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She’d burst through the kitchen door that crisp October day when she was thirteen with the wonderful feeling of belonging, of friendship, bursting in her heart—only to find the room cold and empty and silent.
And Ash’s hastily written note on the table telling her they’d been forced to leave.
A cold weight sank into her stomach all over again, joining the sharp twist of inadequacy as she recalled the conversation in her father’s study later that day.
‘Angela Doyle is no longer in my employ. We don’t need a housekeeper any more as you will be boarding at St Bride’s after half-term and I can simply eat at my club.’
‘But, Father, what about Ashling? She’s my best friend.’
‘Ashling is a housekeeper’s daughter. She is hardly a suitable companion for you.’
Cassie pushed past the recollection, disturbed by the realisation that her father’s callous words that day and his blank expression—impatient and vaguely annoyed—still had the power to make the muscles in her stomach clench into a knot.
How pathetic that she could still recall that day in such vivid detail. Especially now, when the last thing she needed was to give Luke Broussard more ammunition.
For goodness’ sake, Cassie, get over yourself.
How ridiculous to let the devastation of that day still control her all these years later... Maybe her life had been more colourful with Ash and her mum living in the staff quarters. And, yes, it had been thoughtless and insensitive of her father to wrench them away from her without a thought to how she might react. But to think she had avoided learning to cook because of that one painful memory...?
Seriously, it was beyond pathetic.
Especially when she considered that everything she’d thought she had lost that day had never really been lost at all. Ash was still her best friend. They’d made sure never to lose touch during all those miserable years Cassie had spent at St Bride’s. They had been sharing a flat together for the last four years, ever since Cassie had finished uni and begun her career at Temple’s as a graduate associate.
It was all good. Give or take the odd bra-less dress debacle and tuxedo ditzkrieg.
Cassie cleared her throat.
Except for one glaring problem. She did not have a ‘go-to’ meal repertoire which she could use to whip up something now and impress Luke Broussard. Not even close. Which meant the only course of action open to her—as her tormentor continued to stare at her with utter contempt—was to bluff. Because she would actually rather die than let him know she had allowed that easily bruised, painfully lonely child to continue to lurk inside her for so long.
‘Cook your own supper,’ Cassie said, drawing herself up to her full height—which was still a lot shorter than his—and trying to draw on the outrage of a moment ago. ‘I’m not your personal chef.’
She swung round to make what she planned to be a dignified and speedy exit.
Too late.
‘Not so fast, Miss Priss.’ He grasped hold of her elbow to tug her back.
A spike of adrenaline shot up her arm, adding shocking heat to the twist of pain and inadequacy already festering in her belly.
To her horror, instead of accepting her perfectly reasonable rebuttal, Luke Broussard tilted his head to one side, studying her in that strangely unsettling way he had that made her feel totally transparent.
‘You can’t cook, can you?’ he said.
It wasn’t a question.
‘How do you...?’ She stopped, her pulse tripping into overdrive as the weight in her stomach grew to impossible prop
ortions. ‘Of course I can,’ she said, scrambling to cover the gaffe.
‘Uh-huh?’ he said. ‘Then prove it.’
‘I don’t have to prove anything to you,’ she managed, but she could tell from his expression that the game was up.
‘What are you? Some kind of princess?’ he said, contempt dripping from his words now. She should have been prepared for it. She wasn’t. Especially as she didn’t even have anything resembling a decent excuse. The weight in her stomach twisted and throbbed on cue.
‘No, it’s just... It’s not a skill I’ve ever needed. Particularly...’ she said, desperately trying to cover her tracks. Bluffing hadn’t worked. Maybe bluster would.
‘Why?’
