I do?
He guides me to a stool at the kitchen island. In a semicircle are pretty ceramic bowls in speckled blue-green and white all filled with nibbles that make my mouth water. His palm brushes on the small of my back as he skirts behind me.
“Food won’t be long.”
“You cooked for me?” How long has it been since anyone bothered to do anything for me alone?
“There’s not much pizza delivery around here.”
“Practically in the dark ages.” I widen my eyes in mock horror.
“You’ll get used to it.”
As though I’ll be coming for dinner with him again. That’s even more mouth-watering than the smell from a pan on the massive navy range cooker labelled AGA.
The comment hangs in the air, not taken back or acknowledged. I watch as he ladles out the soup into sage green speckled bowls and rips off leafy green herbs to strew on the surface.
Then I see the table. Dark, aged wood, a bit beaten up. One end is set with two places, and a single candle. He lowers the lights, and indicates to me that I should sit. The whole thing is… Romantic. It gives the illusion I’ve been invited for dinner, rather than begged for help.
It’s like a date.
He puts soup before me, more of a broth really, with generous shreds of white meat, chunks of carrot and circular slices of green. “What is it?”
“Cock-a-leekie.”
I snort.
“It is not funny,” he says, but he’s smiling as he sits down.
“Chicken and leek. Why not call it that? Rather than…” Look I’ve never thought of myself as smutty, but leaking cock makes my brain jump to a vision of James holding his cock, pre-come beading at the tip.
Totally inappropriate.
He shrugs. “Words matter. Sometimes calling something innocent by a rude or fancy name enhances our enjoyment of it.”
My insides go liquid. “Like a taboo?”
Our gazes meet and I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing as I am. The taboo of my being his best friend’s daughter. The taboo of him being almost twenty years older than me.
Would those taboos make it even better if we kissed? If wemore than kissed?
“Eat your dinner,” he grumbles. Then he leans back in his chair, arms crossed and waits implacably.
I tip soup onto my spoon and bring it to my mouth. He watches me as I taste it. Is he anxious about whether I like his food? The kingpin of Chiswick, as was? A man who left his power and brutality behind, and now is caring for a woman young enough to be his daughter?
The soup is a rich broth, salty and savoury and a whimper of enjoyment escapes me. I’m starving for this. Worth the wait of being hungry for half the day.
I devour the whole bowl so ravenously, my hair begins to slip from its ponytail. Opposite me, James eats at a steady pace, but when a strand falls forwards and touches my lip, and I sweep it back behind her ear, his movements stutter and he swallows before he takes the next mouthful. Like his throat is dry.
“Mmmm, that was delicious.” I look right at him. “You’ll have to give me the recipe so I can try to make it.”
“It’s a secret,” he teases. “I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you.”
“Tempting.” Would the killing be in a sexy way? That would seal the deal. “But no. It wouldn’t do any good anyway. I can’t cook. When I’ve tried I burn everything and get chased out of the kitchens. Though I’ll have to try, because I cannot live without this now. Regularly.”
“Stay here and I’ll make it for you wherever you want.”
There’s shock on his face despite the calm demeanour he delivered that invitation with. As though he can’t believe he issued it. “Anyway, at least if you don’t like the main course, you’ve eaten something.”
