Rosaline Palmer Takes the Cake (Winner Bakes All #1) - Alexis Hall Page 0,65

good at this, and you obviously know you’re really good at it because you’re doing it on TV.”

“Yes, but I’d still like your feedback.”

She thought for a moment, flattered that he thought her opinion was worth seeking, and wanting to be useful. “They’re delicious and the bake is excellent, but . . . I guess . . . if I was looking for something to be concerned about, I’m not totally certain it hits the brief.”

There was a small, not totally pleasant silence.

“Well, does yours?” he asked. “They’re supposed to be childhood favourites so, unless your childhood was very different from mine, I’m not sure how lashings of alcohol reflect that.”

The homey sense of comfort she’d had while they were baking together suddenly felt distant and presumptuous. This was Alain’s house. She was a guest. And she’d insulted him, however inadvertently. “I think I was trying to do a twist on a fairly traditional family biscuit tin. But yours are just”—she gestured apologetically at Alain’s plate—“don’t get me wrong, they’re very nice, but they are just sort of . . . biscuits. Posh biscuits. But not biscuits that evoke fond childhood memories.”

“The brief didn’t say it had to be biscuits you could buy in Aldi.”

“No, but . . . ” She gazed at him warily, feeling like Winnie-the-Pooh in Rabbit’s front door, not sure if she should go forward or back, and pretty sure she couldn’t do either. “I think they’re looking for something with kind of a . . . nostalgia factor? And I’m not sure what the story is with these.”

His eyes were cold. “The story is that they’re biscuits.”

“Alain, I’m not criticising. I just think in this challenge they want it to be a bit more personal. It’s not that you have to change the biscuits, but, I don’t know, can you give them more context?”

There was a moment of quiet tension exactly long enough for Rosaline to worry that she’d messed everything up.

“Look,” he said at last. “The things that take me back to my childhood aren’t . . . they aren’t fucking biscuits. I love my parents, and I’m very close to them, but part of the reason for that is that they’ve never assumed I couldn’t cope with adult things. So yes, I grew up on olives and grissini, not jammy dodgers and chocolate Hobnobs. And the truth is, I don’t enjoy being asked to pander to some antiquated notion of relatability.”

Weirdly, Rosaline could relate. At least to bits of it. “My family aren’t a biscuit family either. But I’m here to win a competition so, yeah, I pandered.”

“And I probably should have as well. I just . . . wasn’t sure how to. I wouldn’t know a custard cream if I sat on one.”

“Well”—Rosaline offered what she hoped was a disarming smile—“I think identifying biscuits by sitting on them is a pretty niche skill.”

He gave a grudging laugh. “Besides, my parents are going to watch the show. I don’t want them to feel they raised me badly because they didn’t feed me the right kind of biscuits. And I certainly don’t think my childhood was impaired because I spent more time at the ballet than the supermarket.”

Rosaline’s parents had taken her to exactly one ballet and she’d thought it was nonsense. It was one of the few things she and her father had ever agreed about.

“I’m sure,” she said, “you’ll get through regardless. I mean, unless you set the oven on fire or punch Wilfred Honey in the face.”

“I can probably restrain myself from doing either—though getting through isn’t quite what I’m aiming for.”

She thought for a moment. “You know what, you should tell them what you told me. About your family. I think it’ll work better if they understand where you’re coming from.”

“Might it not seem . . . condescending?”

“Well, maybe leave out the bit about Aldi,” she told him, laughing. “Maybe you could say, ‘I didn’t eat a lot of traditional biscuits growing up, but my parents taught me to appreciate food and cooking and I’ve tried to use some of the flavours they enjoy.’”

“My mother does like lavender,” he agreed.

“And if they’re going to watch, that might be a nice moment for them.”

He smiled at her then. “Come here.” She went there and he pulled her down into his lap and kissed her deeply. And afterwards, stared at her for a while, as if he was trying to work something out. “You’re not very good at being in a competition,