Chapter 3
Eliza sighed contentedly to herself, tying off the mint green apron around her waist. Already, the butter was softening on the counter, the cupboard doors splaying open to reveal more baking goods with handwritten labels.
Puffcake turned out to be the perfect companion to be snowed in with. Unlike Lachlan, Puffcake hardly took up any space; he didn’t mind if Eliza retreated into the safety of her own thoughts, and, best of all, he didn’t speak.
“So ...” Lachlan sighed. “Do you have any family back home?”
Eliza didn’t answer. She tried to ignore the feeling that she was being closely watched as she pulled back her long hair into a loose topknot before setting off to work. She searched for a lighter in every crust-filled drawer, to no avail. Then she got an idea.
“Puffcake?” she called out. “Do you mind blowing fire onto the cooker while I turn the gas on?”
Happy to be of use, he did as she requested. She turned the knob on the hob, the fire-starter clicking in protest. Puffcake blew a line of fire onto the cooker, and the gentle flames erupted in a low purr.
“A sister? Cousin?” Lachlan tried again. “Once or twice removed?”
It’d been five minutes since she’d laid down the groundwork about how this evening would go, and he still was asking questions.
Eliza turned to him and gave a slow, frustrated blink. “I thought I said no chatting.”
“Technically, you laid strict guidelines that I was not to speak about my job, mostly. Not that I couldn’t ask questions about your personal life,” Lachlan ever-so-kindly pointed out.
Eliza massaged her temples. “Okay. New rule. No chatting about anything. Not just interest rates and beach houses.”
Lachlan blew out a breath into his mug of hot chocolate. “C’mon, mate, that’s not fair. What am I supposed to do besides just sit here and drink hot chocolate? You at least have your baking to keep you busy. My laptop still refuses to open.” He frowned at the device.
“I don’t know,” Eliza gave a fake smile. “With all due respect, that isn’t my problem.”
“Could I offer you a helping hand?”
“No, thank you,” she sing-songed politely as she continued to stir the batter.
“I’m practically a chocolatier expert after watching seven seasons of the Great British Bake Off” he bragged.
“Not making chocolate,” she stirred more forcefully, “but still, no.”
Lachlan decided to give up, just picked up the recipe tin, and began going through the recipe cards one by one. He read them off, muttering to himself how he’d like to bake this one, or how he’d never have the patience to complete that one.
Somehow, Eliza tuned him out as best she could, receding into her own thoughts as she cracked the egg, creamed the butter, and churned in the molasses.
Puffcake made an excellent assistant, wordlessly reaching for the ingredients and already having them measured for Eliza so she wouldn’t have to concern herself with the exact proportions.
It was nice to have a helping hand in the kitchen, both from Puffcake and from the enchanted kitchen.
It strangely reminded her of the days she’d spent her Christmases here as a child with her nan, learning how to bake in this very space.
Though she hadn’t remembered ever seeing Puffcake before, or any creature quite like him.
She did remember, however, the magic. The art.
The skill. She remembered watching her grandmother’s bony hands as they rolled dough, stirred batter, and poured caramel drizzle over the freshly made cake.
She remembered the laughs that reverberated through the cottage walls late into the evening as the two of them talked and tasted to their hearts’ content.
She hadn’t realized it then, but her grandmother’s company had been the magic all along.
A smile spread across Eliza’s lips at the sweet memory of her. When she baked, she always felt like she wasn’t so far away anymore.
The thought suddenly turned bitter as she remembered why she was back here to begin with. It wasn’t for the holiday, but to escape.
Back in London, she’d felt like the dough she placed in the oven every morning: expected to rise and perform even though she’d been stretched too thin. Owning her own business had been hard enough, but partnering with someone who couldn’t fully commit? Impossible.
Davis couldn’t commit to the bakery, or to her.
Sometimes she regretted giving it up. The license, the name, the menu, and even the cute little brick and mortar building the color of a robin’s egg. Every day, she missed it. Every day, she wondered if she had made the right decision to leave.
But she’d been cornered. And Davis always knew how to win a fight.
Now, she worked for a corner café serving flapjacks, mushy peas, and coffee to a loyal stream of old, dying, and grumbling population.
The owners were good to her; steady, salt-of-the-earth kind of people, but she missed the freedom.
The creativity. The serene yet hustle and bustle of making something entirely her own.
Only, if she ever were to have another opportunity to do something like that again, she’d do so much differently. She’d do it right.
Eliza glanced at the clock, the hour hand pointing to eight in the evening. How did she seem to always enter a time warp when she started baking?
“I’ve never had a puffcake,” Lachlan stated. “What about you, Puffcake?”
Puffcake shook his head before twisting back around to help Eliza finish off preparing the last batch of the desserts. Seemed like he’d even grown tired of conversation.
Lachlan sighed heavily, scooting away from his seat. He slowly inched his way over toward where Eliza was working, as if waiting for permission to come closer. She didn’t give it.
“Behind,” he muttered, taking a pan from the counter and waving it neatly over her head.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m going to cook dinner. I’ll need more than just butter and sugar to fill me up.” As if on cue, his stomach rumbled. He snagged another apron from the hook and tied it around his waist. Eliza couldn’t help but snicker. It was pink with jolly looking Santas printed all over.
They worked around each other in tandem, darting between counters and cupboards.
Each reached for spoons, bowls, and spices, and the kitchen seemed to hum along to their rhythm, opening drawers as they needed, or sliding them closed when they were done.
At one point, their synchronized pattern faltered, and their hands both grabbed the salt at the same time.
Eliza jerked hers back as if the jar had scorched her.
Flour canisters drifted closer, Puffcake fluttered around doing preliminary taste-tests, and the oven door swung open wide no sooner than when the timer dinged. She placed the steaming puffcakes down on the counter, leaving them to cool.
“They’re done!” Eliza piped up, placing the plate of puffcakes in the center of the island.
They each took a bite, and the warm icing melted on Eliza’s tongue, the orange and nutmeg notes blending in the most perfect harmony.
She couldn’t help but moan her delight as she took another bite, thoroughly pleased with herself.
She’d followed the rules on the recipe card just enough to honor the recipe, and broken other rules where it counted.
Lachlan stole a glance at her, and a blush settled on her cheeks. “Sorry,” she washed the remnants of the first cake down with a glass of milk. He laughed, looking at Puffcake next, who was vigorously lapping up his third pastry like a dog.
“Well, how do you like them?” she asked Lachlan eagerly. If she was going to share his company until this weather blew over, he would at least need to enjoy her baking.
“Oh, they’re splendid—uh …” he gulped, looking down at his plate. “You know, I just realized that you never gave me your name.”
“Eliza,” she said. “Eliza Snow.”
“So, Lachlan Hollis gets snowed in with Eliza Snow.” A slow smile spread across his face, softening the edges of his features. He was handsome. The kind of handsome that snuck up on you when he wasn’t busy being smug, or ruining week-long solo trips.
“Don’t forget Puffcake,” she added.
“Right. How could I ever forget?”
“Help yourself to at least one more puffcake,” she said. “I’ll need another t-shirt to sleep in tonight, if that’s okay.”
Her apron, and somehow, her clothes underneath, were both speckled with sugar. She was always a messy baker, a habit from childhood that even her nan couldn’t break.
Puffcake reclined backwards on the windowsill and blew out a breath of powdered sugar. Clearly, he wasn’t hungry anymore.
“Don’t get me wrong, the puffcakes are great,” Lachlan rose from his seat, licking the icing from his fingers. “But I was preparing a salad to go with the pizza I’m about to put in the oven.”
Eliza snorted. “Good luck finding anything else in this kitchen other than baking supplies.” Lachlan opened the freezer and pulled out a grocery bag with a frozen pepperoni pizza. She snarled at the sight. “Don’t tell me you brought that here.”
“I brought survival food. And it’s a good thing I did because we’d be absolutely famished.” His eyes cut to the window and the blizzard beyond it, to prove his point.
“What you call an emergency, I call a proper dog’s breakfast.”
“C’mon, Snow.” He smiled, already reaching for a pan. “We’re in the middle of a snowstorm. Now’s not the time for refined dining. And it’s not like we can pop by any of the restaurants here.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Still. Even during desperate times, I have standards.”
“Well, good for you. Suppose you’ve earned a biscuit for all your poshness.” He slid the ready meal into the oven and set a timer on his mobile.
A thunderous bang rattled the biscuit jars on the countertop. Smoke billowed from the oven, and the house filled with the distinct scent of charred food.
Lachlan stared. Eliza smugly crossed her arms over her chest. “Guess the house has standards, too.”
The oven door clattered open and spat the burnt pizza out across the kitchen. Lachlan ran his hands through his hair, defeated. “Fine,” he breathed out. “Another puffcake it is, then.”