Unwrapping the Best Man

He turns towards me, his head shaking. ‘Told you not to apologise.’

I give him a sheepish shrug. ‘I feel I need to. Can I help?’

‘Absolutely not. Go and sit down; let me do this. And then we can have...well, that talk. Okay?’

That talk... I swallow. I’m not sure I’m strong enough to hear his reasons for rejecting me, not when I’m like this, but I don’t want to run from it either. I give him a grim smile and a nod.

‘But just because you’re doing all this,’ I say, and wave a determined finger at the food cooking, ‘it doesn’t mean I forgive you for four months ago.’

He doesn’t look at me as he says, ‘I don’t expect you to.’

And, instead of reassuring me, it puts me further on edge because it makes me soften more and I curse my own weakness.

I look away from him at the view, squint at the sun that’s shining through the fluffy white clouds and the view of London that looks so fresh and clear in spite of my fuzzy brain. I need air and, instead of sitting back down, I walk to the glass and test the handle. It’s unlocked and I step out and breathe in deeply. Better.

I’ve been to the club numerous times over, but I’ve never been this high up, never been able to appreciate the view over the undulating roofs, the trees that border a small enclosed park and the people taking a walk, enjoying their day. It’s calm, peaceful.

‘Cait, get in here—you’ll freeze.’

I laugh readily at his scolding. He’s right. My entire body is covered in goose bumps and as I head back inside I realise it’s not just my skin that’s prickling up. His eyes darken as they drop to breast level, where my nipples bead against his T, and that look, that fucking look...

I drag in air as my clit pulses, warmth fluttering up through my middle and I press my palm against it. I part my lips to say something, though nothing comes out, but the movement is enough to spur him into action.

He turns away, clears his throat and throws all his focus on dishing food onto the plates like his life depends on it. I’m still rooted, burning up inside from the heat I glimpsed in his eyes. He wanted me. In that second he wanted me, and fuck I would have let him have me. Hangover and hurt be damned.

So much for moving on.

I stride back to the breakfast bar, my head held high against my inner rant, and pin my hands beneath my thighs as I take a seat once more.

I watch him add seasoning to the eggs, taste and add some more. He’s proficient, serious about what he’s doing...and this is just breakfast.

‘You look like you enjoy cooking,’ I say, grateful to have something to talk about that’s safe. It’s not sex and it doesn’t touch on old wounds.

‘I do.’

‘Something you got from your mum and dad?’

He gives a gentle scoff and doesn’t turn to look at me. ‘Hardly.’

I wince, knowing instinctively that I’ve put my foot in it and realising as I do that I don’t know much about Jackson pre-Blacks. He keeps it all close to his chest. ‘Sorry.’

‘Nothing to be sorry for.’ He gives me a quick smile before turning away to pull two mugs out of a cupboard and places them down in front of me. ‘My father brought me up. I don’t think he knew a saucepan from a frying pan, let alone how to navigate a kitchen.’

I study his face and look for an edge, a sadness, but there’s nothing. ‘What happened to your mum?’

‘No idea.’ He turns back to the hob. ‘She left me with my father and vanished when I was a baby.’

My heart squeezes in my chest. I can’t imagine it. I have such a big family. A loud, loving, protective—sometimes frustratingly so—family. Did he really have no one but his father?

?

??I’m so—’ He sends me a quick look and my smile finishes the impulsive apology he doesn’t want to hear. ‘What about grandparents, aunts, uncles?’

‘No, it was just me and Dad. Not that he was around much and then he was gone. By the age of eighteen it was just me and the council flat I grew up in.’

‘Gone?’

‘Dead.’