13. Cinn
thirteen
Cinn
T here wasn’t even a hint of dawn outside the kitchen window, yet Cinn was wide awake.
Where’s the goddamn cocoa powder?
He rummaged through the unfamiliar drawers and cabinets, his frustration mounting with each search of the holiday home’s sparsely stocked cupboards. Honestly, it was a miracle he’d found a whisk earlier.
Footsteps crept on the old creaky floorboards. Cinn frantically surveyed the countertops. Various ingredients spilled across the counters, several egg shells had somehow managed to fall on the granite tiles, and a trail of sugar led to the half-opened pantry door. A small puddle of batter glistened near the sink.
This is why he didn’t cook in other people’s kitchens.
The door opened slowly. Messy auburn hair poked around it, and for a moment his brain screamed Darcy, even though the figure in the doorway was a foot taller than her, and male.
Heart plummeting, he lunged for a dishcloth, and held it up. “Hi. I’m just about to clean it all up.”
Alexander laughed, a booming chuckle that somehow carried his Scottish twang. “Ye’re alright, lad. Sorry to startle ye. I couldn’t sleep.”
“Me neither,” Cinn heard himself say, as if insomnia was a good excuse for destroying a kitchen.
“Can I give ye a hand? ”
“No, no. Well… I can’t find your cocoa powder. Figured you had some around, since you made us hot chocolate yesterday…” He probably should have said please and also thank you for all the ingredients he’d already stolen. Oops.
Alexander crossed the kitchen. “Ah. I put it behind the cereal boxes so I’d remember where it was, after Fiona crammed all the groceries in.” He passed Cinn the small cylinder, thankfully still heavy—he’d need a fair bit of it.
Cinn tipped in the powder, eyeing Alexander while he stirred the mixing bowl. The man seemed set to linger, leaning against a counter, stretching. Cinn didn’t really have the time or inclination for company right now.
“I’m gonna pop out for a cig.” Cinn swiped his packet of cigarettes off the counter near the back door, which led to a dingy alley.
“Oh aye,” Alexander said brightly. “I’ll join ye.”
For fuck’s sake. But Cinn could hardly be rude, not when the man had invited them to stay in this posh house for free.
They slipped out back into the frigid night air. Cinn offered him the carton and lighter, and soon they were blowing dual streams of smoke into a dark, starless sky.
Did Cinn need to make conversation? Surely they could just be two blokes enjoying a silent smoke in the early hours of the morning?
“She speaks so highly of ye, ye know, Darcy does. All the time, lad.”
“Yeah?”
Alexander hummed on an exhalation of smoke. “I think she struggled after their friend Béatrice died, being left with those two numpties. She’s never said anything, mind.”
Cinn snorted at Julien and Elliot being labelled numpties. It was a fitting description.
“But since ye came, she’s been much happier. ”
The smoke from his cigarette was blowing into Cinn’s eyes. Yes, that was the reason for the hot prickle behind his eyelids.
“They were both dicks to me at first. But she wasn’t.” Well, she’d used that Frostbite shit on him within minutes of meeting him, but it was smooth sailing after that. “She’s got a heart of gold.”
“Aye, that she does!” Alexander chuckled on a drag of smoke. “Takes after her mother.”
The light streaming into the alley from the kitchen flickered.
“Oh, bloody hell!”
As the back door flew open, Alexander dropped his cigarette, smashing the glowing ember with his heel.
“Dad!”
It was hard to take Darcy’s angry tone and furious face seriously, thanks to her outlandishly fluffy pink dressing gown.
“You promised!” she almost shrieked. “You said you’d stop!”
No wonder Alexander had been so keen to join Cinn for a smoke.
“I didn’t know!” Cinn threw up his hands, dropping his own offensive cigarette for good measure.
Darcy clucked her tongue, glaring at her father. “Every doctor has told him it’s not good for his heart condition.”
Alexander chuckled. “Aye, lass. It was just a wee cheeky one for Christmas.” He shivered, then slipped behind her. “I’ll catch up wi’ ye two at a more decent hour.”
“Sorry, Darce,” Cinn said, following her back into the kitchen.
“You weren’t to know. He’s such a pain.”
Darcy scanned the kitchen, as if seeing it for the first time. Her frown deepened.
Cinn shuffled uneasily on the spot, feeling rather like she’d discovered him in the act of a crime.
Surely Darcy wouldn’t click —
“No,” she said, a gasp of pure horror. Darcy rubbed Cinn’s cheek, with her thumb, then held it up to the light to present cocoa powder. “You did not wake up at four a.m. to make Julien that chocolate log he rudely demanded. Tell me this isn’t true.”
Heat rushed across Cinn’s cheeks. He broke eye contact, dropping to his knees to pick up the scattered egg shells.
“No,” Cinn muttered. “This is just a backup dessert. The Christmas pudding your mum bought looked a bit small.”
In actuality, it served twelve, but they were going to be tiny portions, he could tell.
“There’s no rolling pin for the sponge,” Cinn said too quickly.
Darcy crossed the kitchen to the wine rack, tucked neatly between two cupboards. She passed him a bottle of red.
Why hadn’t Cinn thought of that? He’d been too spoiled using Darcy’s cottage kitchen.
“You’ll want to—”
But he was already reaching for the parchment paper, to wrap it around the bottle.
Darcy rested both of her elbows on the counter, watching him closely. She laughed. “He does not deserve you, you know.”
Cinn hummed in reply.
“Are you always this nauseatingly cute in relationships, or has Julien put you under a spell?”
This was only his second proper relationship, but it was definitely the latter of Darcy’s two options.
“I’m nice to everyone!” It sounded weak to his own ears.
Cinn reached for the chocolate ganache he’d cobbled together earlier, again mourning the lack of vanilla extract. He spread an even layer of the filling across the sponge.
“What about you?” Cinn shot back at her. If Darcy wanted to interrogate him about his love life, she would get a taste of her own medicine .
She scrunched up her face.
“What are you like in a relationship?” Cinn asked.
Darcy was oddly quiet about such things, come to think of it. She dropped her gaze, toying with the belt of her dressing gown.
Immediate guilt coursed through Cinn. “Don’t worry,” he said in a rush, laser-focussing on rolling the sponge into a tight spiral, ensuring the creamy filling stayed perfectly swirled inside.
“No, it’s fine. I guess I find it more difficult to connect with people in that way, especially compared to other people.”
Cinn tensed, praying she didn’t start on about Julien’s ‘many, many ’ again.
“So I’m not sure what I’m like.” She shrugged. “Maybe one of these days.”
He nodded, offering her the bowl with the tiniest amount of ganache left, to scrape off with her finger.
She immediately obliged.
“Mmm. You’ve nailed it, as usual.”
Cinn scoffed. Darcy was being generous, but he happily absorbed the praise. It always felt good to excel at cooking something. He didn’t have many talents, newfound part-time shadow abilities aside.
“But thank you.” Darcy caught Cinn’s arm. “Lord knows you need the patience of a saint to put up with Julien. You’re so good for him. You’re helping him more than you know. And this cake is so sweet of you. Sorry for teasing.”
“This isn’t for Julien,” Cinn protested. “I would have made it, anyway.” An outright lie—he valued his sleep far more than a variety of dessert options.
“Right. Of course.” Darcy winked at him.
The chocolate log was in the oven, the dishes were at least near the sink. Time for a well-deserved thirty minute power nap.