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Heat shimmied around his groin and his only option was to move. Fast.
Striding over to the trestle table in the corner, which was covered with cups and an urn of boiling water, he plonked down the container. Within seconds she was next to him, so close he could smell her sweetly familiar perfume, and he wanted to turn and bury his face in the curve of her neck; tangle his fingers in that mass of curls and smother her mouth with his.
“What have you got in there?”
“Cake.”
“Did you make it?”
“Yes, and it’s a complete disaster.”
She let out a cross between a snort and a giggle and the sound was so infectious he couldn’t resist an answering tug at the corner of his mouth.
“Okay, let’s take a look,” she ordered.
Reluctantly, he opened the container. The cake made him think of a guy desperately trying to disguise a bald patch, icing sagging off to one side and a big patch of emptiness in the middle that he’d tried to rectify with some hundreds and thousands. Botched, completely and utterly botched.
“Full marks for effort, Dr J. It probably tastes delicious.”
He looked sideways at her and she caught his eye and bit her lip. Something zapped, tangible and electric, between them. More heat arrowed most inconsiderately to his cock and he had to step away.
He ripped off his leather jacket and laid it around the back of a chair.
“So, when does everyone arrive? Arghh, no don’t touch it.” He saw her trying to lift the broken cake out of the container and dived forward. “It has to stay in the box.”
She pouted as he wrestled it away from her.
“It will be easier to cut if it’s out of the container.”
“I promise it won’t be.”
“Okay, defender of the cake, I’ll take your word for it.” She was squinting at it through narrowed eyes. “Looks a bit crumbly.”
“It’s supposed to, it’s called chocolatecrumblecake.” He tried for serious but she just made him want to laugh and, in all honesty, laughing was something he hadn’t done enough of for months.
“Don’t tell me; an old Jakoby family recipe.”
“Absolutely. Passed through the generations from grandmother to grandson.”
“Impressive. Can’t wait to taste it.”
“Hi.”
They both swivelled to see a big guy about their age, hovering in the doorway.
Polly swung into action. “Grant, I’m so glad you’re here, we missed you last week.”
“Yeah, bad few days to be honest.”
Solo observed him carefully. He was strong and well-built, but his face was blank, his tone flat.
“I was a bit worried. I tried to call you the day after the group.” Polly said, ushering him into the room.
“Yes, thanks, I saw that.” The young man stood stiff and awkward, avoiding eye-contact. “I messaged Ben to say I was okay; you got that, right?” He flicked a glance at Solo and Polly launched into introductions.
“Grant, this is Dr Solomon Jakoby, he’ll be co-facilitating with me for the next four weeks while Ben’s on holiday.”
Solo knew better than to hold out his hand. Polly had briefed him on the participants and he guessed this was Grant Lewis. Ex army. Afghanistan. Grant gave him a smile that didn’t touch the depths of his blue eyes and a tiny shudder passed up and down Solo’s spine.
