Rosaline Palmer Takes the Cake (Winner Bakes All #1) - Alexis Hall Page 0,88

too soon to say she’d done well but slightly too late to pretend she hadn’t tried way too hard. And knowing it was probably her or Harry made the whole thing worse.

“So I’ve made”—Alain placed his tray of delights in front of the judges—“a whisky, caramel, and banana pudding served with cream cheese ice-cream, and a glass of whisky on the side.”

“Now this,” declared Wilfred Honey as golden-brown sauce flooded luxuriously from the soft interior of Alain’s perfect bake, “is a pudding. It’s sticky, it’s rich, it takes you right back to your childhood, but it’s got a touch of sophistication that elevates it.”

“And the cream cheese ice-cream,” said Marianne Wolvercote, “works surprisingly well. It just takes the edge off a dish that might otherwise have been a little overwhelming.”

Wilfred Honey had taken a second helping. “It’s a very balanced dish. And the little banana slices on top add a slightly different texture that stops your mouth getting bored.”

“This is good work from you, Alain.” Marianne Wolvercote gave him an approving nod. “I’m glad to see you getting off the allotment.”

“Thank you.” Alain was blushing in a way that Rosaline suspected would be very telegenic. “Thank you so much.”

Finally, it was Josie. “I thought I’d try something a bit different this week,” she said. “This is a fourteenth-century recipe that I’ve tried to update for the twenty-first century.”

The judges exchanged heavy looks. And with a sense of schadenfreude she tried very hard to be ashamed of, Rosaline knew she was back in the game.

Josie’s medieval molten pudding—which was apparently called a payne foundewe—had been described as “valiant” by Wilfred Honey and “definitely not a self-saucing pudding” by Marianne Wolvercote. Either of which could have been the kiss of death on its own and together became a double whammy of doom. Sure enough, Josie was eliminated. And once again, Alain took the top spot. Which, as the person who had made the most successful parkin and the best pudding, he clearly deserved. Even if he had, Rosaline thought resentfully, hopped on the booze train to victory station. But then again, so had she.

She was on her way to the car park when Alain himself came bounding over.

“Congratulations,” she told him. And was glad to realise that—petty resentment aside—she mostly meant it.

He grinned. “Oh thanks. I’m glad it came together because I was getting visions of people watching the show and saying, That Alain guy was really good in week one, but what happened to him?”

“I don’t think you were ever going to be that guy.”

“Good. Because I was running out of herbs to forage. So”—he gave her a look that hovered in between hopeful and winsome—“have you thought any more about coming to London this week?”

She hadn’t, particularly, but fuck it, she’d work it out. “It’ll depend on babysitting,” she said. “But I think I can probably do it.”

“Marvellous. I’ll text you the details.”

Checking her phone, Rosaline realised that while she wasn’t late for getting picked up, she was sufficiently not-early that her mother would consider it late anyway. “I’m so sorry. I need to dash. My mum’ll be waiting.”

Which, now that she’d said it, sounded way too fourteen to be something you were comfortable saying to someone you were shagging.

“Don’t worry. I’ll dash with you. Liv has an abstract relationship with time, so you never know when she’s going to turn up.”

It wasn’t really a dash. It was more sort of a brisk walk down the drive. And sure enough, there at the end of it was Cordelia Palmer standing by the bonnet of her Tesla—which she’d somehow managed to park in the most accusing spot possible.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” said Rosaline, who was actually neither.

“Don’t worry, I’m used to it.” Cordelia Palmer’s smile said she was joking, her tone didn’t. “You must be Alain. Rosaline, of course, has told us nothing about you, but St. John says you gave him a run for his money and that’s no mean feat.”

Alain offered her one of his deft little cheek kisses. “It’s good to meet you, Dr. Palmer.”

“And you.” There was the faintest of pauses, signalling that only Cordelia Palmer’s heroic intervention was preventing this from becoming an irredeemable social failure. “I hope the show’s treating you well?”

“Well enough. Actually won this week, as it happens.”

“Oh did you? That must have taken a lot of work, balanced against your career commitments.”

He gave a modest half-shrug. “Candidly, yes. Especially because I had final designs to submit for a railway conversion project I’ve