Rosaline Palmer Takes the Cake (Winner Bakes All #1) - Alexis Hall Page 0,7
was the company.” He gave a heavy sigh. “No sooner had I got rid of Cretin A when the bride’s father grabbed hold of me and spent ten minutes trying to engage me in conversation about which of the waitresses he or I would like to, and I quote, ‘give one.’”
“Urgh”—Rosaline gave an involuntary shudder—“I can’t stand men like that.”
“Neither can most reasonable people. Then again—and I hate to say this—I think they do sometimes get quite a lot of encouragement. The bride herself was very much”—Alain paused, as if unable to find words to express the horrors he was trying to describe—“let’s say that between the fake tan, the fake breasts, and the fake nails I wasn’t entirely sure if my friend was marrying a person he’d met at work or something he’d run off on a 3-D printer.”
Again, she shouldn’t have laughed. Again, she sort of did. And again, she felt guilty for it. Lauren had serious—and honestly, correct—opinions about the way society had gone from judging women for failing to live up to unrealistic beauty standards to judging them for both failing and succeeding. Except, in that moment, it seemed harmlessly liberating to share someone else’s judgement of a stranger instead of being judged herself.
They turned through a gap in the hedgerow and made their way up a dirt track towards a sprawling but well-maintained farmhouse. In the yard at the front, a woman with a flat cap was doing something incomprehensible to a tractor.
“Well then,” Alain whispered. “Let’s see if we get shot.”
They did not, in fact, get shot. Instead, the farmer confirmed that there was no reasonable way to get to Tapworth that evening, offering to put them up for the night and run them along to Patchley House in the morning. Spending a night in the middle of nowhere with a man she’d just met wasn’t something that Rosaline was exactly wild about, but assuming the BBC had vetted Alain as closely as it had vetted her, there was a better than reasonable chance he wasn’t a serial killer.
“Of course I’ll take the floor,” he was saying. “Or if it would make you more comfortable, I can ask our host if she wouldn’t mind me using her sofa instead.”
Rosaline was sitting on the edge of a crisply made double bed in the little room beneath the eaves that had been all the farmer had available. She’d fired off a quick text to Lauren to explain about the train drama and that she wouldn’t be able to call until tomorrow, and she was now waiting to see if she had enough reception for the message to actually send. When it finally did, she looked up. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable on the sofa?”
“Not really.” He gave a slightly self-deprecating smile. “My feet would probably hang off the end.”
So they split the generous supply of pillows and blankets, Rosaline rolling up on one side of the bed, and Alain constructing a makeshift mattress on the floor.
“What a strange day,” offered Alain after a predicably awkward pause.
“Just a bit,” she agreed. “Are you sure you’re okay down there?”
“Actually, I’m quite comfortable. It reminds me of backpacking on my gap year. Although since I went with a schoolfriend, who, on prolonged exposure, turned out to be the most flatulent person I’ve ever met, I will say you’re a better companion.”
“So, you’re telling me I rate better than nobody, some arsehole at a wedding, and a farting teenager? You really know how to make a girl feel special.”
He gave a soft laugh. “You have quite a talent for turning a compliment into an insult.”
“Thanks, I put a lot of work into it.” There was a long silence. And Rosaline tried to figure out if it was the comfortable silence of people settling down to sleep. Or the uncomfortable silence of a conversation that, like the trains, had come to an unexpected stop in the middle of nowhere.
“I’m beginning to suspect,” said Alain, “that I might have skipped the chapter in life’s instruction manual that covered the etiquette for being required to share a room with an intriguing stranger with whom you have inadvertently become trapped on your way to a televised baking competition.”
Rosaline had skipped a lot of chapters in life’s instruction manual. So many that she often felt like she’d dropped her copy in a puddle at the age of nineteen. “It’s been a while since I checked, but when it comes to basically all social interaction, the