LITMIR.BIZ

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She decided to stick with business questions—maybe if they could get comfortable talking about that, they could progress from there.

      ‘So, is it interesting, working with a charity? What type of charity is it? How did you get involved?’

      Perhaps if she just kept throwing questions out there one of them would stick. But at the last one Will dropped his fork, placed his elbow on the table and rested his head in his hand.

      Will looked...broken. More pain than she’d seen one person bear weighed heavy in his eyes and on his shoulders, and she hated that she’d caused that. Regret curled in her belly at the knowledge that she’d brought someone so much grief. This week was meant to be about pleasure, about learning to appreciate flavour and beauty and art. But from the way that his elbows had come up onto the table to turn him in on himself, shield his body, she knew that she’d made a huge error.

      Her instincts told her to move closer, but his body language screamed Keep Out. She rested her hands flat on the table to stop herself reaching across to him. Seeing Will like this threw everything that she’d thought she knew about him into new light. She’d seen hints of something haunting him, but had never imagined that he was carrying such raw pain.

      ‘Will...?’ She didn’t want to make this worse; she only wanted to help.

      ‘It’s a hospice,’ he said quietly. ‘I have a...a family connection to it.’

      ‘Oh.’

      She knew that the response was inadequate. His few words, forced out through gritted teeth, had carried a great weight of buried hurt. There was so much she didn’t know about him, but with those words she’d started to understand him a little more. No wonder he was distant, if this was what threatened when he opened up. No wonder he eyed her with distrust and trepidation when she wanted emotion from him.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, caving in to her instincts and touching his hand. ‘It’s none of my business.’

      ‘It’s fine.’ Will picked up his fork, shrugging off her touch, and his face was smoothed over.

      Maya guessed that he was fighting against memories, and winning this time.

      ‘Julia, my foster mother, died fifteen years ago. One of her nurses started a hospice charity and asked me to provide financial advice.’ He spoke with an angry edge to his voice, apparently still fighting for control.

      ‘Oh,’ she said again. It was still inadequate.

      ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Will said, solving her dilemma. ‘Not now. Not ever.’

      * * *

      Maya lay in bed and checked the clock on her bedside table. Still only five o’clock. A little early to be crashing around when she had a guest in the house, especially one who’d seemed so annoyed with her by the time they’d gone upstairs last night. After her disastrous attempt at small talk Will had swept up the dishes from the table and clattered around in the kitchen, tidying up. She’d followed him, wanting to help—with the dishes, with his pain—but he’d scowled at her when she’d walked through the door and told her that he could manage. She’d started to argue, to insist that he didn’t need to, but the glare that he’d sent in her direction had had her retracing her steps out through the door. She’d watched through the window as she picked up the last few things from the table, had seen the blank look in his eyes. He’d scrubbed at the counters, cleaning them in long straight strokes, and she guessed that he’d found some comfort in those actions.

      She’d known beyond doubt that her presence in the kitchen would upset him further. It didn’t matter how much she wanted to apologise, to put things right, he’d needed her to stay away.

      When he’d finally gone upstairs she’d wished him goodnight and told him she’d see him back down here in the morning; then she’d sorted through the last few things in the kitchen before following him up. As she’d reached the landing she’d heard frantic typing, fingers being hammered into a keyboard, and had let out a long sigh. This week was already proving to be so much harder than she’d ever dreamt, and this was only day one. Will had asked her to teach him, but she was worried that he would fight the temptation to learn with his last breath.

      Lying in bed was doing her no good this morning. She’d woken so many times through the night, thinking about the disastrous evening in the kitchen and on the terrace—she couldn’t have slept for more than an hour at a time.

      Making this week a success had never seemed less likely than it did this morning. But Will had laid down the gauntlet, challenged her to teach him, and she was determined to see it through. He was here, and there was something in that simple fact that made Maya want to persevere. This man needed happiness in his life, something to balance the grief she had glimpsed last night, and the only thing she knew that could deliver joy of that magnitude was food.

      She wouldn’t push. She couldn’t force something that he didn’t feel. All she could do was make her food so irresistible that he couldn’t help but enjoy it. And her sleepless night had given her plenty of time to think about how to go about it. This morning she wouldn’t ask Will to cook. She would just surround him with delicious smells and tastes, lighten his mood and help him feel relaxed in the kitchen.

      She dragged her tired body out of bed and into the shower, making plans in her head for something that would reach out and bring Will a little relief. Perhaps something with fresh fruit? That way it would introduce him to more of her garden. Or something spiced that would appeal to the nose as well as the palate?

      After blasting her hair with the dryer she selected her pinkest, floweriest, summeriest dress from the wardrobe. For someone with as much red hair as she had it was not an obvious choice of colour, but she was going to exude sunshine and pleasure today. Will had been in her house a day, and seemed even less happy than he had when he’d arrived. She couldn’t allow herself to take a step back; if she was going to make this work she had to throw everything she could at it.

      She hunted frantically for ingredients, looking for inspiration in the walk-in fridge, grabbing fruit and butter, eggs and milk. She whipped and beat and whisked and folded, and every time she slid another tray into the oven she reached for a mixing bowl again. The familiar actions chased last night’s shadows out of the kitchen and she breathed more easily as she saw the results of her work piling up on the countertops. This would work. This had to work. There had to be something here that would get through to him.

      She threw the switch on her food mixer, adjusted the oven temperature, turned cakes out onto racks. A simple sponge, shortbread, scones, pizza bases. She found spiced cream, home-made jams and fresh berries. Perfect for building layers of flavours.

      She picked at the fruit and munched on biscuits as she went. With her recent late nights, and the stress of a student who didn’t want to learn, she was asking for a migraine. Lucky for her, keeping her blood sugar up and cooking out her stress were the best ways to fend one off.

      And when at last the huge container of flour was empty she leaned back against the counter and surveyed her work. Spoons, spatulas and whisks were stacked up by the sink. Her supply of mixing bowls was exhausted and every inch of counter space was covered with the evidence or the fruits of her labour.

      Some of it she barely remembered making. She hadn’t been thinking. She’d just let her hands and her heart take over her body.

      She thought of Will’s fingers stroking the screen of his phone, hammering on his laptop last night, and couldn’t help but recognise the similarities. She’d reached for comfort this morning, as she’d seen him do.

      There was more food here than she and Will could eat in a month, never mind a week. It could go in the freezer once it cooled, she thought, mentally flicking through her diary for the next couple of weeks. She had a couple of afternoon teas booked that the cakes and biscuits would be perfect for.

      She glanced at the clock. It was gone ten o’clock already and she’d seen no sign of Will yet. Oh, well, he wouldn’t be the first hardened workaholic to succumb to the effects of country air. She’d

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