Something in my voice — the barely concealed pleading, maybe — convinced her. “Nobody has ever made me scones before.”
Twenty minutes later, we were in my kitchen, me in shorts and T-shirt, and Eliza in one of my oversized sweatshirts that somehow looked better on her than it had ever looked on me. The sight of her padding around my space in my clothes made my heart do crazy gymnastics. She made us both a mug of tea while I got the rolling pin and mixing bowl, then she slid onto a stool opposite me.
“When my gran made these, I used to sit on her stool and watch, just like you’re doing. When I was old enough, she let me help.” I started to pull ingredients from cupboards.
“What’s the next project? I know you’ve had meetings with your dad over the past couple of weeks, but you haven’t divulged much.” I chopped the butter into small cubes, then tipped flour into my large mixing bowl. I had no idea what Eliza was up to once we were done. Her work life was a mystery outside of Voss Watches.
“However, if you’re riding in on a white horse to help another damsel in distress, maybe I don’t want to know.”
She grinned, then moved behind me, sliding her arms around my waist, placing her mouth next to my right ear lobe. I melted back into her warmth. “No rescuing. I’m a one-damsel-at-a-time kinda woman.”
She placed gentle kisses on my neck, the vibration sending shivers through me. My fingers stopped kneading the butter and flour, as my brain short-circuited.
“It’s nothing exciting. Just boring business stuff. Another company my dad’s looking at helping.” Her hands settled on my hips possessively. “But I don’t want to waste what little time we have today talking about my dad.”
Did I catch something in her expression when I glanced back? A flicker of guilt that made my stomach clench with worry? The uncertainty screwed with my mind, but I pushed it away. Not now. Not when she was here and warm and mine, even if only temporarily.
“Where’s the baking powder?” I muttered, opening the cupboard above the microwave, then the big larder shelf. It wasn’t on the baking shelf where it should be, but I recalled Amina had baked a Victoria Sponge last weekend. She had a habit of not putting things back where they belonged.
I was still searching when I heard my gran’s voice, clear as day: “Middle shelf, behind the honey, love.”
I froze, my heart hammering. I glanced around the kitchen, but could see nothing.
“You alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Concern dotted Eliza’s voice.
I reached up behind the honey and found the baking powder, my hands trembling.
“My gran used to help Katy find things in her house after she died. Katy told me, and I thought she was being kooky. Then you told me about your mum’s experience, too. I think Gran just told me where to find the baking powder.”
Eliza’s smile broadened. “I hope I’m this useful when I’m dead.” She paused. “I loved your gran. Remember we were going to set up a stall in front of Loch Cottage selling her scones?”
Our childhood dreams were so innocent.
“I remember she wasn’t like other grans,” Eliza added. “She went to work, ran her own company, which was kinda badass.”
“Badass is right,” I replied, regaining my voice. “But she was also kind, and always had time for me. There was never a problem she couldn’t solve with tea and a scone. She was far from a traditional grandmother, but her scones were the one thing she held tight.”
I resumed rubbing butter into flour, the familiar motion soothing my racing heart. When I breathed in again, I could smell my gran’s favourite lavender perfume. There was nothing lavender in this kitchen. I didn’t freak out. Rather, it made me smile.
“Scones were her thing, but she didn’t share the recipe with outsiders. Said it was a family secret.” I smiled, thinking of her telling me this as a kid. “It turned out, the secret was soaking the fruit, then sprinkling flaked almonds on top. I made them throughout my childhood, but I recently found the full recipe. This is the first time I’ve made them properly again.”
“I’m glad you think I’m trustworthy enough to share it with.”
I snagged Eliza’s gaze. “Me, too.” This wasn’t just breakfast; this was me letting her into something precious, something I’d never shared with anyone else. This was me being vulnerable. Something I could never have imagined when we first met.
“Do you want to help?”
“I would love to.”
I guided her through the process, our bodies moving around each other with surprising ease. When I needed to reach past her, she’d shift just enough, her hand brushing my back. When she needed something, I’d hand it to her before she asked, like we’d been doing this dance for years instead of minutes.
“It’s great doing this with someone else.”
“Anyone would do?” she replied, bumping my hip.
I rolled my eyes. “You know what I mean.” The feelings I had for Eliza sloshed inside me, but they were always at war. I changed the subject to stop them bubbling up.
“How are things with your dad and Margot?” I tried to keep my voice casual, while grabbing the cutter for the scones.
