A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,30

right? And so I say it out loud. “Yes.”

Orion grins. “Brilliant.”

I crack a smile. “Looks like I’m getting a tour guide after all.”

“Sure, let’s call it that for starters. There are many things about England that maps can’t show you. But I can.”

I hand over his sweater. “What happens if Charlotte shows up at your door tomorrow?”

“Nothing happens. Not after what I heard from Teddy. See, market cake mixes are fine.” He backs away, winking like the stars. “But I like the real deal.”

10

I’m trying to wash a morning of baking off my equipment when the oven timer buzzes. And buzzes. But no Polly. Her Jammie Dodger cookies—bah, biscuits—are going to burn and my ears are going to break. I wipe my hands on Abuela’s apron then attend to the deck oven.

I have two of the three sheet pans on the butcher block when the Crow’s lead baker floats through the push door. “What are you doing?”

I’m painting my nails and tap dancing. I slap the third pan down and the oven door closed. “Your biscuits. I was worried you didn’t hear the timer.”

Polly slips on her apron again. “ ’Course I did. I’m here aren’t I?”

Dios. Not my kitchen. Polly’s kitchen. I raise my hands in mock surrender and return to washing the endless bowls and utensils it had taken to make Polly’s red recipe binder assignment for the day.

My hands are elbow deep in suds when Orion enters the rear kitchen door in loose track pants and a long-sleeved running tee. Basically the male version of what I’m wearing, minus the bang tamer headband and ponytail.

Polly’s stacking cookies on cooling racks. “Well, hello there. We don’t have an order for today, do we?”

Relaxed and dopey-eyed, Orion manages to address her via my general direction. “You don’t. But if my memory’s right, morning baking wraps up around this time, and then Lila does her run. And I’ve decided to take up jogging again.”

Oh really?

Polly cocks her head. “All the more reason to fuel up with something sweet first. Pastries are set up in the parlor.”

“They were set up.” This, from Cate who blazed in with two coffeepots. “We have some bannocks left, but not even a crumb remaining on the tray of Chelsea buns.”

I hang my dishtowel, intrigued. Polly made the bannocks—savory, round flatbreads—but I made the Chelsea buns. Currant-filled yeast dough treats similar to cinnamon rolls.

Polly turns to me. “Didn’t you make the amount stated in the recipe book? It’s always been enough for a packed house of guests as well as extras to leave in the break room for the housekeepers and landscape crew.”

Now she’s accusing me of lazy baking? I wave her red binder. “Four dozen, just like your recipe calls for.”

“Interesting,” Cate says. “I did see Mr. Howell from room six with three on his plate.” Then to Polly. “We’re also low on coffee.”

A curt nod from Polly before she swoops up two fresh pots then swishes out the door.

I glance briefly at Orion, who’s been leaning against the counter, cross-armed and cheeky-smiled, enjoying the latest edition of the Polly-Lila standoff. Better than any of Mami’s telenovelas. I tell Cate, “Polly’s had me on the morning sweet selection for the past few days. Should I be making more?”

She moves to the kitchen door, garden shears and canvas bag in hand. “You should, yes. I thought it was a fluke, but there’ve been no leftovers since last week.”

Orion thumbs through Polly’s book. “What are you putting in your sweets, Lila?”

I make sure we’re alone. “It’s more what I’m not putting in them. Polly insists I bake her family recipes and not my own. But the proportions are sometimes off. So, I’ve been tweaking them.” I stack bowls on the open racks.

“But those recipes are British classics and decades old from her family.”

I whip around. “Have you ever had one of Polly’s Chelsea buns?”

“Many times. She often sends them when I bring tea.”

I grab a small plate near the fridge. “This one of mine came out slightly misshapen so I didn’t put it out. Go on.”

His mouth twists before he samples a large piece. Then another.

I put away washed spoons and measuring cups. “I mean, the guests are clearly taking extra helpings out of pity and little old me has totally ruined the—”

“Lila.”

“And tampered with—”

“Lila.”

“What?” I whisk off Abuela’s apron.

“This is the most rich and mind-numbingly delicious Chelsea bun I’ve ever had.”

I look at him like this is old news.

“And,” he continues, “it’s still somehow so like the