2
James
It’s her. Her.
Blonde curls plastered to her forehead. Big green eyes that swallow the room. That swallow me. Everything else fades, until there's nothing left but her. That gorgeous face. Her sweet scent. Those beautiful tits I pressed into my chest and marveled at.
Soft.
Perfect.
Seared into my memory like a brand I never asked for but couldn't burn away.
She takes a step back, still clutching the chef jacket.
It draws my attention to her generous hips. My palms tingle. My fingertips hurt with the need to squeeze them. Her thick thighs are encased in slacks that can't hide her hourglass figure, no matter how hard they try.
Five years. Five bloody years of dreaming about her.
I was on leave from the Royal Marines when I ran into her at thenightclub.
I was struck by her beauty, her zest for life. She lit up something in me which had begun to die, thanks to the violence I saw as a Marine.
And when it turned out that she was my sister Phe’s best friend, I insisted on driving her home.
Only, instead of dropping her off, we spent the night talking, taking in the sights of a slumbering London.
We’d kissed in the pre-dawn hush in front of Tower Bridge. A fusing of lips. A tangling of tongues. An intermingling of breaths.
There was a connection between us that shook me. I couldn’t control my emotions around her, and that scared me.
I cut off the possibility of anything between us before it could even begin. Then left for what would become my last tour of duty.
My teammates were killed. I came back with survivor's guilt and PTSD. The OCD I'd kept leashed for years finally slipped its collar.
The only way I've stayed functional is by locking everything down.
Emotions are the enemy. They fuel my OCD. They remind me of my birth parents leaving. Of my platoon and how they were gone in seconds. Of how every time I commit to someone, I lose them.
It's easier to feel nothing than to keep paying that price.
I became a chef because she told me that's what she was, and I envied her happiness. I had considered it before the Marines, and it felt natural to return to it afterward.
The same mechanisms I used to keep myself together—the precision, the discipline, the absolute intolerance for anything less than exactly right—gave me the tools to control the chaos of the kitchen.
Three Michelin stars in five years wasn't ambition. It was a damaged man who had found the one place his damage was useful.
I did it while keeping track of her career.
Perhaps, some part of me believed pursuing the same career as her would provide a link to her. Yet I never ran into her on the London culinary circuit.
When the opportunity presented itself, I asked her to interview.
She takes another step back, and something primal rears up in my chest. Panic. Raw and unfamiliar. My instincts fire, telling me that she's going to run. That I’m going to lose her again.
Not this time.
She came to interview for a junior role, but I’m giving her the role ofsous chef. I’m being impulsive, but I don’t care. I’ve been given a second chance. I’m not going to waste it
