Rosaline Palmer Takes the Cake (Winner Bakes All #1) - Alexis Hall Page 0,84
I reckon that’s a bit messed up now I think about it.”
“A bit, but that’s gender socialisation for you.”
“Well”—Harry heaved a deep sigh—“if we’re talking about stuff what gives you emotions, my parkin was bollocks today.”
“Mine wasn’t much better. It might not have been bollocks, but it was definitely in the scrotal region.”
“I’m not sure I want to talk about parkin in my scrotal region, thanks.”
“You brought it up.”
“I did not. I did a perfectly normal swear. You had to make it weird.”
She giggled. “Sorr—No, wait. Not apologising. Fighting my gender socialisation. Suck it, bitch.”
“What?” Harry gave her a fake-startled look. “You can’t call me a bitch. That’s sexist.”
“I’m reappropriating.”
“Leave it off, mate. You’re worse than my sister-in-law.”
Since she’d started seeing Harry as a friend rather than “some bloke with nice arms” she really thought she’d been doing a better job keeping track of his family. “I’m sure you’ve never mentioned a brother.”
“Well, look at you making assumptions.” He folded his arms—which were still nice—but his tone was playful. “Heather’s married to a girl. Sweet story, actually. Met at school. But Caitlyn was well smart and went off to university, which none of my family ever have. But then she and Heather met up again when they was working at the same hospital. Doctor and nurse, bit Holby City, but it works for them.”
Okay, Rosaline. Embarrassingly obvious note to self: working-class people can be queer too. “Wow. Sorry. Actually sorry. That was tragically heteronormative of me.”
“Yeah. Turns out bisexuals ain’t like quinoa. You get ’em round my way too.”
“Oh shut up. Or I’ll sabotage your pudding.”
“You probably won’t need to, mate. I’m pretty sure I’m done for.”
She didn’t want to think about that. “No, you’re not. You can always turn it round the second day.”
“Honestly, I think it’s my time.” He took a swig of his beer. “That’s the thing with putting yourself out of your comfort zone: once you get there, you’re like, Now I’m uncomfortable, what am I supposed to be doing? Besides, I’m not sure there’s anyone I want to send home.”
Rosaline sort of understood and sort of didn’t. There was no one she especially wanted to leave, but she sure as hell knew she wanted to stay. Besides, once she was out of the competition, she’d have to start the whole go-back-to-university saga. And thinking too hard about that made her feel ever so slightly like she’d drunk a cup of somebody else’s vomit.
“I mean,” Harry went on, “no two ways about it you’re a better baker than me. Josie puts a tonne of work in, even if her bakes are sometimes a bit funny. Anvita’s just . . . ”
“Excellent and sexy? If you get knocked out, she wants you to say she’s excellent and sexy.”
“Yeah.” His brow crinkled. “I might not do that. That might make me look like a perv.”
“I don’t think she’d mind.”
“I’d mind. Also, her nan watches this. You can’t go telling a bird’s nan that her granddaughter’s excellent and sexy. But either way, she’s a good baker and deserves to be in the competition. And so does Alain. And Nora’s a granny—and nobody wants to be the one what sent the granny home.”
“Yes, but,” Rosaline protested, “I don’t want you to go home either.”
“What? You going to miss my sunny face and sparkling conversation?”
She squirmed. And did not blush. Or maybe she blushed a bit. “You’ve been . . . a really good friend to me. Even though I’ve been shit sometimes.”
“You ain’t been shit, mate. It’s been good getting to know you, and when I’m sixty I can tell me grandkids about this classy girl—I mean, young woman—I met once what was named after a bird in a Shakespeare play what weren’t in a Shakespeare play.”
“You think you’ll tell your grandchildren about me?” She weirdly liked the idea and couldn’t say why.
“I’m going to tell my grandchildren my whole bloody life story. That time Terry broke his leg falling into a hole outside a pub. That time I found a potato looked exactly like Jeremy Corbyn. That time I let a bloke take me up the Arsenal.”
“Well, I’m glad I mean as much to you as a humorously shaped vegetable and a man you’ve told me several times is a knob.”
“That’s gender socialisation for you.” He shrugged. “Can’t talk about feelings, so it’s all knobheads and funny potatoes.”
Rosaline laughed, and then—
“This is a lot less quiet,” said Alain, “than I was imagining when you said you were going for