office. But perhaps he’d underestimated the impact of his detachment. Perhaps she’d found those smiles harder to fake than he’d realised. He almost smiled himself—it would be so much easier to keep her at a distance when she was obviously keen to do the same. But he didn’t like the thought that he might have hurt her. That he was the cause of that fine line of distress between her eyebrows.
He hated that she had him concerned, and thought that he might have exposed a vulnerability. A chink in her bright flowered armour. Because that would mean a connection between them—something they shared. Something that couldn’t be undone or ignored.
He followed her through to the kitchen, his eyes drawn again to the shift of her skirt over her hips, the fabric clinging slightly to the curves of supple skin. He shook his head to clear his thoughts—again. This wasn’t him. He was in his suit, working, and normally that was a guarantee that nothing distracted him. But this attraction was more than just an unwelcome distraction; it was a threat to his control and to the detachment that allowed him to function.
He dragged his eyes away just before she turned around.
‘So, what can I help you with, Mr Thomas?’
Her tone was cool, and her manner no more friendly now that they were indoors. He was glad. It gave him every reason to respond with equal coolness. It kept her at a safe distance.
He spoke with cold, clipped tones the words that he’d rehearsed in the car. ‘I understand from Rachel that you won’t cater our function next month.’
‘I won’t.’
She turned away from the stove to face him head-on. The slight tremble in her clenched fists gave away her nerves, but her shoulders remained firm and he could see that she wouldn’t back down from him easily. He’d had no idea at the time that his words, his actions, had had such an impact. But he could see no other reason that she would be so hostile towards him now.
‘Can I ask why?’ He ground the words out through clenched teeth and suspected even as he was saying them that he would regret doing so. A niggle of guilt had been eating away at him and he was starting to see why. He’d offended her—which was something he’d never intended. His standoffishness has been purely a defence mechanism.
Maya sighed, and from the way her shoulders tightened and she turned away from him to stir the sauce on the stove he guessed that she didn’t enjoy conflict. Part of him was glad to have that insight; he saw a way to get what he wanted. If he pushed hard enough she’d back down just to avoid a fight.
She took a deep breath and then spoke. ‘As I explained to Rachel, I don’t think my food is right for your dinner. I think you will find another caterer who will better meet your needs.’
Her words sounded rehearsed, and though he was sure that she’d meant them to sound indifferent the edge to her voice and her vigorous beating of the sauce gave her away. Another twinge of guilt and a pang of fear fought for space in his belly. He’d had no idea that he’d hurt her feelings so much, and no real sense of how in jeopardy his project was until now.
He took a deep breath and tried to swallow the dry lump in his throat. ‘I’m aware that I didn’t give your food the attention it deserved when you came to the office, and I’m sorry that I was distracted during our meeting. We’d very much like to work with you.’ He had to get this back on track, he thought, rubbing the back of his neck.
‘Well, thank you for your apology,’ she said, still refusing to look at him, ‘but I’m afraid the answer’s still no.’
‘Why?’ he persisted, his voice growing softer, though he hadn’t intended it to. He was just changing tack, he told himself, just trying another way to get what he wanted. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t push her if he really needed to.
‘Like I said, I don’t think we’re well suited. I don’t think we’d work well together.’
She was still turned determinedly against him, her voice hard.
Will ran a hand through his hair, testing scenarios in his mind, trying to think objectively. Trying to find a rational, sensible business argument with which he could persuade her. ‘Your food was fine,’ he said, ‘and I’m not asking you to work with me. I’m asking you to cater a dinner.’
‘That proves my point exactly.’ She whipped around and met his eye, brandishing her wooden spoon like a knife. Her voice and the colour in her face rose. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘You thought my food was fine.’
Partly he was pleased. Glad to have a reaction from her at last, thrilled that she was turning to face him. But mainly he was concerned about what this flash of anger meant for Julia House. He’d crafted a business argument that he was sure would put things right. And it had made things worse.
Maya turned back and continued to thrash at the sauce, hypnotising him with the way her skirt swung with every movement. It took a few seconds for his brain to catch up with his ears and eyes. What was wrong with fine? Nothing. There was no reason for him not to hire her, and no reason he could see for her to object to him. But though she’d pulled herself together he had seen hurt and anger cross her face. He didn’t understand it, didn’t understand why she had so much invested in this food of hers, but he didn’t like that he’d upset her.
‘Maya?’ He wanted to leave. He didn’t want to involve himself in whatever it was that made this woman turn down business because he’d described her food as ‘fine’. But without her onside Sir Cuthbert could withdraw the company’s support for the charity. He stayed put.
Maya took a breath and turned around, pasting on the smile that he recognised from his office.
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t cook for people who think my food is “fine”. If I know you won’t enjoy the food, I won’t enjoy cooking it. If I don’t enjoy cooking it, what’s the point? The food won’t be any good and I won’t be happy.’
‘Is this a general rule?’ he asked. He forced a note of humour into his voice, hoping to lighten the mood.
The atmosphere in here was intense, and he could see from her tight muscles and hunched shoulders that Maya was a few wrong words away from an outburst that would put a permanent end to his project. Even putting that aside, he didn’t want to see that happen. Being so close to such a volume of emotion made him uneasy; he could feel his own emotions welling up in response, weighing heavily against the door that kept them shut away.
‘Do you always turn down business from people who don’t gush over your food?’ He tried to inject a little laughter, but his voice cracked and that door shifted when he saw the distress in her features.
‘I don’t know about a rule,’ she said, her voice weaker now, flat, as she stared down at the floor. ‘It’s never happened before.’
Will took a minute to think about this. He knew that he was the problem, and that the solution had to come from him. But he was trying desperately to see a way out of the plan that Rachel and Cuthbert had pincered him into. There had to be something. Because the thought of having to go through with it tightened his chest until he struggled to breathe.
‘Look, Maya. I know we don’t exactly see eye to eye on this; I don’t appreciate food like you do.’ He took a deep breath, tried to steady his voice. ‘But what if I was prepared to learn?’
He regretted the words immediately. He knew that as much as he would try to fight off the memories being back in a kitchen, oohing and aahing over delicious treats, would be close to torture.
‘What do you mean?’ She turned around and looked at him, surprise in her voice and on her face.
‘Back at the office you told Rachel that you’re running a cookery course next week, and that there was a space free. If I take the course, try to connect with your food, will you reconsider?’ He controlled his fear and his voice, but if he’d had any other choice, if this was any other project, he’d be running from here—from her—as fast as he could.
She