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They were both wearing sweatpants and hoodies but even with all that fleecy fabric between them, she was still keenly aware of that large hard body pressed so close to hers.
She brought her hands up between them, flattening her palms against his chest.
“I’m okay now,” she whispered, casting her eyes downward, uncomfortable with his piercing stare that seemed to miss nothing.
He held onto her for a beat longer, his hands moving upward to cup her waist.
“Hey, Iris?” His chest vibrated against her hands as he spoke.
“Yes?”
“I really, really hate it when you hide your eyes from me.”
Her brow furrowed at the comment and she lifted her head to stare at him in confusion. He made a deep, rumbling sound of approval when she met his gaze.
“That’s better. I like seeing that defiant spark in them when you’re pissed off with me. When you hide your eyes, I worry that you’re on the verge of tears.”
“Why would you care if I cried? At best I’m an unwelcome guest in your temporary home. At worst I’m an intruder who tried to lie her way into an interview with you.”
“This is a… difficult situation. And I’m trying to be fair. I feel like I’ve found a workable solution for both of us, at least until this can be straightened out. I don’t think that’s so unreasonable.”
It wasn’t unreasonable. Not at all. Iris was the one with the problem and no matter how much she tried to explain it to him, she doubted he’d ever truly grasp how distressing it was for her to be locked in that room.
“You’re not being unreasonable, or unfair. But my phobia isn’t rational. I can’t reason my way out of it. I wish I could.”
His arms fell away from her waist and he stepped back, leaving Iris cold and bereft. She wrapped her own arms around her body in an attempt to keep that dreadful, lonely coldness at bay.
“I don’t know you, Iris. I can’t trust you. You understand that, don’t you? I can’t allow you to roam freely around my space. I can’t afford to be so blindly foolish. You’re asking me to believe that you suffer from a phobia that very opportunely means you can’t stay in a locked room? You see how highly suspicious that is, right? How could you even board a plane to come here in the first place, if that were the case?”
She nearly hadn’t, but a combination of medication, an aisle seat, deep-breathing exercises, as well as the excitement at the prospect of meeting and interviewing Trystan Abbott had helped her fight through her debilitating fear.
About halfway through the flight, when she’d realized that she was well on her way to South Africa and that she hadn’t lost her shit even a little, she’d felt so damned powerful and triumphant and proud. It had been a huge boost to her self-esteem. The flight hadn’t been easy by any means, but once she’d understood that she could do it—that she was doing it—Iris had felt almost invincible.
Only to find herself here, and right back to square one with her phobia.
“I don’t understand why Mr. Quinn didn’t message or email you about my arrival,” she said wearily, tired of having the same dead-end conversation with him. “If you would allow me to, I could show you my correspondence with him.”
“I told you before, electronic correspondence is easily faked,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“Of course it is,” Iris said with a dejected sigh, really not in the mood for this conversation again either. This wasn’t even a misunderstanding anymore—it was the willful stubborn insistence of one party not to believe a single word the other said. There was no arguing with that. No reasoning. He didn’t want to believe her and so—no matter what proof she offered to support her argument—he wouldn’t.
“You asked if I was any good in the kitchen,” she said, changing the subject. She ignored the astonishment in his usually enigmatic gaze, knowing he’d expected her to continue arguing her case. Iris felt a swell of satisfaction that she’d managed to surprise him. He was too smug in his belief that he knew everything there was to know about her and what motivated her.
“My parents own a catering and events company. They started off as caterers and I grew up knowing my way around a kitchen. I’m a pretty decent cook, nowhere near as good as my dad, of course. He’s a genius in the kitchen. My mum’s better with the admin.”
“Well, I’m happy for you to recreate one of your dad’s recipes for lunch. I’m pretty fed up of cooking. As you may have noticed, I’m not the most creative of cooks.”
“You do okay,” she said and he grinned.
“If that’s not damning someone with faint praise, I don’t know what is.” He chuckled in genuine amusement.
“Are you sure you trust me to cook. Not afraid I’ll drug you and snoop around your house while you’re unconscious?”
His smile broadened, lively amusement still lingering in his eyes.
“Well, I wasn’t until you asked me that question,” he said, his tone mocking. “Come on, time to dazzle me with your culinary abilities.”
It was a pleasure to cook in the massive state-of-the-art kitchen. It was truly a chef’s space, with everything she could possibly need right at her fingertips. She’d been honest when she’d boasted about being a decent cook. She happily whipped up a chicken korma—one of her dad’s specialties—from scratch, with butter naan and raita as sides.
