Rosaline Palmer Takes the Cake (Winner Bakes All #1) - Alexis Hall Page 0,86

you have a minor disagreement with someone you fancy, it’ll all go out the window.

“So what have you got planned for us this week, Alain?” Marianne Wolvercote asked from the back of the room.

Rosaline, zesting an orange as if her life, or at least her position in a television baking competition, depended on it, did her best to ignore their conversation.

“Well”—Alain sounded charmingly self-deprecating as always—“as you can see, I’ve taken a step back from the herb garden.”

There came the slight clink of Marianne Wolvercote picking up a bottle. “A step back by way of an eighteen-year matured Highland single malt, I see.”

He laughed. “Yes, it would be rather a waste to cook with. But I’m serving a glass of it beside my whisky, caramel, and banana pudding.”

“You know,” said Grace Forsythe, “it’s against the rules to bribe the judges.”

“A drink isn’t a bribe,” drawled out Marianne Wolvercote by way of a reply. “It’s a courtesy.”

Her orange thoroughly zested, Rosaline juiced it along with two of its companions and began dissolving icing sugar into the mixture. She hadn’t exactly patented the idea of exploiting Marianne Wolvercote’s notorious fondness for spirits, but it did sting a bit that he’d nicked the move she’d nicked from at least two competitors in every season.

“What are you doing?” asked Colin Thrimp.

What was she doing? “Panicking. Flailing. Running out of time.”

He beamed. “I love that. Comes across as really normal and relatable. But as if you’re not answering a question.”

“Right now,” she said, too stressed to do anything other than go along with it, “I’m panicking, flailing, and running out of time.”

“Could you tell us why?”

“This ice-cream has taken a bit longer to come together than I thought it would, and I know it takes at least three hours to set. So I might take it out of the freezer and put it in front of the judges and it’ll just”—she spread her hands across the table in a way she hoped resembled melting ice-cream—“blululeuuh.”

Oh God, she was going to be Blululeuuh Girl now. Was that better or worse than Looks Good in a Pinny Girl? And maybe this was her final day on the show. Maybe blululeuuh would be her legacy.

“And the last thing you want,” she heard herself say, “is for your ice-cream to blululeuuh.”

They broke for lunch at a slightly awkward point in the baking process because the puddings had to be served hot and the ice-cream would take a long time to freeze. It was kind of the nightmare scenario—having disasters and being British about it was an integral part of the show, but if your biscuit stack collapsed or a layer of cake fell on the floor, you at least had something to put in front of the judges. With ice-cream, you had ice-cream or you didn’t, and she could all too clearly picture herself standing in front of Marianne Wolvercote and Wilfred Honey, saying, Well, I’ve made you an overcooked pudding served with nothing.

Which mostly killed her desire to sit on the lawn, eating an egg and cress sandwich and trying to make conversation with people who she needed to fail spectacularly if she was going to have any chance of getting through the week.

“It’s all right, mate.” Harry—on his way to grab a sandwich of his own—dropped a hand briefly on her shoulder. “You never know what’s gonna happen with ice-cream. You just have to stick it in the freezer and hope. It’s anyone’s game.”

She appreciated the thought. But accepting that they were all in danger didn’t make her feel much safer.

“I hate to be a can we talk person.” Alain sat down next to her, clutching an avocado wrap. “But can we talk?”

Honestly, she’d rather have brooded in peace. Except having ducked out of sex, she wasn’t sure she should also duck out of a serious conversation about feelings. “I really am sorry about last night,” she tried, hoping to get it over with as quickly as possible.

“You know”—Alain’s eyes were as cold and grey as a car park in October—“you could have said ‘I’m not particularly up for sex this evening.’ Instead of making excuses like I was some knuckle-dragging mouth-breather who wouldn’t be able to stop himself humping your leg.”

She winced. “I was in a bad place and not thinking clearly. I’m sorry.”

“So you keep saying.” He made a slightly exasperated noise. “Perhaps next time you should just tell me you’re going to Malawi.”

Fuck. She’d hoped they were past that. “Alain, I think you’re being