Chapter 35
35
The kitchen at Boathouse Cottage, St Aidan
New tricks and old dogs
Saturday
‘S o what’s this about then?’
If Miles knows my limitations– which he does because I’ve told him– I’m still not sure why we’re standing in the Boathouse Cottage kitchen next to an island spread with utensils and ingredients on a Saturday evening when there are a thousand more important things we could be doing.
He clears his throat. ‘I’m consolidating.’
That confirms it for me. ‘We’re working towards your world ambitions here?’
‘Indirectly.’ He hands me a bag with dusky blue fabric folded inside. ‘I got you a customised apron, from Edie and Aunty Jo. It’s made from organic hemp.’
‘That’s a little over-the-top, but I’m pleased you shopped locally.’ I shake it open, and read the words printed down the right hand front as I put it on. ‘ Betsy they all resulted from random collisions, mostly on dance floors.’
If he knew this is only the tip of the iceberg, he’d have a fit. Worse still, if this is his reaction to a few innocuous dating stuff-ups, I can only imagine how badly he’d think of me if he knew how the night ended for me at the wedding.
He’s shaking his head. ‘This is why it pays to check out a person’s palmarès before you commit to a date.’
At least this turns the tables on him. As I get a mental picture of Miles measuring his potential girlfriends’ suitability against his required tick list months in advance, I let out a howl of laughter. Then it hits me that it’s probably true. ‘So how does anyone get to have a date with Miles Appleton? It’s probably easier getting into MI5.’
His eyes narrow. ‘Why? Are you asking?’ The prodding challenge in that glint flips my tummy over.
I could never argue about his looks or how chemically charged he is, but I’ve never actually considered how he’d be to have on my arm, and I’m both appalled and filled with horror that I’d go there, even for a nano-second. As for that secret adrenalin rush that’s pulsing through the pit of my stomach and flushing my skin all the way to my ears, that’s the kind of excitement I equate with the kind of terrifying things that I know I’d never do personally, because when I think of them, they scare the crap out of me and they’re out of my league/price bracket anyway. Like roller coasters or going over Niagara Falls in a barrel. Or being a paying passenger on Elon Musk’s next space trip.
As for the awful time I had with Mason– that was the kind of degrading, depressing and desperate incident that left me with the kind of self-disgust and inner fear that I’ve tried to bury ever since but that are still perilously close to the surface.
The sooner I shut this down entirely the better, because quite apart from everything else, as we already know, men like Miles don’t look at women like me. If it wasn’t for me being in his face every day by Scarlett’s toaster, he wouldn’t even know I existed.
He waits for an answer to his question, his head cocked and his eyes full of curiosity.
I roll my eyes. ‘I’ve already made it clear I’d rather eat my own head than have dinner with you.’ I pick up his suggestion, and another gale of compensatory laughter bursts out of me. ‘Advance vetting partners isn’t exactly spontaneous, is it?’
He shrugs. ‘No, but at least I’m well prepared and I avoid disappointment.’
Then I stop and look at him hard. ‘And how is this working out for you? I mean, it’s Saturday night and you’re in sleepy St Aidan in someone else’s kitchen, baking with a loser.’
‘That’s a bit harsh, Betsy. My current issues are down to something else entirely.’ He drags in a breath. ‘All I’m saying is, you might want to consider forward selection in future. Choice is power, remember.’
And oh how I know that now, but I’m shaking my head in disbelief. It feels like there’s so much office-type rationale being applied here, it’s like we’re stuck in an Appleton company boardroom, not talking about emotive subjects like fun and partners.
At the same time it resonates in the most chilling kind of way, because it holds so true. If I’d followed Miles’s guidelines, that one awful night might never have happened. It’s just a relief that Miles doesn’t know the worst about Mason, because if he did, I wouldn’t be able to hold my head up in St Aidan. ‘Well, thanks for your input, but that’s not a mistake I’ll be making again. I’ve given up dating.’
Miles frowns. ‘You can’t mean that? If you limit your life because of one bad guy, it means they win.’
I pull in a breath, because he’s so close to the truth here, and although it’s insignificant compared to what came later, Miles was the bad guy that day too because of the way he snubbed me.
I rub my nose with my fist, catch sight of the tangle of curls bobbing around on my shoulder and try move this on. ‘We were so busy barricading Fudge in the sofa area with bar stools, I forgot to tie my hair back.’
Miles springs to the sink, rinses the flour off his hands, and when he turns back to me, one of my scrunchies is hanging from his finger. ‘It’s a good job I gave up protesting about hair elastics in the fruit bowl. My hands are clean, shall I tie it up for you?’
As he stands behind me, I shiver at the thought of him touching me.
‘Would you like a braid or a ponytail?’
Then I come to my senses. ‘Thanks all the same, but I prefer a messy up-do, or a French twist secured with a pencil, both of which are much too hard for a beginner. I’ll wash my hands and do it myself.’
I’m about to step forward to the sink, but his fingers are already sliding through my hair, pulling it upwards.
His smile widens. ‘I’ve got this! Lucky for you my first job was as a junior in a salon.’ He gathers my curls into a bunch. ‘I probably had more teenage jobs than you had love interests.’
As the rainbow shivers on my scalp subside it has to be said. ‘None of them were about love.’
He laughs. ‘We’ve got that in common too.’
‘Excuse me?’
He sighs. ‘I told you when we were talking about Tate and Scarlett– that’s not a thing I’ve had myself.’
He sounds so easy, it’s out of my mouth before I know it’s coming. ‘So what happened at their wedding– why did you mess with Scarlett’s choice of bridal party partners?’
There’s a beat of silence. ‘I’m afraid that day I was dealing with a monumentally tricky situation that was outside my control.’ He blows out a breath. ‘I scoured the place for you next morning to apologise but I couldn’t find you.’ I open my mouth to say the words but he holds his finger up. ‘Before you jump in with your “people like you never explain or say sorry” line– that’s not who I am.’
I’m staring at him. ‘What sort of person are you then?’
He narrows his eyes. ‘The kind that worried when reception told me you’d already checked out.’
I catch my breath. ‘You didn’t tell anyone?’
He gives a half-shake of his head and stares into my eyes. ‘Were you okay?’
I hold my nerve. ‘You know what animal sanctuaries are like with emergencies.’ It’s a statement rather than a lie.
His brows knit into a frown. ‘I don’t, so I’ll have to take your word on that one.’
He gives me another hard stare and I crumble. ‘Fine, I wasn’t called away. We left because we had an argument.’ I make my smile bright. ‘It wasn’t going to be possible to make small talk over breakfast, so we slipped away instead, and for the record we didn’t see each other again.’
‘Good decision.’ His grip tightens on my hair again. There’s another pull or two, and he steps back, his eyes scrutinising my hairline. ‘That’s caught most of it, I hope that’s messy enough for you.’
It’s certainly messed up my insides. When I agreed to bake with Miles, I was grudging rather than enthusiastic, but I’d completely underestimated how hard it would be, or how close we’d be standing or where the conversation would end up. The worst bit about tonight is that when I’m not in control I have no idea what’s coming next.
He’s back to the sink, then back at my elbow. ‘Excellent rolling there, Betty Eliza! Ready to move on to the next stage?’
I’d actually like to run as far away as I could, find a friendly local hill and roll down it, but I’d rather die than admit defeat. ‘Bring it on, Milo.’
‘For our next trick we’re going to cut this sheet of dough into sixteen equal strips.’
Miles hands me a knife and a metal ruler, does one strip himself then leans in close to show me how wide to make the first one, and puts his hand firmly over the top of mine to steady it as I make the cut along the ruler’s edge.
I’m biting my lip as I concentrate but all I can think of is how good he smells up close. ‘I might cut straighter if I did it on my own.’
He laughs. ‘I’ll leave you to do yours then and get on with mine.’
As we stand side by side making our cuts I relent. ‘Talk me through what happens next.’
He looks at me sideways. ‘We’ll give each strip a little stretch, then spread them with the fillings you choose, roll them up, put them on their baking trays and leave them to expand in the proving drawer.’
My heart sinks at how long it all sounds. I’m looking at the jars lined up on the island. ‘For the fillings I’ll have four apricot jam, four raspberry jam and white chocolate chips, four dark chocolate chips, and the rest will be Nutella.’ I look up at him. ‘I don’t see any pecan and toffee?’
He laughs. ‘I’m keeping those a secret in case I need them for persuasion later.’
I let out a cry. ‘That’s not fair! What have I got to bribe you with?’
As he turns to me again for a second his eyes are smouldering, then he blinks and when I catch his eye again the look has cleared. ‘I’m always happy when you take Fudge for walks.’
I try to detach myself from what’s going on in the moment and concentrate on what we’re working towards.
He eases a slice of dough off the side. ‘This is how you stretch the strips.’
I groan. ‘You make it look easy and you work like the wind.’ I watch his tanned hands, with their long fingers and broad knuckles, then go back to my own.
In no time his baking tray is filled with a regular pattern of identical spirals. By the time I add the fillings, roll them up, and get them into the tin, it’s such a mess I let out a wail. ‘Mine looks like an explosion in a jam factory!’
Miles gives me a nudge. ‘It’s great for a first try. You’ll get better with practice.’
I’m frowning at him. ‘You think I’ll be doing this again?’
He raises one eyebrow. ‘If you’re free on Saturday evenings, I’d appreciate the help.’ He hesitates then begins again. ‘Most people find it easier to learn from a video rather than from written instructions. So I’m hoping to film a step-by-step guide to use as a manual.’
I’m still catching up. ‘For your national chain?’
When he laughs his voice is so low it makes my nipples stand out. ‘That’s the one.’ He picks up the trays. ‘While these are rising, you could open your latest postcard package?’