Rosaline Palmer Takes the Cake (Winner Bakes All #1) - Alexis Hall Page 0,42
her “love” she’d be suddenly up for it. “Why would that be a thing I might want?”
“I wasn’t, like”—he’d gone pink to the ears—“trying anything. But like I told Amelie, I’m in electrics, and I’m pretty handy, and I know it can be rough for a single mum.”
This caught Amelie’s interest. It was, perhaps, the worst thing that could have caught her interest. “Why is it rough for Mummy?”
Harry squatted back down. “’Cos she’s got a lot to do. She can’t work a job and take you to school and do her baking and fix the boiler all the same time.”
“I could fix the boiler if we learned it in school,” Amelie mused. “But we have to do spelling instead.”
“Spelling’s important. If you can’t spell proper, people’ll think you’re a knob.” He started and glanced back up at Rosaline. “Sorry, mate. Just slipped out.”
Lauren made a languid gesture. “It’s fine. She gets worse from me every fucking day.”
His head whipped around. “Sorry, lov—sorry, haven’t introduced myself. I’m Harry, I’m on the show with Rosaline.”
Before Lauren could introduce herself back, Amelie intervened. “That’s Auntie Lauren. She used to go out with Mummy, but then she left her for another girl who didn’t even really have red hair. She’s been looking after me.”
Rosaline inwardly face-palmed. She was very open about her sexuality, but she also liked to control when she was open about it and who she was open about it to. And she genuinely wasn’t sure how Harry would take it.
“Oh, right.” He seemed to be processing. And also seemed to be close enough to Amelie to notice the stickiness. “Are you the one what got her covered in jam then?”
“It builds creativity.”
Harry shook his head. “It don’t, mate. It just attracts wasps. Anyway, got to go. My nan’s expecting me. Give us a bell if you need anything.”
Looking only a little flustered, Harry ambled away leaving Rosaline, Lauren, and Amelie alone. They piled into Lauren’s car—Amelie stubbornly insisting in the face of all the evidence that she had put her seat belt on perfectly well and didn’t need any help with it—and set off back home.
“So,” Lauren said as they pulled out of the absurdly overlong driveway onto winding country lanes, “that’s not the guy?”
Rosaline leaned back against the headrest, trying to let go of everything that had gone wrong that weekend. And to hold on to the few things that had gone right. “I know they all look the same to you, but no. I mean, he seems nice, and looks . . . and you’ll have to take my word for this . . . very nice. He’s just a whole world of not my type.”
“I think,” offered Amelie helpfully, “it would have been better if he was a Viking. Then he’d have a long boat that could go up rivers because of its flat bottom. And he’d have a helmet but it wouldn’t have horns because Miss Wooding said that was a common misconception. Which means made up.”
Her eyes at least mostly on the road, Lauren grinned. “I doubt he’ll be showing your mummy his helmet anytime soon.”
“Definitely not.” Exhaustion was creeping slowly over Rosaline again. “I mean, can you imagine my dad’s face if I came home with an electrician?”
Exhaustion was not a feature of Amelie’s world. “Would Granddad have been upset even if he was a Viking?”
“Probably,” Rosaline admitted. “Granddad only approves of doctors.”
There was a very slight pause. “Does that mean I have to be a doctor?”
“You can be whatever you want to be.”
A slighter longer pause. “Can I be a Viking?”
“Absolutely.” Lauren swooped in while Rosaline was still working out the least harmful way to contradict herself. “Only nowadays they call it ‘historical reenactment.’”
I enjoyed spending time with you this weekend. The text came in not long after Rosaline had persuaded Amelie to go, if not to sleep, then at least to bed. And I’d very much like to spend more. Perhaps you’re free to visit some time? I’d love to show you my garden. A pause. Three little dots. Then: Not a euphemism.
“That’s your I’ve-received-a-flirty-text look,” observed Lauren over her second glass of wine. “I know because it’s the look you used to get when I sneak-messaged you in maths.”
“Excuse me, I got an A* in maths.”
“Yes, and you also got a lot of pussy.”
“Not in maths. And mostly just yours.”
Lauren grinned. “Mine’s more than enough for anybody, darling.”
“It’s the guy from the show,” said Rosaline, mainly to steer the conversation away