Rosaline Palmer Takes the Cake (Winner Bakes All #1) - Alexis Hall Page 0,38
light.
“Are you going to show me?”
She blinked. “Now?”
“Only if you’re comfortable,” he said quickly. “There’s no one around of course, but I’d never want to put any pressure on you. Although I will admit I’m rather . . . ” He paused and cleared his throat. “Let’s say I’m even more intrigued about the butterflies than I am about the skirt.”
He seemed on the edge of flustered—and maybe she just had a powerful imp of the perverse, but she suspected she’d enjoy flustering him further. It could have been because he was slightly older and had his shit so much more together than she did, or simply the contrast to his usual self-assurance. Either way, these hints of something like vulnerability made her feel bold and exciting in a way she hadn’t for a long time.
She turned and pulled up her shirt. Heard his soft intake of breath.
“That’s . . . that’s rather artistic,” he whispered. “Quite the wild child, weren’t you?”
“I wasn’t trying to be. I just knew what I wanted.”
“May I,” he murmured, “may I touch them?”
Her back prickled with possibility. “Um, okay.”
“Didn’t it hurt?”
Why did people always ask that? What were they expecting her to say? No, I love having needles jammed into my epidermis. “Like a bastard.”
She felt the warmth of his fingertips following the familiar curve of wings across her spine. His touch was like his kiss: certain yet delicate, hinting at pleasure rather than pushing it upon her. After a moment or two, he turned her and drew her close.
“I hope you don’t think I was avoiding you today.”
She definitely had, but there was no way she was admitting that to him. “I was mostly just making a pie.”
“I thought it was best not to do anything that might start people talking.”
It was embarrassing how relieved she was. “That makes sense. Thank you.”
“Obviously, we’re both here for the competition. But I . . . well . . . I wasn’t expecting to meet someone like you.”
“What? A single mum who works in a shop?”
“You must know you’re more than that, Rosaline.” He gazed down at her, his eyes tinted grey in the growing darkness. “You went to Cambridge, for fuck’s sake. You’re fearless and adventurous and, I suspect, a little wicked.”
The truth was that Rosaline felt like hardly any of those hardly any of the time. But she liked that he saw her that way. So she slid a hand behind his neck and pulled him down into a kiss.
Sunday
“AND WELCOME,” BOOMED Grace Forsythe, “to the second baketacular of the season. Today we’re asking you to blow our socks off with not one, not two, not three, but twenty-four miniature pies. There should be a dozen sweet and a dozen savoury, but apart from that they can be shortcrust, rough-puff, hot water crust, pumpkin, pork or paneer, chicken, chorizo, or cherry. You have three hours, and that includes making the pastry and setting up your delightful displays of deliciousness. Your time begins on the count of three. Three, darlings.”
And they were off.
And Rosaline had barely begun sifting out the flour for her shortcrust when Colin Thrimp and Grace Forsythe and the judges descended on her station all at once.
“Tell us about your pies, pet,” said Wilfred Honey, twinkling soothingly at her while Marianne Wolvercote picked through her ingredients.
Rosaline tried very hard to look at Wilfred Honey and not at the camera that was being thrust directly into her face. “Well, I felt I’d played it too safe last week. So this time I’m trying to push the boat out a bit, and I’m doing . . .”
Oh help, what was she doing?
“Um, sorry, I’ve completely forgotten what I’m making.”
Wilfred Honey’s eyes flicked to Colin Thrimp. “Do we need that one again, Colin?”
There was a pause while Colin took instructions from his earpiece. “It’s fine. It’ll come across as endearing. In your own time, Rosaline.”
“I’d rather not,” said Rosaline, “come across as not having a clue what I’m doing.”
Grace Forsythe put a hand on her shoulder. “Lambkin, I’ve been making it up as I go along for forty years and nobody’s tumbled me yet. It’s rather the British way, you know.”
“You’ve got chicken, sherry”—Marianne Wolvercote picked up the sherry and peered at the label with an air of profound interest—“and tarragon here. I’m going to go out on a limb and suggest you might be making chicken, sherry, and tarragon.”
“Now, interestingly,” added Wilfred Honey, “young Alain’s also doing chicken and tarragon.”