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‘Well, Miss Georgia,’ Chef improvised in ever-thickening French, ‘while wine is perfection for enjoying the consumption of a meal, water is, without question, the best choice for preparing one. Until you know what you’re doing, of course. You want your tastebuds unassailed. You want your nose and palate unconflicted and clear-headed as you assemblé the ingredients you’ll need...’
‘An unconflicted palate. Score one for me,’ she murmured.
Their prosaic teacher was fully underway by now and his continental theatrics and charm managed to recapture the focus of the women in the room. But Zander still stared at her, eyes lightly creased.
Stop smiling, her eyes urged him. We’re supposed to be strangers. Though there was something just slightly breath-stealing about the game they were playing. Pretending to be strangers. Hiding a secret from the whole room.
It was vaguely...kinky.
Which said a lot about how very not kinky her life usually was.
She forced her attention back to Chef. Did her best to listen and understand what he was saying and not pay any further attention to Zander perched at the end of the bench, deftly deflecting the interest of the two women closest to him and studying everything that was happening in the room. Parts of what the chef was saying really resonated for the scientist in her—the parts about the chemistry of food and how ingredients worked together—but they were totally overshadowed by his try-hard vocabulary and his staged theatrics, which really didn’t work for her. She caught herself smiling more than once at something ridiculous he said or the way he gushed over his rapt female audience. She was fairly certain he wasn’t actually French.
‘Excuse me, Chef?’ she interrupted when he paused for a rare breath and before she could change her mind. ‘Will we get to cook something tonight?’
‘So enthousiaste,’ he fawned, and she groaned. ‘Non, you won’t get hands-on until week six. In Chef André Carlson’s class we first develop appréciation for the art of the food, then we progress to construction of the food.’
And clearly much drinking of the wine, despite his own protestations.
She nodded, politely, and started counting the endless minutes until her first class was over. How would Zander feel about her dumping the first thing he’d sent her to? She glanced up. He had a resigned nothing plastered to his face. It hit her then that she was wasting two people’s time on this terrible class.
‘Excuse me, Chef?’ This time he looked more irritated to have been interrupted mid-fake-French-stream. ‘I have a terrible migraine. I’m going to have to leave.’
Much clucking of concern and old fake-French remedies for migraines later and she had her handbag over her shoulder and her feet pointing towards the door. No one cared.
‘You’ll need someone to walk you to your car,’ Zander volunteered and then excused himself from the woman next to him. That got their attention, but he reassured them, ‘I’ll be right back.’
No, he wouldn’t. Not if he was as dumbstruck by that class’s awfulness as she was.
They practically bolted down the hall for the street door, together.
‘You were going to leave me there!’ he accused as they fell out into the street.
She laughed as she skipped down the steps to the footpath. ‘Sorry. Every man for himself on the culinary Titanic.’
‘That was awful,’ he gritted. ‘Why would anyone put themselves through that?’
‘They looked like they were having a good enough time.’
‘I can’t imagine anyone coming away from that actually appreciating food more.’
Her laugh redoubled. ‘No.’
‘I take it the migraine was fake?’
‘As fake as his accent. I think we should just cut our losses.’
He halted her with a warm hand to her arm. ‘No. You came here tonight wanting to discover what’s so special about cuisine.’
God, was he warming back up to another invitation to see his etchings?
‘Let me just make a call...’
He made it. Brief and murmured, his back half to her. Then he turned and smiled at her. ‘OK, all arranged.’
‘What is?’
‘We have a job for the night.’
‘A job?’
‘In a commercial kitchen. That’s where you’ll see what cooking is really all about.’
‘I can’t cook in a commercial kitchen!’ She could barely boil water in her own home.
‘Trust me, Georgia.’ He slid his hand around behind her back and smiled. ‘We won’t be cooking.’
* * *
He wasn’t kidding. Within fifteen minutes they were installed up to the elbows in suds in the back of the busy kitchen of an Italian restaurant and they’d washed more dishes in less time than she’d even dirtied in her whole life. But she didn’t even notice.
The owner of the restaurant where Zander had called in his favour elevated the usual dishwashers to kitchen assistants for the night and had one of his demi-chefs explain everything happening in the kitchen for their benefit.
She and Zander eavesdropped on every word between suds.
And his digital recorder—totally approved by the owner—captured it for EROS’ segment.
The kitchen ran like a ballet. Every item on the menu choreographed; every technique a combination of hard-learned steps. Every resulting dish a work of art, never the same twice.
The chef—a real, proper chef this time, with a real accent—yelled at everyone just enough to keep them moving, and didn’t hesitate to yell at his trainee dishwashers if she and Zander fell behind. She felt more welcome being yelled at in this kitchen than being fawned over in the last one. The clunk and clatter of knives and pots and whisks merged with the hiss of frying fat and draining pasta pots to create a symphony of experience that had so much more excitement and interest than just how to cook a good cordon bleu.
And such language! The night was an education for more reasons than one. She loved even that. Though she knew Zander’s editors would be busy with the bleep button.
The symphony and ballet went on for hours. She grew transfixed trying to take it all in even as her feet started first to ache, then protest and finally give up and just burn. But her sore feet were the least of their worries. A whole dish went wrong and sent the kitchen into desperate chaos catching back up and she felt the adrenaline of the race, the thrill of contributing, the deep satisfaction of getting the replacement meals out in time. Even if her role was only keeping the clean cutlery coming.
And now the night was nearly over. The last customers were on their desserts and only one big pot bubbled away in the half-empty kitchen. The promoted-for-a-night assistants were more than happy to cook something simple for the people who’d triggered their unexpected elevation, and Georgia and her sore feet were more than happy to be cooked for by them.
Who knew, maybe the two men would get to do it more often now that they’d been ripped out of their sudsy pigeonhole.
She’d watched them make it from scratch. Pasta. Carefully mixed, rolled, strung, cooked. And the leftover sauce from the night’s bolognese. The owner-chef passed through and plated up for both of them, a modest bowl for Georgia and an enormous mound for Zander. With a barrage of hasty Italian between.
‘Are you pregnant?’ she joked, settling her heat-wrinkled fingers around one of the forks she’d washed herself.
He chuckled. ‘I’m carb-loading.’
‘Which is what for the uninitiated?’ She curled a dozen strands of beautifully shaped pasta around her fork.
‘The day before a big run you load your body up on carbohydrates and water to ensure it’s full of energy.’
‘Energy you burn off running fifty kilometres?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Where will you run tomorrow?’
He hesitated answering. She didn’t let her sigh show. ‘You don’t like to talk about it much.’
‘I’m unaccustomed to anyone asking. It’s usually just my thing.’
That rankled just a tiny bit. ‘I’m not going to invite myself along again if that’s what you’re worried about.’
‘I know,’ he replied as she slid a fully loaded fork into her mouth.
Oh, my God... She liked spaghetti. She’d even been excited enough once or twice to make her own lumpy Napolitano sauce in her slow cooker. But this...this! The combination of home-cooked bolognese and minutes-old, fresh pasta on top of the bone weariness, hollow stomach and flat-footed agony of having stood doing dishes for hours...
‘This is amazing, Zander!’
‘One of my favourite bolt holes.’
She glanced up at him. His choice of words struck her. ‘Where do you bolt from?’
How could a shrug be so tense? ‘Life. Work. Everything.’
She could understand that, if the man bursting out of his office was a regular occurrence.
‘We could both do worse than running our workplaces the way Chef ran this kitchen,’ she said softly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Firm. High expectations. But fair. And everyone here was working with him, not despite him.’
Zander looked around the near-empty kitchen. The two assistants had already removed any hint of evidence that their meal had ever existed. The way they were demolishing their pasta, it very soon wouldn’t.
‘What makes you think it’s not like that already?’ he asked.
‘Something one of your staff said when I was in your office.’ She’d been there a few times over the weeks finalising the list with Casey, so that was suitably broad. He wouldn’t know who amongst his team it was. ‘They said I was a lamb to the slaughter.’
He blinked at her, then recommenced eating his meal. But his brows remained low.
‘Not saying I agree with them. You’ve been nothing but nice to me.’ If one had a liberal definition of nice. ‘But, you know, clearly they thought you were going to make things hard for me.’
He thought about that some more. ‘It’s what they would expect.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s what they know.’
Sadness washed across his expression and then vanished. ‘Why do you make things hard for them?’
‘Because I’m their boss. The network delivers the good news and I deliver and implement the bad. It’s what I get paid for.’
‘That’s a miserable kind of job. Why do you do it?’
He laughed. ‘You’ve seen where I live.’ One of London’s better suburbs.
‘And you’ve seen where I live. So what? That’s not who we are.’
His eyes grew assessing. ‘Really? Your apartment exterior is modest and plain, but well kept. Someone cares for that building. I’d hazard a guess that the inside would be the same. Everything in its place, nothing unessential. Isn’t that exactly as you are?’
She stared at her near-empty bowl. ‘Is that how I strike you? Orderly and dull?’
‘You strike me as someone who’s stuck in a rut. Maybe who has been for some time.’
She lifted her chin. ‘Ruts come in all shapes and suburbs. Besides, you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.’
He lifted his chin to match hers. ‘Really? Care to put your money where your mouth is?’
‘You want to bet on it?’ She frowned.
‘I want to see it.’
Oh.
‘When?’
‘How about now?’
‘It’s not tidy—’
‘Yes, it is.’
Yes...it is. She sighed. ‘You have a race in the morning.’
His eyes grew serious. ‘I’m not proposing sleeping over, Georgia, just a quick look.’
Heat flared up the back of her neck and she worked hard to keep it from flooding around to the front. She had made the immediate assumption that this was some kind of line. Zander Rush was a fit and sexy man. And so of course it wasn’t a come-on. Not for her.
‘I just meant...it’s late.’
‘I don’t run until noon. And it’s too late for you to be taking the tube.’
It wasn’t, but she didn’t mind the idea of a comfortable Jag ride home. She wasn’t ready for their first night to be over.
The first night. Not their first night.
‘OK, I’ll take the lift.’ And show him the inside of her flat for a minute or two. And then he and his fascination would be gone. ‘Thank you.’
They rinsed their dishes in the cooling water, thanked the chef who was enjoying a drink with his team out in the now-empty restaurant, and headed out into the dark.
‘You want to drive?’ he asked.
No. She wanted him to drive. Inexplicably. So of course, she said, ‘Yes, please.’
He pulled his coat collar up as high as possible against the cool April weather. ‘One of these days you’ll stop being so courteous and I’ll know we’re finally getting somewhere.’
The drive took about twenty minutes. Conversation was light between them but not because they had nothing to say. She just didn’t feel the need to say anything. And besides, the scrumptious dinner was kicking in and metabolising down into a warm goo that leached through her veins. She worked hard to keep her focus sharp while driving Zander’s land-yacht.
‘Who else lives here?’ he murmured quietly as they crossed into the shared entry hall of her apartment building.
She ran her fingers along the four letterboxes by the door. ‘Two students, a long-term resident...’ She traced the last box; its lettering was cool and smooth under her touch. ‘And me.’
She led him through to the back of the entry hall where her door was.
If Mr Lawler came out for one of his late-night cigarettes now he’d be in for quite a surprise. Not that she’d never had a man here before, but not like this...tiptoeing in late at night. All clandestine and exciting...
She turned her key, wiggled it, put her shoulder to the door, and popped it quietly open. It swung inwards into the darkened apartment. ‘Acquired touch,’ she whispered.
Why was she so breathless? Was it just because she was walking into her home with a virtual stranger? Or was it because she loved her apartment? It was so...her. So if he judged it, he judged her.
She flicked on the light.
His eyes scanned the room, giving nothing away. ‘This is...’
Crazy and shambolic? Nothing like the outside? She saw it how a stranger must, the explosions of random colour, the stacks of books and home-beautiful magazines. Trailing plants everywhere.
He touched the nearest green frond. ‘How do you get them to look like this inside?’
She crossed to the double doors opening onto her small courtyard and pulled back the blind. ‘I rotate them every day. One day in, three days out.’
His eyes swung to her. ‘How many do you have?’
It was too dark to see outside, too dark for him to discover the full extent of her guilty pleasure. ‘I’m kind of the crazy cat-lady of trailing ferns.’
He looked around him again, then found her eyes. ‘It’s not what I expected.’
That could mean anything, but she chose to interpret it positively. ‘Surprise!’
His focus fell onto the stack of brightly packaged CDs stacked up on her corner desk. He crossed to them. ‘Are you studying?’
‘Espionage through history. I’m getting ready for the spy class.’
He flipped one of the CDs over and read the description of the lectures. ‘You’re doing homework before the class?’
‘I like to be prepared. And I’m really looking forward to the spy classes.’
One brow quirked. ‘As distinct from the others?’
Heat rose and consumed her in the tiny apartment. ‘I listen to them when I’m gardening. On the bus to and from work. Or when I’m walking.’
‘You walk?’
‘Regularly.’
‘Where?’
What was this, the Inquisition? ‘Anywhere I haven’t been before. Deep in some wood somewhere.’
His nod was distracted. He suddenly looked intensely uncomfortable.
‘I bought these with my own money.’ In case that was what was putting that deep frown on his face.
‘Why?’
‘Because your money is for things that interest your listeners.’
He turned towards her. ‘You don’t have to hide things from me. If there’s something you want to do, do it. The money is for you.’
It wasn’t him she was hiding from. She took the CDs out of his hands. ‘It’s not... I feel like these are normal me, not new improved me. Besides, you’ve already indicated that the things I’m interested in aren’t that...exciting.’ She cleared her throat. ‘For your listeners.’
His eyes fell on her heavily. Searching and conflicted.
‘Coffee?’ she asked just to break the silence.
He broke free of her gaze, bustling towards the door as though this were all the most terrible inconvenience. ‘No. I should get going.’
And suddenly she was feeling self-conscious for agreeing to his request. She followed him back out into the hall. ‘Thanks for the lift.’
‘No problem.’
He had to stop at the door to the street to negotiate the intricate series of locks. If not for that, she wondered if he might have just flown down the stairs and path and been gone. She opened it for him and stood below the arch.
‘And for the restaurant. It was fantastic to see.’
‘We’ll find you new cooking classes. You don’t have to go back to the French guy.’
‘The not-French guy...’
‘Right.’ He practically squirmed on her doorstep. Confusion milled around them both. This had been his idea? Or had she just misunderstood?
‘Well, see you next time, then,’ she said quietly.
‘OK. ’Night, Georgia.’
And then he was gone. Not quite running as she’d imagined, but certainly making good time on those long, marathon legs. Into his car and away. Expensive tail lights glowing until they turned onto the high street in the distance.
And still she stood there.
OK. That was just weird. Their whole night had been genial enough, the silence in the ride over here mutual and comfortable. Or so she’d thought. She’d only offered him coffee, not exactly controversial.
Modest, plain but well kept. Was that what he’d been expecting her place to be like? She resecured the front door and turned off the porch light, then crossed back to her gaping apartment door, assessing the inside critically. Shambolic but not unclean. She had nothing to be particularly embarrassed about.
Maybe he had a plant phobia.
She sighed. Maybe this was a Year of Georgia test. See how she was going with the judgement of others. Not well, apparently.
She cared what people thought. She didn’t run her life by it, but criticism did impact on her. Especially someone like Zander Rush. Rich, powerful men might not particularly matter to her professional life, but this one mattered to her personal life. She had a year ahead of her with Zander, they were going to be in each other’s faces a reasonable amount. She’d really rather not have that time be tense and awkward.
And below that, somewhere deeper that she only peeled a corner back on, lay her secret fear: that the same lack that made Daniel not interested in marrying her might have occurred to Zander as he stood here in her little apartment. Some undefined deficiency. Was she too geeky? Too dull? Was she so left-of-normal that even a man whose connection to her was only professional felt the need to run for the hills? If so, he was in for a disappointing year.
There was only so much that reinvention was going to fix.
* * *
Zander tossed his keys and wallet into the shallow dish by his bed and then took himself off for a shower. As hot as he could stand it. Desperate to scald himself clean of the sudden tingle of awareness he’d experienced standing in Georgia’s apartment just half an hour before. He’d learned to live with the perpetual hum of sensual responsiveness that resonated whenever she was around, but this was different, this was...
Interest.
The prickle of intrigue and the glow of connection. So much more than just sexual. Unexpected, unwanted, and unacceptable. And the slither of empathy, that his words made her doubt herself, made her so defensive.
He stood under the hot, thumping water and let it stream over his head.
The crazy cat-lady of trailing ferns.
Of all the things to suddenly bring this burbling inside him to the surface...that little touch of self-deprecation, her modesty about her lived-in, loved-in apartment, her raw defence of a place that was clearly special to her. That was clearly her. She defended her property and herself with a gentle kind of resignation. As though she knew full well that she didn’t fit the conventional moulds and was reconciled with that.
And he was there telling her that her mould wasn’t interesting enough for his listeners.
Then showering himself raw just half an hour later because of how interesting it was to him.
Hypocrite.
His life was so laden with false, socially aggressive people, all hungry to climb ladders that they had to jostle for. So full of noise and gloss and professional veneer. He did his best to limit his exposure to it to his working hours, running from it—literally—on weekends, but when you worked as much as he did it had a way of just dominating your consciousness.
Until you stood in the middle of someone’s small, packed greenhouse of an apartment and felt as if you’d just walked into some kind of emotional resort. Far from everything and everyone.
Until you breathed in for the first time in fifteen years.
Zander shut off the water, towelled off, and stepped out into his bedroom. Carefully styled by the owner before him, all beige and tones of brown and harmless neutrals he’d never bothered to change. Then he walked out of the hall, into every room one by one, growing increasingly incredulous.
Not one single plant, anywhere? Seriously?
He kept looking, kept not finding one. Until he did. A small cactus in a pot that Casey had given him before she’d twigged to the fact that gifts between them weren’t going to do anything but make their relationship more awkward. He’d plonked it on his kitchen window sill and never given it another thought. It survived only on the steam issued by his coffee maker. And maybe the dishwasher.
But it survived.
The similarity to his thorny, parched heart was ironic.
He flicked a switch and lit up the entire length of his rambling back garden. Did it even count if you paid someone to tend it for you? If the most you did was cut roses to take to your aging mother and the only time you walked through it was on a shortcut back from the local coffee house?
The fun Georgia would have if let loose in there...
He killed the lights, plunging the whole garden and that train of thought back to darkness.
There would be no letting loose. There’d be no more curious visits to her apartment. He’d only gone to assure himself that her home would have been as lacking in personality on the inside as the exterior. As some kind of ward against finding her interesting.
Well, that had bitten him well and truly in the arse.
He couldn’t blame his complicated mess of interest and appreciation and affection on her botched proposal any longer. Georgia Stone might have started out as the embodiment of every professional and ethical compromise he’d made on his meteoric corporate trajectory—and he still felt the cuts every time someone praised him for the sensational PR surrounding her proposal—but she was rapidly morphing into something else.
A living, breathing, haunting reminder of the man he used to be. Before the heartbreak of being jilted by Lara. Before the humiliation that drove him headlong into his intense professional life, and the professional life that drove him headlong into his insane training regime just to balance out all the noise. Before all of those things left no room for an actual life. He missed life. And moments like tonight didn’t help him to keep that longing safely tucked away where it couldn’t gnaw at him.
But work did. And running did. And he had plenty of both to be getting on with this weekend.
Neither of which were served by flashes of the sheer contentedness in Georgia’s face as she stood in the midst of her meagre worldly possessions, richer than he could possibly conceive.
FIVE