Rosaline Palmer Takes the Cake (Winner Bakes All #1) - Alexis Hall Page 0,148
made a sheepish nineteen-year-old noise. “We’re not really at the ‘come watch me on TV with a bunch of strangers I met on TV’ stage of our relationship.”
“Is that a stage?” asked Rosaline.
“It is when you’ve been on TV.”
“Guys”—Sanjay’s voice had risen sharply—“Marie Antoinette is in genuine danger.”
“It’s all right.” Terry emerged from the living room into a hallway that was already struggling to contain its occupants and certainly couldn’t cope with the addition of a six-foot-two gym bunny. “I’ve got it.”
The immediate chorus of “Terry, don’t” got as far as “Terry, do—” before Terry did. And to his credit, he managed to get Marie Antoinette all the way to the coffee table before stepping on one of Amelie’s Legos, hopping in pain, and dumping the whole thing into Ricky’s lap.
And for a moment, there was a reverent silence for the second demise of Marie Antoinette.
Then Harry called through from the kitchen. “Is what just happened what I think just happened?”
“That depends,” said Amelie, who was on the floor with Allison, building a shark from what was left of the Lego, “on what you think just happened. If you think that a big jellyfish came out the ceiling and stung everybody then no. But if you think that Terry dropped a huge cake all over the place then yes.”
Harry groaned. “Tel you total knobhead.”
“I was trying to help,” protested Terry, managing to look genuinely aggrieved. “It’s fine. I’ll—”
“No!” shouted everybody.
“Let me get some napkins,” said Rosaline. “I’m pretty sure we can salvage most of it. Ricky, do you mind staying where you are for a second?”
Ricky blinked. “I’ve got a cake the size of a small Labrador in my lap. Where do you think I’m going?”
Ten minutes later, Ricky was mostly de-macaroned, and everyone was tucking into what remained of Marie Antoinette.
“You know”—Anvita chewed thoughtfully—“I think it still went better than it did on the show.”
Terry was wearing an utterly unwarranted expression of vindication. “See, tastes all right. Not like I wrecked it or nothing.”
“Mate.” Harry appeared with a golden-brown filo pie that he set down very carefully on a table already slightly overflowing with baked goods. “I’d say quit while you was ahead but you ain’t ahead.”
“Your pie looks beautiful, Harry,” offered Allison, with the flawless social grace of—arguably—the only real grown-up in the room.
He blushed slightly. “Thanks. It’s spinach and feta, so we can all have a bit.”
“You didn’t have to,” said Sanjay. “Even with half of it on the floor, Anvita’s cake is going to last for days.”
“It’s fine, mate. I’ve been trying to learn some veggie cooking anyway, but the old man complains if you try to feed it to him. He’s all like, ‘This ain’t a pie, it’s a salad in a crust.’”
Pushing herself off Sanjay’s lap, Anvita prowled around Harry’s blameless pie. “Good colour,” she drawled, in her best Marianne Wolvercote. “Surprisingly sophisticated considering what a gargantuan hunkmuffin you are.”
“You know,” remarked Sanjay, “it’s a good job I’m secure in my masculinity or I might be threatened by the amount of time you spend calling other men hunkmuffins.”
“Are you not flattered?” asked Anvita. “That I have chosen you, and only you, above the vast array of hunkmuffins I see constantly around me?”
Lauren yanked the cork from a bottle of red and poured herself a Laurenly measure. “That’s a refreshingly sensible attitude for a heterosexual.”
“Yep.” Anvita nodded emphatically. “Sensible is absolutely a thing that I am.”
Allison was briefly distracted from whatever shark-related Lego conversation she’d been having with Amelie. “Please don’t encourage my wife. And, Lauren darling, stop othering the straights.”
Wiping a smear of Swiss meringue buttercream off the screen, Ricky checked his phone. “Guys. Show’s starting.”
With part of the advance for her first recipe book, Rosaline had defied years of her middle-class upbringing and bought a bigger television. An investment that had ambiguously paid off by allowing Amelie to watch squoogly fish in high-definition. Digging the remote from its habitual hiding place behind the sofa cushions, she flicked to iPlayer while Harry dimmed the lights. Her guests, who still didn’t quite fit in her living room, did their best to huddle into what seating was available. Terry—true to his knobhead nature—had claimed the only armchair, though Lauren—never one to be out-knobheaded—had perched herself on the arm in as annoying a position as possible. Amelie and Allison were on the floor surrounded by Lego, and the two-seater sofa was already overfilled with Ricky, Sanjay, and Anvita. So Harry stood against the wall, and Rosaline stood