by Jessica Hart
“I knew how he felt. That was the day Stella left me. I was feeling a bit battered and bruised myself.”
And where had that come from? Max wondered. He scowled.
“Anyway, they’ve both given back more in loyalty and trust and affection than a cat ever could,” he said.
Flora pointed at him. “You’re a big softie under that grim lord-of-the-manor act!”
She was smiling, her eyes very blue. She wasn’t beautiful, Max reminded himself, or even particularly pretty. Her features were very ordinary, but she had lovely creamy skin and a temptingly lush figure. She looked soft ... and warm ... and ... what were they talking about?
With an effort, Max pulled his mind back on track. For a moment there he had felt quite dizzy. He cleared his throat.
“Says the woman who’s not selling her cottage because of a cat called Sweetie!”
Flora held up her hands to acknowledge the hit. “I was bitten by a farm collie when I was six,” she said, “and I’ve been nervous of dogs ever since. I mean, I like them in principle, but they always seem to have very big teeth.”
“Well, I can promise Bella and Ted won’t bite you. We’ll have to agree to disagree on cats and dogs.”
“I’m sure that’s not all we’ll disagree on,” said Flora gaily. “Real coffee versus instant, cooking versus opening a can, city versus country ... oh, and I’m cheery and you’re cranky.”
“Good to know that we’re not made for each other,” said Max, with a sarcastic look, but when Flora just laughed in agreement, he couldn’t help feeling just a little bit ... well, cranky.
Chapter Three
Humming to herself, Flora drizzled lime juice and sugar carefully over a row of coconut cakes. A wet day had meant the lights had been on since the morning, and outside a blustery wind hurled rain at the windows, but inside it was warm and cosy with the combined heat of the range and the oven that had been going all day. She was enjoying the tranquillity of a kitchen on a winter afternoon, so different from the frenetic activity of a restaurant. Flora felt a little guilty about not missing that part of her life more, but now that she had unpacked everything, the kitchen was starting to feel like hers.
She had been making patisserie for a café in Ayesborough: chocolate and salted caramel tarts, delicately green pistachio slices, tiny apple tarte tatins and individual strawberry cakes topped with jelly and garnished with white chocolate, strawberries and edible pearls. The café had requested some traditional cakes, too, so Flora had produced a couple of chocolate cakes, some coffee and walnut, a big Victoria sponge and a selection of drizzle cakes. Once she would have turned her nose up at such plain baking and relished the challenge of making food innovative and exciting instead, but she had to admit that there had been something soothing about the simple tasks of measuring out butter and sugar, of cracking eggs into a bowl and sifting flour.
She would get back to real cooking once she was in London again, Flora reassured herself. She was more than just a pastry chef and she didn’t want to lose her edge.
In the meantime, she might as well make the most of this time. There was no competition in Combe St Philip, no challenge, no driving desire for perfection. There was just Sweetie to care for, and Hope’s wedding to plan, and cakes to bake in this lovely kitchen.
Flora loved to think about the other cooks who had worked at the great scrubbed table. She had set her best dishes on the dresser, and hung her gleaming saucepans from the old hooks by the range. The fridge was defrosted and properly stocked, Max’s meagre supplies banished to a lower shelf. In the larder, bowls of eggs sat on the marble shelf, and flour, sugar, nuts, spices and all the other dry ingredients she needed were arrayed in carefully labelled containers. Her recipe books were stashed on a shelf near the tatty old chair by the range, and she had a notebook open on the table so that she could jot down any ideas for tweaks to recipes.
She had dragged in a sagging armchair from the old housekeeper’s room, and her morning ritual was already established: a coffee and few minutes curled up in the chair with her feet tucked beneath her. It was her time to think about what she would cook for Hope’s wedding. She would leaf through the books, and scribble notes, and, yes, all right, sometimes her mind would drift a little and she would imagine having a kitchen like this of her own, with a vegetable garden right outside the door. It would be lovely in summer, with the kitchen door open and sunlight puddling on the worn flagstones and the scent of an English summer garden heady on the air. She would have a jar of daisies on the windowsill and herbs handy in a stone trough just outside the door.
“Good to see you’re working hard.”
Of course, Max had to choose to come in the moment she had sat down. She had seen little of him since the day he had helped carry in her equipment. He tended to use the side door into the boot room, which smelt of dogs and leather and old coats, and would grunt a greeting when he passed the kitchen door, but that morning he had come inside while she was dreaming. He’d obviously taken off his muddy boots, and was padding around in thick socks as the dogs bustled in behind him.
He had been working outside and his face was ruddy with cold. His hair was spangled with damp and his lashes clumped in the wet, accentuating the keen green of his eyes. He wore old trousers and a blue jumper with a hole that was unravelling at the elbow. His face was set in its usual irascible expression.
So there was absolutely no reason for Flora’s pulse to kick up a notch.
“I am working, as it happens,” she said. “I’m planning the canapés for Hope’s wedding.” She scowled at Bella who had shambled over to thrust her hairy nose into Flora’s lap. Flora pushed her away – but carefully. Max could say what he liked about Bella being soft, but she still had big teeth.
Glancing up, she caught the glint of amusement in his eyes, and her treacherous pulse kicked up a little further.
“Can’t you teach those dogs of yours to wipe their feet when they come in?” she demanded, hoping that he couldn’t see the warmth that burned in her cheeks. “Look at the mess they’ve made of my nice, clean floor!”
“I hate to remind you, Flora, but it’s actually my floor,” Max pointed out, but he grabbed some kitchen paper and wiped up most of the mess.
“Want some coffee?” she asked, mollified, as she uncurled herself from the chair.
“Is it going to take half a day to make?”
Flora tsked. “It’s easy.” She reached into the freezer for the coffee beans, and ground them quickly. “Here, let me show you so that you can help yourself if I’m not here,” she said. “Fill the water, like this ...”
After a moment, Max moved nearer and stood beside her to watch. Which was exactly what she had invited. Only now he seemed larger and more solid, and she was distracted, fumbling with the portafilter, suddenly all thumbs.
“So, um, you dose the coffee in here – see.”
“What does ‘dose’ mean?” He leant closer and Flora’s mind promptly went blank.
What did it mean? He smelt good, of rain and the clean smell of outdoors, and although he wasn’t touching her – nowhere near – she could feel the warmth radiating from him, like a glow down her side.
Unless she was the one who was warm? It was hard to tell.
He was waiting for her to answer. What had been the question again? Oh, yes, dose. Desperately, she cleared her throat.
“Er, it’s just about measuring in the coffee.” Hallelujah, more than two words strung together in a coherent order.
Max wasn’t much taller than she was, but there was something rock-like about him. If you leant against him, he wouldn’t fall over – and he wouldn’t disappear like Rich, whose lack of support still stung, for all she told everyone that it had all been for the best.
Flora wrenched her wayward thoughts back into line. “So, yes, you dose the coffee and tamp it down in the puck, like so.” She demonstrated. “Then you just switch this ... and this ... and voilà! Perfect coffee. Want to have a go?”
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Max hesitated, and she looked at him more closely. “You didn’t listen to a word I said, did you?”
He had the grace to look uncomfortable. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
She relented. “Here, you’d better take this one.”
He took the mug with a grunt of thanks. “I don’t know why you can’t just boil a kettle and pour it over some granules,” he grumbled, but she noticed that he was drinking it without complaint.
It was a relief that he had moved away. Flora concentrated hard on making her own coffee, and on not noticing how oddly right he looked leaning casually against the kitchen counter.
“It looks a bit different in here now,” said Max, glancing around him as if visualizing all the boxes and bags that had filled the room that Monday morning.
“I told you I would clear it all away,” Flora pointed out. “I put all the boxes in one of the empty rooms down the passage. I’ll need them all again when I move out at the end of June.”
Already the thought was depressing.
“It’s a lovely kitchen to work in,” she told him, following his gaze. The high ceilings, the light through the big windows and all that wonderful work space ... knowing that she could open a cupboard and there would be just the utensil she wanted.
“Ah yes, this is you living your fantasy,” Max remembered.
“You can mock,” said Flora with dignity, “but at least I’m living mine. How many people can say that?”
“Not me, that’s for sure.”
“I’d love to ask you what your fantasy would be, but that would probably be asking for trouble.”
“It would,” said Max. “I prefer to keep my fantasies private.”
“Ooh, now I really want to know what they are!”
Max put down his coffee. He wished she wouldn’t smile at him like that. It made him ... twitchy. He wasn’t the kind of man who flirted or had fun. He didn’t want to be amused or grin back at her. Especially he didn’t want to think about fantasies and Flora in the same breath.
He scowled instead. “How is your sitting tenant?” he asked, unable to bring himself to ask directly after an animal called Sweetie. Surely they could have found a decent name for the cat?
“In fine form,” said Flora cheerfully. “He bites my ankles if I don’t feed him the moment I get in. Look.” She pulled up her jeans a little way to show him a selection of scratches and tooth marks.”
“Those look painful.” Max cleared his throat. Please God he wasn’t really aroused by the glimpse of an ankle, like some dirty Victorian! He might as well grow a pair of mutton chop whiskers and be done with it.
He had kept away from the kitchen as much as possible over the last couple of days, but he’d been very aware of Flora all the same. He’d heard her humming happily to herself when he passed the door, and delicious smells drifted out to the boot room.
He’d let himself be lured in today by the scent of coffee and freshly made cake, but now he wished he hadn’t. He’d meant to get a coffee, tell her about the kids and go, but instead she had beckoned him over to the coffee machine, and like a fool he had gone to stand next to her. He’d been excruciatingly aware of her. Strands of gold in the choppy blonde hair glinted in the overhead light and he could smell her shampoo, something fresh and sweet, like the garden on a summer morning.
How hard could it be to make coffee? Max had tried to concentrate on what she was telling him but he had kept getting distracted by how the tinge of pink along her cheekbones warmed the creamy skin. She had beautiful hands with short, very clean nails, and he would find his gaze fixated on her pointing finger without taking in anything that she was saying. And then she had glanced at him and accused him of not listening, blue eyes brimming with amusement, and Max had felt something unlock inside him.
“I wouldn’t put up with that if I were you,” he said sternly, eyes almost crossing in the effort of not smiling back at her.
“Oh, he doesn’t mean it. He’s just old and missing Pops. He’s allowed to be cranky.”
Unlike you. She didn’t say it, but Max could practically see the words hovering on her tongue.
“I really just came in to remind you that Holly and Ben will be here tonight.” Max assumed his most forbidding expression, though it didn’t have much effect on Flora.
“I haven’t forgotten. I thought I’d make macaroni cheese. Most children like that. Will that be okay for Holly and Ben?”
“I should think they’d be delighted with anything that wasn’t spaghetti bolognaise, which is all that I can cook,” said Max.
“Excellent. I’ll find out what they do and don’t like later.”
“Stella’s going to drop them off after school. I daresay she’ll come in and check you out.”
“You haven’t told her about my crush and how I hated her for marrying you?”
“Why on earth would I have told her that?” said Max irritably.
“I would have,” Flora said.
“Well, I can assure you that I haven’t discussed you at all with Stella, other than to say that you’re using the kitchen and that I’ve arranged for you to give the kids a decent meal at least once a week.”
Flora knew that Hope loathed Stella. “She hurt Max,” she’d said flatly. “Max always pretends that it was all for the best, but I know that he was gutted at the time.” So while Flora was intrigued to meet Max’s ex-wife, she wasn’t predisposed to like her. Still, when Stella arrived with the two children later as she was drizzling sugar syrup onto the cakes, Flora had to admit that she was super friendly.
Stella was tiny and fragile-looking with huge eyes and glossy dark hair. Flora felt enormous next to her. No wonder Max was so morose, knowing that he’d lost someone quite so beautiful. It must be so hard for him to see Stella, Flora realized. His ex was stunning still and beautifully dressed and apparently sweet-natured.
A nightmare, in fact.
Ben’s eyes rounded when he saw the spread of cakes on the great table. “Can we have one?” he asked.
“Ben!” Stella rolled her beautiful eyes. “Flora, I’m so sorry! You must think I’ve brought along a couple of savages!”
“It’s fine,” said Flora, who liked the way Ben had cut to the chase. He looked like a nice boy, a typically scruffy nine-year-old, with his shirt half in and half out of his trousers and his hair standing on end. Had Max looked like this when he was a little boy? Flora suspected not. He looked as if he had sprung fully grown from the womb with a disapproving expression. “Of course you can,” she told Ben. “You can have a chocolate or a Victoria sponge.”
There followed a brief tussle between the two children, until they settled on chocolate.
“That’s what I wanted him to choose anyway,” said Holly loftily. “I only chose the Victoria sponge because I knew he’d go for the chocolate to spite me.”
According to Hope, who adored her, Holly was ten and a half going on twenty-five. Holly looked like Hope too, with a tumble of coppery curls and an enchantingly pretty face saved from cuteness by the sharp expression in her green eyes.
With a mental apology to Hope, Flora felt obliged to offer Stella a cup of tea. She would have liked to have showed off her coffee maker, but it was after four o’clock, and this was England, after all. Tea it had to be.
Stella accepted tea but unlike her children, refused a slice of cake. “Christmas is coming up,” she explained, patting her perfectly flat stomach. “You know how one piles on the pounds at this time of year!”
Flora did know, and had the figure to prove it. She doubted if Stella had ever overindulged in her life, though. A second lettuce leaf would be Stella’s idea of going too far. There was no way she could stay so slender otherwise.
Defiantly, Flora poured tea and helped herself to cake while Stella settled down for a cosy chat.
“We’re all so excited about Hope marrying a prince! What a relief to be able to talk to you about it, though,” Stella said. “It’s been so hard keeping it a secr
et!”
“I know. I ring Ally up every now and then and we have a little squeal: Omigod, Hope’s going to be a princess!”
“I’m going to be a bridesmaid,” Holly announced importantly.
“Hey, me too!” They regarded each other with pleasure.
“Really?” Stella sipped at her tea and studied her over the rim of her cup. Flora could practically hear her calculating that she must be twice the size of Hope. “I didn’t realize you and Hope were that close.”
“We’ve been friends for a long time. My first cooking job was at the Three Bells, and I got to know Hope when she got a weekend job there.”
“Oh, yes, that ghastly time.” Stella sighed. “I don’t know why Hope insisted on getting that job. She was only fifteen. Max made sure she had everything she needed.”
Except a father, thought Flora.
Holly wasn’t interested in old family scandals. “Hope says we can go to London to choose our bridesmaid dresses,” she told Flora. “She says there’s a shop where if you’re a VIP you can go in the back door, and you have a whole room to yourself and a personal shopper brings you stuff to try on while you drink champagne.”
“That sounds like fun,” Flora agreed. “I’m up for that. As long as Hope doesn’t want to put us in anything frilly.”
She was joking, but Stella took her seriously. “Frills would be a mistake for you, Flora,” she said. “You’re quite ... tall, aren’t you?”
“I’m going to look ridiculous next to Hope and Ally and Holly,” Flora agreed cheerfully with a wink at Holly. “I’m hoping they’ll airbrush me out of all the photos. What about you, Ben?” she asked. “Are you going to be a pageboy?”
He pulled a face. “No way!”
“I wish you would, Ben,” said Stella fretfully. “I’m sure Prince Jonas’s nephews will be in the bridal party.”
“I’m not getting dressed up.” Ben’s face set in a stubborn expression that made him look remarkably like his father. “Hope said I didn’t need to if I didn’t want to, and I don’t. Holly can wear a stupid dress if she wants.”
