Rosaline Palmer Takes the Cake (Winner Bakes All #1) - Alexis Hall Page 0,64

But clearly, in her current state, think seriously about her future and have a nice time with a guy weren’t totally compatible. “Yeah, let’s do that.”

After lunch, they wound their way back to Alain’s house. Or rather his terrifyingly picturesque cottage, which to Rosaline’s complete lack of surprise turned out to have been elegantly modernised in a way that allowed twenty-first-century convenience to exist effortlessly alongside exquisite period fittings. It made her even more nervous for the day Alain saw her house—with its tiny rooms and low ceilings, and Amelie’s ever-expanding collection of interests marching across every free surface like the Golden Horde.

During the back-and-forth of arranging the visit, Alain had suggested they use some of the afternoon to practise their bakes, and so once Rosaline had dumped her bag and rescued her ingredients from its depths, they set up in his rustic yet state-of-the-art kitchen. And this, Rosaline was delighted to discover, was one of the nicest dates she’d ever been on. There was something so comfortable about baking beside someone, swapping the idle thoughts and ideas that came to you when you were wrist-deep in biscuit dough.

And slowly, as the ovens began to warm and the scent of hopefully-televisual-quality biscuits began to fill the kitchen, she started to feel almost—What was it? Oh yes, good. Maybe even optimistic. The woods and the churches and the history lessons had taken a bit of getting used to—and her maybe-plan to go back to university was lurking ominously in the back of her mind—but this? Sharing a space and a moment and rolling pin with somebody? This came easily. Naturally.

Rosaline didn’t want to jinx it, and possibly she was reading too much into one ambiguously encouraging look from Marianne Wolvercote, but she thought she could do okay this week. Possibly even well? After all, she had a strong concept. And the part of her that used to do homework under test conditions was secretly rather glad to get to practise in an unfamiliar kitchen.

Once they were both done, they sat at Alain’s reclaimed-wood kitchen table and took turns sampling each other’s biscuits.

“These are very good, Rosaline,” he said finally.

And she should have known that. But still, a part of her relaxed. “I hope so. I think they’re a bit different. I took your advice about having a secret weapon.”

“And your secret weapon is booze?”

“Well,” she admitted, “we all know what Marianne likes.”

He gave her what she thought was one of his teasing looks. “So your plan is to get her drunk, so she’ll treat you more favourably?”

“Yes. That’s the strategy. Get her totally bladdered on three biscuits and take advantage of her while her judgement is impaired.”

“That would do wonders for the ratings.”

“To be fair, you’d go there, wouldn’t you? I mean, not on live television. And not to get ahead on a baking show. And not if she was actually so drunk she didn’t know what she was doing.”

His eyes had gone wide. “Are you telling me you find Marianne Wolvercote attractive?”

“My God. Who doesn’t? Have you seen her?”

“Isn’t she . . . well . . . a little old for you?”

“She can’t be more than forty-five. And last week she was wearing those wide-leg silk trousers, which made her look like Lauren Bacall.”

“Honestly,” he said, frowning, “I don’t see the appeal. I think I admire different qualities. And speaking of admiring different qualities, my concern with the biscuits would be that Marianne might go for them but Wilfred definitely won’t.”

Rosaline actually had considered that. But the lesson she’d taken away from last week was that Marianne and Wilfred were very different judges, and trying to please both of them was a recipe for mediocrity. “I’m hoping he’ll appreciate the quality of the bake, even if he’s not sold on the idea.”

“That seems risky.”

“Too late now.” Turning her attention to Alain’s biscuit selection, she took a bite of one. “Is that lavender?”

He nodded.

“It’s delicious. Not too ‘old lady’s bedroom.’”

“Thank you. As we’ve established, avoiding old ladies’ bedrooms is one of my highest priorities.” He gestured at the plate. “Those are honey and thyme, and finally rosemary butter.”

“Isn’t it weird we’ve been doing this a month and we’ve never actually tried each other’s cooking.”

His mouth quirked up. “I swear the crew carry forks in their back pockets.”

“They do. I’ve seen them.”

Picking up a honey and thyme, she snapped it in two and ran her thumb across the break, feeling the texture. “I don’t quite know what to say. You’re obviously really