Lynne Marshall - Single Dads Collection

He owed Em an apology, and he wasn’t sure if he dared be in the room with her long enough to make it. At least not without a table between them to keep them apart.

He went into the kitchen, made some tea and tapped on the study door. ‘Em?’

‘Come in,’ she said, turning towards him with a wary look in her eyes as he pushed the door open and went in, tray in hand.

‘I’ve brought you tea.’

‘Thanks.’

He hung on to the tray, because if it was in his hands he couldn’t do anything else with them. ‘My pleasure. And we haven’t eaten. Want me to cook something?’

She swivelled her chair a little farther and reached for the tea. ‘What can you cook?’

He laughed. ‘Probably nothing English. What have you got to work with?’

‘All sorts. I did a big shop the other day. Go and have a look. I just want to finish this off and I’ll come and give you a hand.’

He nodded and went out, sighing with relief that the awkwardness seemed to have gone and their friendship was back on track.

Unless he poisoned her! He opened the fridge and studied the contents. Peppers, chicken breast, onions, tiny cherry tomatoes, salad, apples in the fruit bowl, couscous in the larder cupboard and spices in the rack next to the hob.

Excellent.

‘Smells good.’

He jumped, turning towards her with a laugh lighting up his eyes and the knife pointing towards her threateningly, but she didn’t feel threatened. ‘Do you have to creep up on me?’

‘Sorry.’ She grinned without remorse and perched on the stool at the breakfast bar. ‘Found all you need?’

‘I think so. Did you get your drawing done?’

‘Yes. I was just making a few changes to the planting. So what are you cooking?’

‘Moroccan chicken and couscous. I wasn’t sure if you liked things spicy, so I haven’t made it too hot, but it’s fruity so it takes the edge off it. Here—try a bit.’

And he held out a fork with a little pile of couscous on for her to taste. She leant forward, closed her lips around the fork and wondered if he’d been tasting it, if his lips had closed on the prongs of the fork, too, if he’d…

‘Wow! That’s gorgeous!’

‘Not too hot for you?’

She shook her head, putting her hormones back in their box and concentrating on the food. ‘No, it’s lovely.’

‘Good. I’ll just finish off the chicken and I’ll be done.’

‘Want a hand?’

‘No. Just stay there and keep me company.’

So she sat there, watching him work, her eyes drawn to the muscles in his shoulders flexing as he stirred and flipped the chicken in the pan, his buttocks taut when he shifted from foot to foot, crouching to lift out the plates from the oven and then straightening, thighs working…

Damn. She was going to drool in a minute.

He threw the chicken into the couscous, scraped the juices into the mixture and stirred it through then piled it into the bowls and set them down on the breakfast bar in front of her, hooking his foot round a stool and drawing it closer before sitting opposite her.

Their knees brushed and she pulled away, just as he did, and he apologised automatically and then he met her eyes and smiled wryly. ‘Actually, I’m sorry for all of it. For landing on you like this—for kissing you.’ Then he shook his head and laughed softly under his breath. ‘No, that’s a lie. I’m not sorry. I’m sorry I’m not sorry, if you see what I mean. I didn’t mean to kiss you, and I shouldn’t have done, but I can’t be sorry I did. Not unless it gets in the way of our friendship, because that means too much to me to mess with it. Ah, that was the most garbled speech in the world, but—I guess what I’m trying to say is, forgive me?’

Forgive him? For kissing her so tenderly, so beautifully, so skillfully?

‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ she said, her voice a little unsteady, and picking up her fork, she turned her attention to the food before she said or did anything she’d regret…

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