again. “Hey, that’s my parents’ house. And it’s nowhere near as big as Downton Abbey.”
“You got two drawing rooms is all I’m saying.”
“So . . .” She didn’t quite scuff her toe against the grass, but she moved her foot in a way that was definitely grass-related and scuff-adjacent. “You know . . . last week when I sort of . . . and you sort of?”
His smile deepened. “Yeah?”
“And how I wasn’t in the right place to, well, anything really?
And you didn’t want to start anything with a slightly drunk person who’d just got out of a disastrous relationship with an arsehole and was in the middle of reevaluating her entire life.”
“Yeah?”
“Well. I’m not drunk today. And the arsehole, like most arseholes, is behind me.”
“Bloody hell.” He gave her a look of affectionate bemusement. “I did miss you.”
The words curled up inside her like a contented cat. “The life thing, I will admit, is a work in progress. But I’ve got a great kid, I look good in a pinny, and I’m a nationally recognised amateur baker. Which I think, frankly, makes me a catch.”
“I reckon it does.”
“Good.” She gave a decisive nod. “I’m glad we’re agreed.”
“You was the only one weren’t sure, mate.”
“I’m sure now. I’m sure about a lot of things.”
His gaze was half-challenging, half-teasing. “Like what?”
“This.”
She kissed him. And it was exactly like she’d imagined it might be. And nothing like it at the same time. The way he met her, mouth to mouth, as familiar as home, and unfurling sweetly with all the promise of days to come and moments to share. And they and this and he could be hers. Simply for knowing she wanted them. That they were worth wanting.
Because how could she have doubted for a moment that she wanted him? This strong, kind, slightly awkward man. Her stone-cold hottie who’d always listened to her and had her back. Who made her laugh. And was kissing her now in a way she wasn’t sure she’d been kissed since she was a teenager, when passion had been the easiest thing in the world to find. Except this carried with it an adult’s certainty, strong hands and firm lips moving against hers and a slow, steady warmth building between them.
“Kiss,” Anvita was shouting. “Kiss kiss kiss.”
Rosaline de-Harryed herself. “Literally what we’re doing.”
“I’m encouraging you.”
“Well, you failed. Because now I’m talking to you instead.”
Anvita probably had a reply to that because she had a reply to most things, but it was lost to a sudden cry of “Mummy” as Amelie, trailing Lauren and Allison and Cordelia behind her, raced across the lawn. And Rosaline, caught by a moment that seemed to be everywhere and come from nowhere, and fizzed through her like lemonade in spring, broke free of the group and ran to catch her daughter in her arms.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“We were in the car for ages,” Amelie said. “And you’re squashing me.”
“I’m squashing you because I love you.”
“That’s not fair. I’m small and can’t squash you back. But”—and here Amelie surrendered briefly to the squash—“I do love you. To the bottom of the Mariana Trench which is the deepest thing that there is and they’ve just found a new type of snailfish in it.”
“Well,” Rosaline told her, “I love you to the bottom of the Mariana Trench and back.”
“Ummmm.” There was a wavery static squeal. Someone had given Colin Thrimp a megaphone. “If we could, you know, have the finalists in front of the house and everybody else standing around being happy—remember to be happy—that would be perfect and also completely necessary. So if you could do that as in right now. Please. Thank you.”
For a bunch of strangers being herded by a man with the gravitas of a whelk, they all organised themselves into appropriate positions with surprising efficiency. It turned out that if being on reality TV taught you anything, it was how to stand somewhere that looked good on-camera.
A few moments later, the host and the judges descended in state from the steps leading to the hotel.
“Contestants,” began Grace Forsythe, who had no need of a megaphone, “friends, family, finalists. We’ve reached that moment again when Bake Expectations closes the ballroom doors for another year and we celebrate eight weeks of the finest baking Britain has to offer. And, of course, it’s time to crown—although I say ‘crown,’ the budget wouldn’t stretch to a crown, so it’s more sort of a cake slice—our winner.”
There was a pause, the timing