had until this man had walked in here, all taciturn and cold, and brought her decades-old insecurities with him.
With a final addition of salt and pepper she decided that the food was as good as it was going to get, considering the mood of the chefs, and set it on warm plates. She and Will carried the food and a bottle of chilled white wine to the table outside, and Maya wondered how they were going to get through this dinner. Will had said barely five words since they’d left the sink, and if she allowed it to the silence would become unbearable.
But what could they talk about?
Maya wished that she’d thought this through before she’d agreed to run the course for him. She loved to talk about food. When people found out that she was a cook they always asked about her work, and she was happy to talk shop for as long as they would put up with her. But she suspected that food would not be high on Will’s list of favourite topics of conversation. In fact she wondered if he had ever had a conversation about food that hadn’t involved a consideration of gross profit.
Silence. It was definitely not golden. It was bad-tempered and it was awkward and it was the final insult for a much-abused meal.
She gazed out over the meadow beyond the garden, hoping that the view, which never normally failed to cheer her, would have its usual soothing effect. The shadows of the clouds chased over the ground, causing the colours of the wildflowers to shift and change, and the corners of her lips twitched upwards. She encouraged it into a full-blown smile as she let the beauty and serenity of her home topple her bad temper.
She’d fallen in love with the view, and this house, the moment that she’d first seen them. It was exactly what she’d needed: somewhere to escape from the slick city kitchens she had been working in until then, to get away from the constant client pitches, the networking events. And so she’d created a haven here—somewhere she could experience the intense colours and fresh scents of the natural world, could be completely creative. And she’d made herself part of the community. Here she understood what she needed to do, how to make people happy.
She’d thought she’d known what she was getting when she’d paid for the old stone house and its beautiful garden. And then the place had sprung a surprise on her.
The first cookery class she’d run had been a complete accident: she’d invited faithful clients to come for the weekend and sample her new menu, not long after having her professional kitchen installed. She’d been sure no one else would feel quite the same thrill she did at the sight of her new oven, but she’d wanted to show it off anyway.
Except once her guests had arrived they hadn’t been content just to sit and watch her cook for them. They had all wanted to muck in, despite the fact that not one of them had known how to chop an onion. They’d pushed her to let them help, and she’d realised that cooking wasn’t the only thing that could make her glow. Teaching was another way of sharing her food, and her love of food, with others. Before the weekend was over they’d practically written her business plan for her, and she’d found herself with a teaching business alongside her cooking.
And now Will was threatening that thrill as well. Every time he turned his nose up at her food he impugned her teaching as well as her cooking.
But the beautiful view boosted her. She’d bloomed when she’d come here from the city, when her world had shrunk and she’d finally found a place for herself. Maybe Will just needed a little of that magic. He’d charged her with teaching him, and she wasn’t going to give up just because of his bad temper.
As she gazed off into the distance she realised that putting space between her and Will, constantly pulling away from him, was going to doom their experiment from the start. How could she expect him to open up and appreciate what was around him if she was sitting there trying to pretend that he wasn’t there?
She drew her gaze back from the meadow and fixed it on Will’s face. The expression in his eyes was serious, focussed, and it intrigued her. She wondered what thoughts lay behind those silver-grey eyes, where he went when he retreated like this. Tracing her gaze over his features, she followed the line of his straight, narrow nose to lips that looked almost too full, too sumptuous, with his slim face and sharp features.
He slid his knife through the fish in neat, straight lines, carving it methodically. She watched, intrigued, his precise, emotionless approach, and fought down her instinct to look for approval. Her feelings when she served someone her food were always the same. Did they like it? Of course Will’s face gave her no hint. She had to force down the disappointment that he showed no pleasure in it. Tell herself that this was still early days. But she couldn’t stop herself hoping. Just a few small genuine words from him would soothe her fears, show her that they were on the right track. Ease the pain that the rejection of their first meeting had caused.
Will seemed to sense her staring at him, because he glanced up and held her gaze for a moment, before remembering what manners required of him.
‘This is nice, thank you.’
Maya sighed; they still had a lot of work to do—not least on thickening her skin. But they had to start somewhere, and if she wanted him to be open with her, to open himself to the joy that she hoped her food would bring, she would have to show him the way. She should see each barb as an opportunity—he had come to her for help, and each sting would tell her how much work they still had to do.
She glanced across at the meadow, letting the colours and the glory of the sunset sink into her skin and smooth away this latest hurt. Eventually she turned to Will, trying to reflect those rays of evening sun back to him.
‘So, Will, why don’t you tell me more about your work?’
He met her eyes again, and she watched his face for clues, signs that he was making progress. But all she saw was him bracing himself, hardening his eyes and fixing a neutral expression. All that for small talk, she thought, and wondered what pain lingered behind the façade to make it such a frightening prospect.
‘My company offers a range of financial services,’ he said, his voice flat and clipped. ‘At the moment I’m working on a project to raise funds for a health sector construction scheme.’ A frown creased his brow and he looked troubled...tired. ‘But I won’t bore you with the details.’
‘I’m not bored,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t interested. I’d like to understand more about your work. It’s a charity fundraiser, the dinner you want me to cater, isn’t it? Do you do a lot of work with charities?’
‘No.’
As she watched she could see him trying to distance himself further. He looked away, past her shoulder, and plucked his phone from his jacket pocket. She suspected he didn’t even realise that he’d done it. One-sided small talk was its own particular form of torture, and without his help she had no idea how to steer this conversation onto safer ground. She stumbled for words, not wanting them to end the evening on an awkward silence, hoping for even the tiniest breakthrough. She decided to stick with business questions—maybe if they could get comfortable talking about that, they could progress from there.
‘So, is it interesting, working with a charity? What type of charity is it? How did you get involved?’
Perhaps if she just kept throwing questions out there one of them would stick. But at the last one Will dropped his fork, placed his elbow on the table and rested his head in his hand.
Will looked...broken. More pain than she’d seen one person bear weighed heavy in his eyes and on his shoulders, and she hated that she’d caused that. Regret curled in her belly at the knowledge that she’d brought someone so much grief. This week was meant to be about pleasure, about learning to appreciate flavour and beauty and art. But from the way that his elbows had come up onto the table to turn him in on himself, shield his body, she knew that she’d made a huge error.
Her instincts told her to move closer, but his body language screamed Keep Out. She rested her hands flat on the table to stop herself reaching across to him. Seeing Will like this threw everything that she’d thought she knew about him into new light. She’d seen hints of something haunting him, but had never imagined that he was carrying such raw pain.
‘Will...?’ She didn’t want to make this worse; she only wanted to help.
‘It’s a hospice,’ he said quietly. ‘I have a...a family connection to it.’
‘Oh.’
She knew that the response was inadequate. His few words, forced out through gritted teeth, had carried a great weight of buried hurt. There was so much she didn’t know about him, but with those words she’d started to understand him a little more. No wonder he was distant, if this was what threatened when he opened up. No wonder he eyed her with distrust and trepidation when she wanted emotion from him.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, caving in to her instincts and touching his hand. ‘It’s none of my business.’
‘It’s fine.’ Will picked up his fork, shrugging off her touch, and his face was smoothed over.
Maya guessed that he was fighting against memories, and winning this time.
‘Julia, my foster mother, died fifteen years ago. One of her nurses started a hospice charity and asked me to provide financial advice.’ He spoke with an angry edge to his voice, apparently still fighting for control.
‘Oh,’ she said again. It was still inadequate.
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Will said, solving her dilemma. ‘Not now. Not ever.’
* * *
Maya lay in bed and checked the clock on her bedside table. Still only five o’clock. A little early to be crashing around when she had a guest in the house, especially one who’d seemed so annoyed with her by the time they’d gone upstairs last night. After her disastrous attempt at small talk Will had swept up the dishes from the table and clattered around in the kitchen, tidying up. She’d followed him, wanting to help—with the dishes, with his pain—but he’d scowled at her when she’d walked through the door and told her that he could manage. She’d started to argue, to insist that he didn’t need to, but the glare that he’d sent in her direction had had her retracing her steps out through the door. She’d watched through the window as she picked up the last few things from the table, had seen the blank look in his eyes. He’d scrubbed at the counters, cleaning them in long straight strokes, and she guessed that he’d found some comfort in those actions.
She’d known beyond doubt that her presence in the kitchen would upset him further. It didn’t matter how much she wanted to apologise, to put things right, he’d needed her to stay away.
When he’d finally gone upstairs she’d wished him goodnight and told him she’d see him back down here in the morning; then she’d sorted through the last few things in the kitchen before following him up. As she’d reached the landing she’d heard frantic typing, fingers being hammered into a keyboard, and had let out a long sigh. This week was already proving to be so much harder than she’d ever dreamt, and this was only day one. Will had asked her to teach him, but she was worried that he would fight the temptation to learn with his last breath.
Lying in bed was doing her no good this morning. She’d woken so many times through the night, thinking about the disastrous evening in the kitchen and on the terrace—she couldn’t have slept for more than an hour at a time.
Making this week a success had never seemed less likely than it did this morning. But Will had laid down the gauntlet, challenged her to teach him, and she was determined to see it through. He was here, and there was something in that simple fact that made Maya want to persevere. This man needed happiness in his life, something to balance the grief she had glimpsed last night, and the only thing she knew that could deliver joy of that magnitude was food.
She wouldn’t push. She couldn’t force something that he didn’t feel. All she could do was make her food so irresistible that he couldn’t help but enjoy it. And her sleepless night had given her plenty of time to think about how to go about it. This morning she wouldn’t ask Will to cook. She would just surround him with delicious smells and tastes, lighten his mood and help him feel relaxed in the kitchen.
She dragged her tired body out of bed and into the shower, making plans in her head for something that would reach out and bring Will a little relief. Perhaps something with fresh fruit? That way it would introduce him to more of her garden. Or something spiced that would appeal to the nose as well as the palate?
After blasting her hair with the dryer she selected her pinkest, floweriest, summeriest dress from the wardrobe. For someone with as much red hair as she had it was not an obvious choice of colour, but she was going to exude sunshine and pleasure today. Will had been in her house a day, and seemed even less happy than he had when he’d arrived. She couldn’t allow herself to take a step back; if she was going to make this work she had to throw everything she could at it.
She hunted frantically for ingredients, looking for inspiration in the walk-in fridge, grabbing fruit and butter, eggs and milk. She whipped and beat and whisked and folded, and every time she slid another tray into the oven she reached for a mixing bowl again. The familiar actions chased last night’s shadows out of the kitchen and she breathed more easily as she saw the results of her work piling up on the countertops. This would work. This had to work. There had to be something here that would get through to him.
She threw the switch on her food mixer, adjusted the oven temperature, turned cakes out onto racks. A simple sponge, shortbread, scones, pizza bases. She found spiced cream, home-made jams and fresh berries. Perfect for building layers of flavours.
She picked at the fruit and munched on biscuits as she went. With her recent late nights, and the stress of a student who didn’t want to learn, she was asking for a migraine. Lucky for her, keeping her blood sugar up and cooking out her stress were the best ways to fend one off.
And when at last the huge container of flour was empty she leaned back against the counter and surveyed her work. Spoons, spatulas and whisks were stacked up by the sink. Her supply of mixing bowls was exhausted and every inch of counter space was covered with the evidence or the fruits of her labour.
Some of it she barely remembered making. She hadn’t been thinking. She’d just let her hands and her heart take over her body.
She thought of Will’s fingers stroking the screen of his phone, hammering on his laptop last night, and couldn’t help but recognise the similarities. She’d reached for comfort this morning, as she’d seen him do.
There was more food here than she and Will could eat in a month, never mind a week. It could go in the freezer once it cooled, she thought, mentally flicking through her diary for the next couple of weeks. She had a couple of afternoon teas booked that the cakes and biscuits would be perfect for.
She glanced at the clock. It was gone ten o’clock already and she’d seen no sign of Will yet. Oh, well, he wouldn’t be the first hardened workaholic to succumb to the effects of country air. She’d plan for elevenses and if there was no sign of him by then she’d knock on his door, just to make sure everything was okay. Unless he’s not in his room, she thought to herself, and her spoon dropped to the counter with a clatter.
What if he had left already? Decided that whatever she was trying to teach him wasn’t worth sticking around for?
A stab of pain slid through her belly as memories of being just not good enough surfaced. Weekends spent in an empty house because her parents had had more important things to do, or long summer holidays spent at school because she wasn’t wanted at home. She’d thought that those feelings were long gone. Until she’d met Will Thomas she’d not thought of those times for years, but now... He had rejected her once. It would be so easy for him to do it again.
The hollow feeling of fear curled in her stomach and she rushed to the front door, relieved to see Will’s car still parked on the drive. He was still here. That had to count for something. She still had a chance.
She couldn’t quite rationalise her relief, given how frustrating yesterday had been. But, however difficult it was proving to be, she needed to help him. She couldn’t look at someone in pain, someone who needed help, and simply do nothing. And then there was the spark that she’d felt between them when he’d bandaged her finger. The tender concern he’d shown her. The way that he’d started to pull her close before getting spooked. The fact that he’d pushed her away almost immediately should have been enough to tell her that she would have been better off if he’d gone.
‘Everything all right?’ Will appeared at the top of the stairs dressed in grey trousers and another crisp white shirt, phone in hand.
‘Everything’s fine,’ Maya said, not wanting him to guess what she’d been thinking. ‘I thought I heard the doorbell.’
She gestured widely with her arm towards the front door from where she stood at the bottom of the stairs. Turning her body towards him, she rested her hands on her hips and smiled up at him.
‘Did the country air knock you out?’
‘No, no. I’ve been up for a while. I was going to come and find you, actually,’ Will said.
He was looking for her? Warmth spread through her body at that thought, chasing away the cold she’d felt a second ago when she’d thought he might have left. She was so overwhelmed with relief that he hadn’t walked away, hadn’t rejected her as she’d thought, that she didn’t step back from the stairs as he descended. Even when he reached the bottom and was standing just a few inches away. Instead she enjoyed the feeling of being close to him, the way the air between them almost hummed. Like yesterday, those few good moments in a sea of disaster, when he’d shown such concern for the little cut on her finger.
The memory of the cold that had followed as he’d walked away was not, apparently, enough to make her body stop wanting him.
‘You were?’
‘Yes, my battery’s about to die and I’ve forgotten my charger.’ He poked at the screen of his phone and then gave a long sigh. ‘I have a conference call in ten minutes. I don’t suppose there’s a spare one around here anywhere?’
Maya gulped, trying not to show her anger. He was working. He’d probably been up at the crack of dawn, as she had. But whereas she’d spent hours in the kitchen, trying to figure out how they were going to make this experiment of theirs work, he’d been happily ensconced in his room, getting on with business as normal. He hadn’t even bothered to tell her what he was doing that morning. He’d just got on with his day without giving her a single thought.
Maya felt a chill sink through her as the implications hit home. She had spent all morning trying to make his day better in a small way, even if all she had to offer him was cake. She knew that it couldn’t possibly fix his pain. But she’d tried. She’d thrown everything at helping him the only way she knew how. And he’d not thought of her at all. He couldn’t have made it any clearer how little she, her food or her time meant to him.
She took a step back as her shoulders slumped, and her arms came across her body, protecting her from further blows.
‘That’s not a problem, is it?’ Will ran a hand through his hair and it came to rest of the back of his neck.
Maya picked up on the tension in his body, the sharper edge to his voice. He’d sensed he’d upset her, she guessed, and was looking for an escape route.
‘I’m sorry; I didn’t think you’d need me in the kitchen until this evening. You didn’t mention last night...’
Actually, she had mentioned it last night, but he clearly hadn’t been listening. And she shouldn’t have to force him. His attendance on the course had been his idea. He was the one who had said that he wanted to learn—or that he was prepared to try, at least. And if that was the case then he had to be proactive. He had to make an effort—not just show up when he thought it was unavoidable.
She clenched her fist against the anger building in her—at herself as well as at him. All morning. She’d spent all morning trying to make this idea of his work, and he hadn’t even bothered to turn up.
This thought, heaped on top of disappointment, sparked anger—at Will, at her parents, at herself—and she knew that they couldn’t continue like this. Every day that she was around Will she was reminded that she’d never been enough. When her food wasn’t working for her she felt unworthy of his, anyone’s attention. She wasn’t helping him; all she was doing was hurting them both. He would be better off leaving.
Maya tried to keep the heartbreak from her voice, reminding herself that really this was just business. ‘I think we need to talk. I’ll be waiting for you in the kitchen.’ She didn’t bother looking to see Will’s reaction but stalked through the door and let it slam behind her. She knew that she hadn’t succeeded. Her words had been sharp, clipped, forced out so that her voice wouldn’t waver. But she knew that she hadn’t fooled him into thinking they were detached.
When Will walked into the kitchen she recognised the determination on his face—he was obviously worried that he had blown his chance with her, and with good reason. She couldn’t take any more of his cutting insults, whether he knew that he was making them or not.
‘Oh, I didn’t realise you’d started already. You should have shouted if you needed my help.’ He ran a hand through his hair as he took in the array of baked goods cooling on the counter.
A flush of colour crept up Maya’s neck as she tried to rein in her frustration and embarrassment—her every feeling was laid bare on the worktops of her kitchen. Hours of love and hope had been poured into cake tins, lined up carefully on baking trays, and there was no hiding from the passion that was displayed on every side.
‘I didn’t need your help, Will,’ she snapped. As if it wasn’t bad enough that she was wearing her heart on her sleeve, showing him how important he was to her—something she hadn’t quite realised herself before this moment—he’d completely missed the point. ‘I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself. But why weren’t you here? This week was your idea. You committed to doing it. But all I’m getting from you is half-measures. You’re wasting my time as well as yours, and I think you should pack your bags and go.’
She watched as her words registered and knew that she had shocked him. For a minute he actually relaxed and leaned back against the counter, his eyes wide as he watched her. She could understand why. She almost wished she could see herself from the outside right now, because she didn’t recognise the person who had just spoken. Maya was always nice. It was who she was—what she did every day. Making people happy. She wasn’t sure that she’d ever lost her temper and spoken to someone the way she’d just hissed at him.
She was surprised at how good it felt—it was exhilarating. There was a freedom in it that she’d never felt before. If her food meant nothing to him, then she had nothing else to offer. He couldn’t make her feel any worse than he had just now, so what did she have to lose?
She held her ground, refusing to look away as he continued to stare at her, and she guessed that he was weighing up his options. She felt sure that he wanted to go, that he was here under duress of some sort, because he surely wasn’t enjoying it. Watching him, she could tell that it was complicated. There was more to his insistence on her catering for him, more to him being here, than he’d told her, but would that reason outweigh his desire to get away?
‘I’m sorry,’ he said eventually. ‘I’m here to learn; I’m committed to this.’
Apparently it would. But if he thought that was a decent apology, he was mistaken. She crossed her arms a little harder across her chest and tilted her head, waiting for him to continue.
‘I didn’t sleep,’ he said at last, ‘after what we talked about last night. But I shouldn’t have taken that out on you. This is very important to me.’
There was no faking that sort of sincerity, she thought, noting the way his voice was carefully controlled—presumably to stop it breaking. She might be angry. She was definitely angry. But that didn’t make her insensible to his feelings. Will was hurting.
‘I’d need you to make a real effort,’ she told him. ‘You need to decide right now whether you’re going to take this seriously. If not, I’ll pack your bags for you.’
Will eyed her warily but she stopped herself from taking her words back, from apologising. Instead she waited. Waited to see what effect her words would have when she didn’t care what the listener thought of her. When she had nothing to lose.
‘I didn’t expect things to get so...personal, but from now on no half-measures,’ he said. ‘I will do this. Properly.’
Apparently brutal honesty got her what she wanted.
She watched him force a smile onto his face. She would have preferred to see a genuine one, but she liked that he was trying. And she thought that maybe there was still a chance that she could help him, as he’d asked.
‘Okay. We’ll try again. But you might want to lose the suit—change into something that doesn’t need dry cleaning,’ she added. If he was willing to try she would give him another chance. If nothing else it would be an interesting challenge to try and teach someone so different from her usual clients. At least that was what she could tell herself. It was nothing to do with the spark she felt between them; nothing to do with exploring this new-found bravado and honesty. Nothing to do with the way her body craved being close to his.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_02227cc1-bd8a-5eb1-891f-e92cb864868f)
THREE MINUTES LATER Will appeared in the doorway dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt.
Definitely an improvement, Maya decided, her eyes lingering on the contours of his upper arms. She was determined to start afresh, to put all thoughts of their argument and her hurt aside. His hands were in his pockets, but his arms appeared stiff, belying his façade of calm. His jaw was tense, his mouth pulled into a hard line. But Maya forced herself to look away, to paint a smile on her own face and hope that soon she would see it reflected in his.
‘Ready to get started?’ she asked, in a sunny, breezy voice. She wondered whether her own attempt to cover up her feelings was any more successful than his.
‘Sure,’ Will replied, not quite keeping the apprehension out of his voice, but she appreciated the effort.
Maya forced another smile and loaded cakes and biscuits onto a tray. ‘I thought we’d sit outside as it’s such a lovely day.’
She headed out to the terrace, where the sunlight broke through the leaves of the trees, throwing mottled patches of light onto the tablecloth and making the sugar atop her biscuits glisten. She set the tray on the table, beside a pot of tea and bowls of fruit. Finally, with all her tools in place, she took a seat opposite Will.
‘Right, this is elevenses...’ She checked her watch. ‘Or near enough. You’ll probably be pleased to hear that this doesn’t involve actual cooking.’ She’d rehearsed the words in her head when he’d disappeared upstairs to change, but now she stopped, taking in the blank look in his eyes and realising she’d lost him already.
‘Elevenses?’
‘Elevenses. Tea and cake taken around eleven in the morning.’ She said. ‘The preserve of grandmothers everywhere.’
‘But you’re not a grandmother,’ Will pointed out, and she was surprised to see him relax a little, perhaps even a hint of amusement in his eyes as they met hers and wouldn’t look away.
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