Page 55 of Don’t Look Down

When I left his office that day, I had been hopeful that he might have thought about what I said. He said he would gauge Lock’s true interest, but if he did, who knows. Lock certainly hasn’t said anything odd about him. And the longer I went without hearing anything, I felt like I had my answer.

It was a summer fling and nothing more.

Since that day in Beau’s office, I’ve been on three more dates with Lock.

One for tea.

One for dinner.

One for another horseback ride. With no galloping this time.

All have been fine. Fun at times. He kissed me after our dinner date. It was sweet and gentle, a little short but that’s alright. Lock is a respectful, intelligent, hardworking man. All qualities anyone would want in a king, and a husband.

I’m just still struggling with the fact that when I look at him, he doesn’t look at me the way someone else did.

But maybe it’ll just take time. We’re still getting to know each other. He admitted himself that he has many walls up, and it’s hard for him to let them down. I understand that. It’s perfectly sensible for someone in his position.

But he promised to try, and so am I.

What I thought could’ve been the beginning of a kernel of hope in Beau’s office was actually the mirage going up in flames like those photos.

So I’ve kept busy, and among my favorite new things I’ve been doing is learning how to bake from Chef Kiyomi. Between working together at a few of the charity events, and Lock learning of my interest in trying my hand at baking after I kept raving about my favorite show, he suggested I ask Chef if she would be willing to show me the basics.

Today, we’re working on millionaire’s shortbread. Apparently, they’re a Caulfield family favorite. And hopefully, they’ll be easier than the lemon tarts we made last week. The batch I made never set properly, and they were more liquid than cream.

“Is that good enough?” I tilt the mixing bowl toward Chef. I’ve been working on creaming the butter while she simultaneously works on the focaccia bread for the King and Queen’s dinner this evening.

She peers over the lip and nods once. “Perfect. Now add the sugar and salt, whip again until it’s fluffy, and then go ahead with the vanilla and egg yolk.”

I do as instructed, feeling much more confident in how this is looking compared to last week. “Do you have a backup dessert for tonight in case these don’t turn out?”

She winks at me and points to the fridge. “Please, I’m not an amateur. There’s a strawberry lavender pie in there.”

We laugh and continue working side by side. She monitors my progress as I slowly add the flour in, then shows me how to press it into the pan in an even layer. She’s patient with each step, and also indulges my constant nagging for her to watch my baking show.

She says she doesn’t like cooking shows since she lives it all day. Which is fair enough, but I still hope to get her to watch an episode with me sometime.

“Get that into the oven, and then we’ll start on the caramel,” she says. “I have to run upstairs to go over a grocery delivery with some of the staff, so I’ll get you going and then do that.”

“Are you sure I won’t screw it up while you’re gone?”

“If you do, then you get to clean whatever burnt mess you make out of the pot.”

She grabs the butter from the fridge while I measure out the sugar, salt, and vanilla. We toss it in the pot, add the condensed milk which I’m tempted to lick the spoon of but refrain because this isn’t my kitchen, and set it on medium heat.

“Don’t take your eyes off of it,” she warns. “You’ll need to pay attention for the color change. When it’s dark and starts to thicken, take it off the heat. I should be back before then, but just in case.”

“Got it,” I say. “I won’t let you down.”

Chef chuckles and takes off her apron before heading upstairs.

Her absence brings silence, but it’s nice. It’s peaceful on my own down here, having a task to keep me busy. The sugar begins to darken, getting that dark caramel color and smell. I continue stirring, completely focused on not messing this up for Chef, when a loud bang sounds behind me.

I whip around, almost knocking the pot off the stove. The steel kitchen door vibrates with how hard it hits the wall.

Beau stands in the doorway, flushed, chest heaving, and white as a ghost. I let the spoon drop against the stove.

“Beau?”