February 2008

MARK

I'm stirring risotto on the hob when Zoe bursts through the front door. Cheeks flushed, she barrels straight past me without acknowledgment and disappears into her room. The lock clicks, a quiet yet clear signal she wants privacy.

As the rice starts to bubble in the pan, I adjust the heat and glance at the oven clock. Impatience to check on her tugs at my gut. Six months has passed since she started her grad scheme, and apart from a few wobbles, she's nailing it. I love that passion in her. The drive to succeed. But I suspect today hasn't been so great.

After ten minutes, I stride to her door and tap my knuckles against the wood.

No response.

"Zo." I shove my hands in my pockets to resist the urge to knock again. "You want dinner or shall I put your portion in the fridge?"

"Not hungry," comes her muffled reply.

I grind my teeth. If she's upset, now isn't the time to lecture her on the importance of nutrition. Still, unease ripples through me at the thought of her lying there in distress. Alone. Trapped inside her head. Probably hungry even though she says she's not.

"Want to talk?" I offer.

"No."

"A hug?" It's my trump card, one that I only play when I'm out of other options.

Tonight, though, it's not about winning her over. It's about giving her what she needs.

Silence drifts through the white door separating us.

"Later," she eventually replies. "I just want to be alone right now."

That doesn't appease me as much as she'd want it to, but I respect her wishes and step away from her door. Back at the hob, I set aside a plate of risotto, picking out all the mushrooms because I know she hates them, and leave it to cool.

I linger on the sofa after I've finished eating, only getting up to move her portion into the fridge and do the washing up. Normally that would be her job if I've cooked, but I don't know when she's planning to emerge from her room and seeing the dirty dishes is bothering me. Plus she could probably do with a night off if she's had a bad day.

I'm an hour into a sudoku when she finally appears. Without a word, she pads over to the kitchen and takes out her plate to heat it up in the microwave. Relief washes over me. I try to concentrate on the puzzle, but my eyes keep drifting over to her.

She sinks into the armchair, legs curled underneath her, and slices her fork through the risotto.

"No mushrooms." She peeks up at me.

For a second, I'm distracted by the redness lining her eyes. A tight lump chokes my throat, and I cough to clear it.

"Picked them out for you."

"Oh. I was hoping you'd changed your recipe."

I can't pinpoint whether the sass is coming from light-hearted banter or irritable sulkiness. There's no teasing in her eyes, but then she's probably exhausted. If it was a genuine snipe at me, I can only guess that she's in need of a punching bag and I'm the lucky victim.

"Not my problem that you don't like mushrooms," I say, lowering my eyes to my sudoku again.

"It's your problem if you've gone to the effort of picking them out for me."

"It's not that much effort."

I'm not rising to this provocation attempt. She wants a fight. That's evident now. And if she wants a fight, it's because she needs an outlet for whatever is troubling her. I recognise it perfectly well, because I enjoy the same coping strategy myself. Switch an uncomfortable emotion for something easier to handle.

In my periphery, she starts shovelling food into her mouth, so at least she's over her hunger strike.

"Washed up as well," she states when she carries her plate over to the sink.

"Yes, but you can do yours."

"Tomorrow." The plate and fork clatter into the steel basin with an ear-piercing clang.

My jaw clenches. If she is trying to piss me off, she's starting to succeed. I draw in a slow breath and toss the puzzle book onto the coffee table. It skids across the surface until it collides with the remote control and stops.

When I look across at her, though, to see watery eyes glaring back at me, my irritation fades away.

"Come here, Zo."

She shakes her head, but then her bottom lip trembles and she spins around to face away. Her shoulders lock as she grabs onto the edge of the worktop and tips her head back. I give her a few seconds. Ten tops. And then I lunge out of the sofa and rush over to her.

As soon as my hand touches her shoulder, she lets out a sob and crumbles into my body, her arms winding around my torso. Tears soak through my t-shirt.

Whatever has got her this upset better not be a person. I promised her I'd never hit anyone again after my lapse of judgement with Jennings, but I've got access to resources through this CPO role that could come in very handy if I wanted to make someone's life difficult for a brief period of time.

I nestle one hand into her hair and rub the other in soothing circles across her lower back. Gradually, the sobs quieten into softer sniffles.

"Rough day?" I ask.

Her head bobs against my chest, fingers clutching fistfuls of cotton. I itch to prise her away from me so I can talk to her properly, but she's clinging on like a koala, so I stand there and let her take what she needs.

"Tell me how I can help," I murmur.

"You're already helping." Her arms tighten around me, and my heartbeat kicks up a notch. It's an empathetic reaction to her pain—nothing more than that.

After several minutes, she releases me and steps back from my body.

"I'm going to jump in the shower," she says. "Can we talk after?"

"Sure."

While she's in the bathroom, I wash up. Zoe wears her heart on her sleeve. She feels deeply and reacts with emotion. I usually love that about her, the not having to guess how she's feeling. Not having to analyse or assess like I do with other people. It's refreshing. It's also not lost on me that she resents how I'm the opposite to her, so I need to do something that shows I'm here for her. Just like she'd be there for me if I needed her.

The shower shuts off and her quiet footsteps patter towards her room. I collapse onto the sofa and wait.

Five minutes pass. Then another ten. When she still hasn't come out after half an hour, I knock on her door.

"How you doing?" I call through the wood.

The door swings open to reveal her standing there in a bright pink towel that's tiny enough to qualify as a flannel. My eyes trip up on the loose knot secured at her chest, then fly to the side to focus on the wardrobe instead.

"Sorry." My voice comes out hoarse and I clear my throat. "Thought you'd be dressed by now."

Her thumb and forefinger pinch my chin, tugging my face back round to her own. "Don't be weird. You've seen me in far less than a towel."

Exactly. That's the problem.

I lower my gaze to hers, careful not to drop it below her eyes. Her hand falls down to her side, then she turns and wanders over to the bed. She hops up onto the duvet, nearly flashing me an arse cheek in the process, and lies down, her head on the pillow, turned towards me. Expectant.

The towel has ridden up her thighs, but I don't concentrate on that. I give her what she obviously wants and recline beside her. Immediately, she nestles into my side, one hand settled on my stomach, one leg draped over my knee. Warmth from her body seeps through the fluffy fabric. I'm terrified that if I move an inch, that precarious knot will fall apart. I can't lie here motionless, though, so I work an arm around her back and cup a palm over her bare shoulder.

I keep my voice even and controlled when I ask, "What happened?"

She sighs. The delicate puff of air floats over my chest.

"I feel like I'm not cut out for this."

"Bullshit. This is your dream, Zo. Don't let one rough day outweigh all the good days you've had."

"It was awful, Mark. I totally choked. Froze. It was humiliating. And you want to know the worst part? It was during an exercise almost identical to the one we practised the night before my first day."

"That was six months ago."

"I know, but still. We practised it. You coached me. You gave me some amazing advice, and I totally bottled it. I was useless. Pathetic."

She buries her face into my shoulder and mumbles something incoherent. I want to reassure her, to take away her anguish. This is a bump in the road and nothing more. But as she nuzzles closer into my body, seeking comfort, I switch tactics and opt for tough love instead.

"You need to stick with it. Tomorrow is another day. Take each one as it comes. One bad day should not invalidate everything you've achieved so far."

"Mark, I can't tell you how embarrassing it was. In front of everyone—"

"This is why you're in the scheme. To learn. To get the mistakes out of the way now so you can improve and—"

"I let you down." The words rush out of her mouth so fast that I almost assume I've misunderstood. "You coached me for three hours that evening because I was petrified of this very thing happening. And it still happened. I wasted your time. I—"

I clamp my hand over her mouth. "Stop talking."

I can't listen to her self-destruct like this. If she keeps going, she'll spiral into a hole she can't climb out of.

"I wouldn't care if we'd spent three days practising that role play. I'm here to support you, and that night you needed support."

Her mouth twitches against my palm, so I press down harder to stop her interrupting.

"It doesn't matter that it didn't turn out the same way," I say. "You're not going to be perfect. You need to accept that and get over this hiccup."

She curls her fingers around my wrist but doesn't guide my hand away. Instead, she presses my palm even harder against her lips, the misery in her eyes darkening to something I've not seen in six months.

If it's reverse psychology, it works, because now all I want to do is tear my hand away from temptation and let her speak again.

"Zo..." I warn, somewhat undermined by the thick lust choking my words.

Her eyes glint, and she drags my palm down from her mouth, under her chin, and halfway along her neck. Wrist slack, I let her. I let her wrap my fingers around the slender column of her throat, pressing tighter to squeeze. I let her, because the heat in her eyes—the excitement—is a damn sight better than the hurt and anguish.

"Want me to stop?" she whispers.

"Is it making you feel better?" I ask.

"Yes."

I squeeze her throat for just three seconds, then ease off. A gentle moan escapes with her next breath.

"I know we said we wouldn't." She swallows against my palm. "But I really need the distraction. Something to make me feel good about myself. Just to feel something good today."

Blood rushes to my groin. Some annoying niggle in the back of my brain warns me that this isn't a good idea. That this isn't the fresh start she wanted if she's falling back into bed with me at the first sign of difficulty. Six months without sex is clouding my judgement. But she wants it. I want it. And what kind of friend would I be if I turned her down in her hour of need?

"It has to be on your terms," I tell her.

"You don't want it?" Her brow furrows, but she looks confused rather than offended.

"Of course I want it. But I don't want to take advantage if you're feeling vulnerable."

She rolls her eyes. "God. Being with you makes me feel anything but vulnerable."

At her sass, I flip her onto her back and roll on top, pinning her beneath my body. Her eyes flare with excitement.

"If we do this," I say, one hand already hovering over the knot in her towel, "Then you better remember how this made you feel, and when you're back at work tomorrow, you carry that feeling, and you fucking nail it, okay?"

Her chest heaves with deep breaths, each one pushing the tempting knot closer to my hand.

"I love when you get all bossy with me in bed. It's so hot."

"I'm being serious, Zo."

Her sassy attitude leaves no doubt that she wants this, but I also need her to take me seriously so that when she inevitably tells me tomorrow morning that we absolutely can't do it again, at least I know it helped her. That it wasn't a mistake or a moment of weakness.

"I know. You're always serious." Her lips twitch in her effort to keep a straight face.

I start to roll off her, more to prove a point and call her bluff. Immediately, her hands dart to my head, fingers sinking into my hair.

"No! You're right. I'll remember it."

Will she remember it or is this a quick fix? There have been several occasions over the last few months where I've craved her. Sometimes it's been triggered by a period of grief over Ben; I've needed the comfort, the sensation of a warm body.

Other times I've had a stressful day trying to keep a rogue musician safe, and I've needed that release and escape from reality.

Most often, it's something as simple as a pretty dress she's worn or a heated conversation we've had. Whatever the reason, though, I've not had the fucking balls to act on it.

Now she's opened the door, there's not a chance I'm walking away from it. It's a one-off, I know that. But I also know how powerful sex between us is, how it can offer an extra dimension to our friendship that talks and cuddles can't. If she's had the courage to ask me for it when I've not dared, then I'm not going to throw that back in her face.

Dropping my gaze to her chest, I tug the knot loose. 

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Thank you for reading :) xx

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Just can't help themselves, can they?! We're now into the next section of the book, where we skip forward a year each time instead of a month(s). Each year will be in one POV, split into two chapters.