Rosaline Palmer Takes the Cake (Winner Bakes All #1) - Alexis Hall Page 0,109

a bit more of what you’re feeling when you do.”

“What I’m mostly feeling is Oh I’m glad this going to plan or Oh I’m concerned this isn’t going to plan.”

“No, but baking in general.” She made a nebulous gesture of togethery-joy. “It’s an inherently sharey thing to do. You bake for people or because of things or to celebrate or remember or to cheer yourself up.”

“Or because you found an interesting recipe and wanted to try it out.”

They walked on in silence, at a kind of weird impasse.

But when they reached the car park, Alain turned her gently to face him and kissed her. “It’s very sweet that baking means that much to you. But to me, it’s a technical skill. It’s one I enjoy demonstrating, but I’m not interested in pretending it’s more than it is.”

Rosaline swallowed. Her heart had gone past collapsed soufflé and into dropped mixing bowl. “You’re right. I’m . . . I’m being silly and sentimental.”

“Rosaline”—he gazed down at her with that intense, serious look he sometimes got—“you have far more in your life than baking.”

She opened her mouth, not quite sure what she was meant to say or what she would, or if they were going to be the same thing. Because of course she had more in her life than baking. It was just that she wasn’t sure if her more was the same as his more. Thankfully, she was saved from having to answer by the rough screech of tires on gravel as Liv’s Jaguar careened to a halt in front of them.

“I should go,” said Alain, leaning in to give her one final kiss. “Liv adored you, by the way. See you Thursday.”

As the car was pulling away, leaving Rosaline alone again, her phone buzzed. Your father has been called into work. I can come and collect you but I’ll be two hours at least.

This was so typical it wasn’t even hurtful. Besides, you’d have to be a pretty shitty person to be hurt by someone else’s medical emergency. Don’t worry, she sent back. Take your time. I can wait at the hotel.

Shouldering her bag, she set off back up the driveway only to meet Harry walking the other way.

“Something happen, mate?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing. Just my dad can’t pick me up and it’s going to take a while for my mum to get here.”

His brows tightened in concern. “Is he all right?”

“He is. Someone else probably isn’t. He’s a cardiologist, and these days he doesn’t get out bed for anything less than a triple bypass with complications.”

“Blimey.” He seemed to be casting around for a more detailed statement on St. John Palmer’s medical career. But apparently gave up. “Look, you don’t live that far from where I’m going, and it seems a shame to run your mum all this way. There’s space in the van if you don’t mind sticking your feet on a toolbox.”

Rosaline was about to say “No, it’s fine, you don’t have to,” except he’d offered and the choice was taking Harry twenty minutes out of his way or Cordelia two hours out of hers. “Actually, that’d be really helpful.”

“All right, mate. It’s over here.”

And so, having just pinged away from the car park, Rosaline found herself ponging back, texting her mum awkwardly with one hand as she followed Harry to the Dobson & Son van. He opened the passenger door for her and she clambered in. A few moments after that he joined her, and a few moments after that they were on the road.

There was something unexpectedly intimate in sharing his space with him—especially when the space itself was small, and she was very aware of how close they were. The soft curl of hair over his forearms. The well-cut line of his jaw with its shadow of fresh stubble. Those deep-set eyes of his, and the long, dark lashes more noticeable in profile.

“Harry?” she asked.

“Yeah?”

“Why . . . why do you like baking?”

He let out one of those tradesmen’s I’m not sure what’s wrong with the boiler breaths. “It’s relaxing. And it’s nice to have a thing what you know what you’re doing with. And everybody knows if they bother you while you’re making cakes, they don’t get cakes. So it’s good if you need to calm down and stuff.”

“Amelie hasn’t learned that lesson.”

“Well it’s different when it’s kids, init? Two seconds after Ruby and Amber get in the kitchen—that’s Sam’s kids, by the way—you know nothing’s getting done. But that’s not the point,