Rosaline Palmer Takes the Cake (Winner Bakes All #1) - Alexis Hall Page 0,102

drop you down the stairs, and we see how you feel?”

“Works for me. How about you, Dr. Rosaline? Want to come along and keep me under observation?”

She did, in a lot of ways. Because honestly she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a night like this—one of going out, being silly, and doing things you’d at least half regret in the morning. But she was also beginning to feel a bit bad for having jaunted off, leaving Alain stuck in his room to brood about meringues. Of course, he had said he’d wanted the time alone, but looking back, that probably hadn’t meant Fuck off to the village and ignore me for several hours.

“Actually . . .” She gently disentangled herself from Anvita. “I should probably go check on Alain.”

“Check on, eh?” Anvita waggled her eyebrows. “You mean, check on his penis with your vagina. Sorry, that sounded way better in my head.”

Rosaline stared at her. “I don’t know how to leave now. Because whatever I say will be weird by association.”

“You’re right. Let’s try again. Have a lovely evening. Say hi from me.”

“I will. Thank you. Goodbye. And I really appreciated the way you avoided mentioning anyone’s genitals.”

Anvita’s hand swished through the air like she was swiping left on cosmic Tinder. “Pshaw. Who’d do something like that?”

Somewhat regretfully—not that she should have been regretful—Rosaline trudged down the hill towards the Lodge and then up the uninspiring whitewashed staircase to Alain’s room. She knocked on the door more sheepishly than she’d intended.

“Rosaline.” Alain was looking a little tousled, which suggested he’d just woken up. A suggestion reinforced by the fact that he was wearing black lounge pants and no shirt. “I didn’t think you were coming.”

“Sorry,” she said instinctively. Though since she hadn’t told him to expect her and he plainly didn’t she wasn’t quite sure what she was feeling guilty about. “We went for dinner. Are you feeling better about tomorrow?”

“I think so. It’s going to be one of those ‘all about the execution’ days, but I’ve done all I can.”

She dithered on the threshold. “Great. So, should I . . . can I?”

“Of course.” He stood aside for her. “If you wouldn’t rather be with your friends.”

Well, fuck. She’d messed this up. She’d met a hot guy, with his own house and a good job, who liked baking, and it’d been going well, and then she’d gone all mixed-signalsy for no reason and now he didn’t know where he stood.

“I’d rather be with you,” she said, slightly more decidedly than it really warranted.

And to prove it, she pushed him gently towards the bed, sat him down, and straddled him. Cupping his face between her hands she kissed him deeply.

“Much as I love indulging your wild side”—he drew back slightly—“you’re covered in mud.”

“Sorry. I went for a walk with Anvita and Harry and she fell over in an I-Spy-related accident—”

He blinked at her. “In a what?”

“Okay, so we were playing I Spy in the dark”—out of nowhere, Rosaline started giggling and couldn’t quite stop—“and Anvita said ‘t’ and Harry and I tried everything and then she said it was tractor and we said there wasn’t a tractor and she said there’d been a tractor a couple of minutes ago when she’d said it . . . ” Rosaline was still giggling, which made it difficult to weave a coherent word picture.

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Alain told her.

“You see, it was Schroedinger’s tractor.”

“Are you drunk?”

“I had a glass of wine while we were arguing about ceps.”

“Why were you arguing about sex with Anvita and Harry?”

“Not sex. Ceps.” Rosaline had just about managed to calm down, but this set her off again. “Because he thought they were a bean and I thought they were a caper—”

“They’re a mushroom,” interrupted Alain.

“I know. We checked. And also coco beans aren’t cocoa beans. And the tractor wasn’t a tractor and the bull,” she finished triumphantly, “was a goat.”

There was a long silence.

“I’m glad,” Alain said finally, “you had fun. But that made very little sense and you’re still getting mud on me.”

“Sorry.”

She pulled off her blouse, which she’d intended primarily as a practical gesture rather than an erotic one, but Alain—his eyes darting to her breasts—seemed less concerned by the distinction. They kissed again, and Alain unhooked her bra, and they fell back on the bed together.

And afterwards, Rosaline lay in the dark with her head nestled against Alain’s shoulder wondering what the fuck was wrong with her. Because she