Rosaline Palmer Takes the Cake (Winner Bakes All #1) - Alexis Hall Page 0,78

wasn’t overinclined to dwell on the why of it, and having to tell him “Yes, I do want you to stay” felt a lot more revealing than just assuming he had to.

Also, he thought she was pretty.

Which he’d mentioned before. But felt different now.

“Um,” she said again. “It would be nice if you . . . wanted to stay? For a natter?”

He plopped his toolbox back on the floor and followed her through to the kitchen. “All right then.”

Thankfully the room was in a reasonable condition—its diminutive size coupled with the edge of fussiness she’d inherited from her father meant Rosaline was a tidy-as-she-went kind of baker, and although the elements of an abandoned pudding were still readily visible, they were arrayed neatly towards the back of the work surface. On top of which, fridge door aside, it was a relatively Amelie-free zone.

“My hospitality’s a bit limited, for obvious reasons.” The freezer had continued to melt and she hastily remopped, since while she was sure Harry had been sincere about not wanting anything from her, he’d probably have been a bit upset at winding up with a nasty fall and a twisted ankle. “There’s more tea. And . . . well, not much else. Unless you want to help me use up some prematurely defrosted fish fingers.”

“You got bread?”

Yanking open the freezer door, she began sorting through the things that could be saved and the things that really couldn’t. “Yes, I’ve got bread. I mean, it’s from a shop. I’m not Josie.”

“If you’re serious, I could murder a fish finger sandwich.”

“If you like. They’re going in the bin otherwise.”

“Tell you what. Sling us a pan. I’ll fry ’em up while you put the kettle on.”

She slung him a pan. And tried not to stare as he heated a splash of oil and gently extricated the slightly-sorry-for-themselves fish fingers from their soggy cardboard packet.

“What’s wrong, mate?” He cast her a suspicious glance. “You’re not one of them what grills ’em, are you?”

Her kitchen could just about cope with her and Amelie, and even squeeze in Lauren. But they were all, in their own way, small people—which was one of the many things Lauren had in common with Napoleon. Harry, though, while shorter than Alain, could not be described as small in any meaningful way. This should have made Rosaline feel crowded. Except, somehow, it didn’t. It was nice to . . . share the space. Step around each other. Pass things across the hob.

“I might be,” she admitted. “But I was thinking how betrayed Amelie would feel right now. She’s convinced grown-ups start having fun the moment she goes to bed. And if I tell her we made fish finger sandwiches at ten o’clock, she’ll never sleep again.”

“We could have ice-cream sundaes after.”

“And then go on the secret adults-only merry-go-round. Oh wait. No. That sounds incredibly wrong.”

The fish fingers gave a merry crackle as they hit the pan. “Yeah, my sister had one of them on her hen-do.”

Rosaline laughed, remembering abruptly that she was supposed to be making tea rather than watching Harry fry battered cod sticks. It shouldn’t have been a particularly attractive thing for a man to be doing, but right then, it struck this incongruous balance between cosy and sexy that she wasn’t at all prepared for. Maybe she could blame the fact he’d come to her rescue like a blue-collar knight in denim armour. Or his T-shirts. He really could afford to wear slightly looser-fitting T-shirts.

A kettle, four slices of bread, and a lot of butter later, they were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table, knees almost touching beneath it—something else that was not a hazard with either Amelie or Lauren.

“They’re better with white bread,” said Harry.

“I know, but I’m trying to make sure my daughter grows up with a healthy bowel.”

Harry gave her a playfully appalled look. “Thanks for talking about bowels while I’m trying to have a sarnie.”

“Sorry.” She winced. “Between Amelie and Lauren, I’m used to far worse mealtime conversation.”

“Just taking the piss, mate. Besides, posh voice like yours, ‘bowels’ sounds like what you call your chihuahua.”

“You do know I’m not that posh.”

“Your kid’s named Amelie, you eat wholemeal bread, and you ain’t got no salad cream in your fridge.”

“There’s mayonnaise.”

“It’s not the same thing, and you know it.”

She took a sip of tea. “What even is salad cream? I mean, I know what it is. But nobody knows what it is.”

“Well, it’s one of them things like Branston pickle, init? It’s