Page 19 of Something Borrowed

He shakes his head. “Are you?”

I follow him like a rat after the Pied Piper. “Well. I suppose I could give it a go.”

He shudders. “Please don’t. There aren’t enough Rennies in the world to cope with your attempts. I still get flashbacks from your trifle. It was like a milkshake.”

“That was Leo’s fault. It just needed more time in the fridge.”

“We could have given it until the End of Days, and it still wouldn’t have set.”

“Oh, shut up.”

He laughs, and I watch as he slips an apron on and ties it around his narrow hips. His dark curls fall around his face.

The kitchen is Stan’s domain, as he loves cooking and is very good at it. Pale blue cabinets intermingle with a stainless-steel worktop and appliances, while on the windowsill, a shelf of herbs is a mass of green. Everything is spotless and neat, and woe betide me if I don’t put something back properly.

“What are you making?” I ask, hoisting myself up onto the counter and swinging my legs. “Ooh, I hope it’s scrambled eggs on toast.”

“There’s not even a hint of subtlety about you, is there? And that’s breakfast food that I’m pretty sure evenyoucan make.”

“Not as creamy and lovely as you do. Especially with the ham and peppers. And did you miss the memo about my headache?”

“We pronounce it hangover in these here parts.”

I roll my eyes. “Potato or potahto.”

“Exactly.”

“Please.” I smile as I watch him reach for a bowl in the cupboard. He grabs a whisk and pulls the egg carton towards him, running his finger over the braille label on the lid to check the date. He feels for the bowl, running his finger along the lip, and then quickly cracks six eggs into it. I love watching him anytime, but he’s brilliant in the kitchen. His movements have grace and surety because he knows every inch of the room like the back of his hand.

“I can actually feel you staring,” he says, reaching for the salt and pepper. He measures the proper amount of each onto his palm before adding them to the bowl.

“I can’t help it if you’re brilliant.”

He smirks. “I’m making scrambled eggs. It’s hardly Jamie Oliver.”

“He’s far too bouncy. I prefer you. At least I know you’ll cut the toast into little soldiers for me.”

“Oh my god. It’s like feeding a toddler.”

He goes to move past me, and without thinking, I wrap my legs around his waist, stopping him in his tracks. “You, of all people, know that’s not true,” I say, resting my hands on his broad shoulders, feeling the heat of his skin and hearing how husky my voice has gone.

He’s warm and solid and smells of Byredo cologne. I bought it for him for Christmas last year because the earthy sweet sage, amber, and plum smell reminded me of him, and he’s worn it faithfully ever since. It’s so very him—like a warm hug—and I squeeze him tighter, wanting and needing to keep him here in my arms. My Stan, in all his clever brilliance.

“Raff?” he says hoarsely.

I suddenly realise he’s become completely still, and I swallow hard, emotion popping in my chest like a balloon, letting in the cold air of reason.

Everything I just did was spontaneous—a result of my feelings for him—but I should fucking know better. Once, he’d have laughed about me hugging him and said something sharp, snarky, or both. But that was before the events of six months ago, and noweverythingis different.

“Sorry,” I mutter, letting go and feeling a pang in my heart as he moves quickly to get away from me. I wrap my arms around myself, feeling cold. Until I hugged him, I hadn’t realised how empty I’ve been—starved of his touch.

He hovers. “It’s just we can’t do that anymore. You know?—”

“I know,” I snap, my cheeks flushing at the hint of apology in his voice.

I hate the anxious expression that crosses his face. I can’t see him upset or worried. I’ve never been able to do that.

“I know,” I say again, making my voice light. “It was just a hug, Stanley. I give them out quite freely. I wasn’t humping your leg. It takes, at the minimum, five Negronis before I do that.”

---