Page 40 of Forbidden Fruit

“Something smells amazing,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

My carefully constructed resolve crumbles like sand between my fingers. All my internal lectures about going slow and respecting this vulnerable time evaporate like morning mist.

“You look beautiful,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend.

She steps into the kitchen, and I can smell her coconut shampoo mixing with the spices in the air. My grip tightens on the wooden spoon.

“Can I help with anything?” she asks, coming closer. Her fingertips brush the countertop as she approaches, and I follow the movement like a man hypnotized.

“Just sit,” I manage to say, nodding toward the barstools on the kitchen island. “Wine?”

She slides onto a stool, crossing those legs I can’t forget. “Please.”

I turn to grab a bottle of chilled sauvignon blanc, grateful for the momentary reprieve from her gaze. My hands aren’t entirely steady as I pour two glasses.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” she says, accepting the wine with a smile that makes my stomach flip like a teenager.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” The words come out more intimate than I intended, hanging between us in the spice-scented air.

Becca takes a sip of wine, her eyes never leaving mine over the rim of the glass. “I’m starting to realize that.”

I force myself to return to the stove, stirring the simmering mixture with unnecessary focus. The peppers and onions have softened perfectly, releasing their sweet aroma into the kitchen. I add the shrimp, watching them curl and turn pink.

“Today was...” she begins, then pauses.

I glance over my shoulder. “Fun?”

She shakes her head slowly, and the relief that floods through me is embarrassing in its intensity. “Yes,” she whispers. “I enjoyed every minute. I don’t remember when I had so much fun.”

The wooden spoon clatters against the side of the pan. I take a deep breath and steady myself against the counter.

“Becca,” I say her name like a prayer, a warning, a plea. “I want you to know that I respect what you’re going through, and I’m not the type of man who takes advantage of someone’s vulnerability.”

She gracefully slides off the stool and moves toward me, her white dress glowing under the warm kitchen light. As she reaches me, she gently takes the spoon from my hand and places it aside. “I know you’re a good man,” she says, tilting her face to mine. “And I appreciate everything you’re doing for me. I’m more than capable of controlling my attraction to you. I’m enjoying your friendship.”

Attraction? Friendship? The logical part of my brain—the part that remembers she’s Jack’s ex-girlfriend, that this whole situation is complicated beyond measure—makes one last desperate attempt to maintain control.

But logic is no match for the pull between us. Not when Rebecca is standing this close, her eyes reflecting the golden light from above. Not when I can see the pulse in her throat quickening.

“Then let’s just have a nice, friendly dinner,” I agree, my voice a low rumble. “Though I should warn you, I’m easily distracted.”

She smiles, not backing away. “Sounds perfect.”

I force myself to return to the stove, but I’m acutely aware of her presence behind me, the soft sound of her breathing, the rustle of that white dress as she moves to set the table. Every few seconds, our eyes meet across the kitchen, and each time, the temperature seems to rise another degree.

I plate the shrimp with rice and mango salsa I prepared earlier, garnishing with fresh cilantro and lime wedges. When I turn, she’s already seated at the small table on the terrace, the ocean breeze gently lifting her hair. The sun has almost completely set, leaving the sky deep indigo scattered with early stars.

“This looks incredible,” she says as I place her plate before her.

“A simple dish,” I reply, sitting across from her. “But the ingredients here are exceptional.”

We eat in companionable silence for a few minutes––the only sounds are the distant waves, the clink of silverware, and the occasional appreciative murmur from Becca. I watch her savor each bite, how her lips close around her fork, and struggle to remember what we were discussing.

“Where did you learn to cook like this?” she asks, breaking the silence.

“I traveled a lot in my twenties. Spent time in kitchens whenever I could.” I take a sip of wine. “Before the company took over my life.”

“Hard to imagine you before the success,” she says, her eyes curious. “What were you like?”

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