Page 10 of Journey to You

It had been her stupid thoughts earlier of ‘what if’ that had made her aware of him as a man—a gorgeous, charming man—rather than her…what was he? A business acquaintance? A travelling companion? A friend?

She didn’t like the last two options: they inferred a closeness she didn’t want. But they’d moved past the acquaintance stage the moment he hugged her at the station and there was no going back.

She didn’t want these thoughts, didn’t want to acknowledge the sexy crease in his left cheek, the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes that added character to his face, the ruffled dark hair that curled over his collar.

She’d never noticed those things before or if she had, hadn’t experienced this…buzz,or whatever the strange feeling coursing through her body was, making her want to bury her nose in her notebook for the duration of dinner.

That might take care of day one, but what about the rest of the week as the Palace on Wheels took them on an amazing journey through Rajasthan?

Ethan was Richard’s friend, reason enough she couldn’t trust him.

She reached for the notebook and he stilled her hand. Startled, her gaze flew to his, her heart beating uncharacteristically fast. He’d touched her. Again. And this time her pulse tripped and her skin prickled as determination flared in his eyes,while fear crept through her.

Fear they’d changed the boundaries of their nebulous relationship without realising, fear they could never go back, fear she’d lose focus of what she wanted out of this trip if she was crazy enough to acknowledge the shift between them let alone do anything about it.

“This is the first vacation you’ve taken in years. Don’t be so hard on yourself.” He squeezed her hand, released it, and she exhaled, unaware she’d been holding her breath. “You’ll get back into the swing of things soon enough.” He winked. “Once I coerce the talented Indian chef to leave the Lake Palace and work atAmbrosia, critiquing his meals will keep you busy for months.”

“You’re too kind.”

She meant it. He’d never been anything other than kind to her—when he acknowledged her presence, that is—from the first moment he arranged a special table for her atAmbrosiaaway from the ravenous crowd so she could sample the food and write her critiques in peace.

But kind didn’t come close to describing the surprising gleam in his eyes or the subtle shift that had taken place between them a few moments ago—dangerous, more like it. Dangerous, exciting, and terrifying.

He screwed up his nose, stabbing aseekhkebab from the entrée platter, and moving it across to his plate. “You know, kind ranks right up there with nice for guys. Something we don’t want to hear.”

“Fine. You’re a cold, heartless, businessman who takes no prisoners. Better?”

“Much.”

His bold smile had her scrambling for her notebook and flipping it open to a crisp, blank page, pen poised. “Take a bite of that kebab and tell me what you think.”

He cut the kebab—spiced lamb moulded into a sausage shape around a skewer and cooked to perfection in a tandoor oven—and chewed a piece, emitting a satisfied moan that had her focussing on his lips rather than her notebook.

“Fantastic.” He screwed up his eyes, took another bite, and chewed. “I can taste ginger, a hint of garlic, and cumin.”

He ate the rest, then patted his stomach, a lean, taut stomach from what she could see outlined beneath his shirt.

Great, there she went again, noticing things she never normally would. This wasn’t good, not good at all.

Pressing the pen to the page so hard it tore a hole through to the paper underneath, she focussed on her scrawl rather than anywhere in the vicinity of Ethan’s lips or washboard abs.

“Not a bad critique but lacking detail, so that’s why you’re the guy who owns the restaurants and I’m lucky enough to eat in them and write about the food.”

He smiled and pointed at her notebook. “Go ahead then. Tell me all about the wonders of theseekhkebab.”

She glanced at her notes, a thrill of excitement shooting through her. She loved her job, every amazing moment of it, from sampling food, savouring it, titillating her tastebuds until she couldn’t put pen to paper fast enough to expound its joys, to trying new concoctions and sharing hidden delights with fellow foodies.

As for Indian food, she’d been raised on the stuff and there was nothing like it in the world.

“Thekeema—” he raised an eyebrow and she clarified, “—lamb mince is subtly spiced with an exotic blend of garam masala, dried mango powder, carom seeds, and raw papaya paste, with a healthy dose of onion, black pepper, ginger, garlic and a pinch of nutmeg.”

“You got all that from one bite?”

She pushed the notebook away, unable to contain her laughter as he took another bite, trying to figure out how she did it.

“My mum used to make them. I memorised the ingredients when I was ten years old.”

Her laughter petered out as she remembered what else had happened when she was ten; her dad had dropped dead at work from a cerebral aneurysm and the world as she’d known it had ceased to exist.

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