Page 76 of One for the Road
Isla closed her eyes in mortification. I couldn’t hold back my laugh.
“—we don’t always have to repeat it to other people. What if it hurt Alistair’s feelings?”
“Which itdid.” I threw Teddy a wink that made her giggle. “What do you think,Theodora? Should your mummy apologise?”
“Definitely.” She nodded, grinning at the new nickname. It was only fair as she called me Ali. “At school we make an apology promise not to upset each other again.”
I turned to Isla expectantly and mouthed, “Apology promise . . . I’m waiting.”
She scowled and a second laugh cracked its way up my windpipe. I imagined it pluming out in a cloud of dust and cobwebs, my body still unused to the action.
Had the past few years really taken such a toll on me, I couldn’t recall the last time I’d laughed? That was really fucking sad.
Isla and Teddy Lang needed to be studied for witchcraft. I’d been in their kitchen less than five minutes, and I was already having more fun than I’d had in days . . . since the last time I’d seen them.
“I’m not apologising, but I’ll give you half a star for effort. Here,” she said, handing me an apron, then slipping her own over her head. She lifted her braid off her neck to untuck the strands, then wrapped and secured the apron ties in the little divot of her waist.
I watched the entire thing like I was front row at a burlesque show, the little pep talk I’d given myself on the drivehome from the distillery crumbling like a sandcastle, never built to stand the test of time.
“Why do I feel like you’re being generous?” I forced myself to move to the sink, unclasped my watch, set it on the windowsill then washed my hands, hoping the cool water would be enough to stem the direction my thoughts were taking.
I blamed the damn cardigan; it kept slipping off her shoulder. Showing the thin little white camisole she wore beneath.
I’d never had a type.
After Juniper, I’d been so wrecked it had taken me a long time to dip my toe back into the dating scene. When I did, it was never anything more than casual. Dates for work functions with women I’d picked for their ability to charm bow-tie-wearing doctors who’d been growing out their ear hair for the past two decades, and a strong enough mutual attraction that if it ended in a one-night stand, both of us would have a good time.
But Isla – if I had a type, she was it. It was like I’d circled her on a map without even knowing what I was searching for.
I watched her slip off her rings, utterly entranced by the innocuous action. I wanted to feel the cool weight of each of those rings on my neck. On my stomach.
Fuck.This was bad.
So bad.
Her lips were moving. Talking. I scrambled to catch up. “. . . baking should be more about the experience than what you receive at the end. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy a perfectly laminated millefeuille as much as the next girl. But I’d take the burned cookies Teddy and I make on a Sunday morning over fancy treats, hands down.”
“Now I know why the smoke alarm is always going off.”
She rolled her eyes. “She likes them crispy.”
“Course she does.” I glanced at Teddy. She was completely entranced by her Lego.
“We’ll start with the shortcrust pastry.” Isla moved confidently around me, adding flour, salt and cubes of butter to a large bowl. Not even pausing to weigh them. This was Isla in her element. Like she’d been at the food market, before Cam the dick ruined it all.
“How much baking is going to be required of me, exactly?”
“Probably should have asked that weeks ago.”
“Probably.” But it was just dawning on me now that we were doing this. That I had the ability to fuck up this thing that was important to her. I guess I’d imagined that she’d handle the baking and I’d . . . be there. An extra body to ensure she was eligible to enter the competition.
“We both have to contribute, whether it’s the crust or the filling. We’ll literally be making it from scratch on the stage so you can’t get away with doing nothing. You can take the easier jobs on the day, but it’s better if I show you every step.” She pushed the bowl in my direction. “Ready to get your hands dirty?” My gaze dropped to her lips then rocketed back to her eyes when she cleared her throat. “For the pastry, I mean.”Right.“You have to rub the flour and butter together with your fingertips until it starts to resemble breadcrumbs, like this.” She demonstrated, working the mixture.
“Looks easy enough,” I said, entranced by the slow, methodical way her fingers moved.
“You try.” She grabbed my hand, and our fingers brushed in the bowl as I tried and failed to copy the movement. If I were hooked up to an ECG machine, I’d be in tachycardia. Every brush of our skin sent my heart racing.
She flicked me a look. “What?”
