“And I am clearly not my mother,” Bryony rejoined. “She would forbid my hair from growing straight if she could.”
Perhaps so. Forbidding her daughter from seeing Max was far more practical than straight hair.
“Are you going to let me in?” Bryony asked.
He curled his lip. “No.”
She used the back of the heavy baking pan to nudge him aside and squeezed through anyway. “I must borrow your kitchen.”
He followed right behind her. “Is something wrong with yours?”
“Too much smoke,” she said. “I nearly burned it down.”
He choked. “Bryony—”
She swung the satchel and the baking pan atop the small table and glanced about for a tinderbox.
“Is there anything I should know about your oven before I begin?” she asked.
“Fire is hot?” he answered. “I only have one flat. Please don’t burn it down.”
“So noted.” She untied her satchel and placed its contents beside the pan. Flour, sugar, butter, eggs, currants.
“You’re baking biscuits?” he asked in disbelief.
“I’m attempting to,” she clarified. “I’ve been practicing all morning and the last batch didn’t break any teeth.”
She rummaged about for a bowl and began combining ingredients without any regard for proper order or quantity.
“Have you ever baked anything before?” he asked suspiciously.
“I just told you.” She stirred the contents of the bowl with a long wooden spoon. “I’ve been practicing all morning.”
He watched, speechless.
Once she managed to mash the ingredients together into somewhat cohesive lumps, she dropped spoonfuls of batter onto her baking pan and placed it in his oven.
“There,” she said with pride. “It probably won’t burn down.”
It probably also wouldn’t be edible.
But that wasn’t the point. Max’s chest warmed. She could have purchased currant biscuits at a bakery or the market. Instead, she’d wanted to make them for him herself. Because he’d said he liked them. Because she wanted to please him.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said softly.
“Trust me,” she said. “You’ll wish I hadn’t. I’ll expect you to eat them anyway.”
His lips twitched. “They are already my favorite.”
Bryony ran an idle fingertip along the edge of the mixing bowl, then lifted her gaze to his. “I’m terrible at a lot of things. I’m terrible at sewing. I’m terrible at cooking.”
She seemed to be waiting for a reply.
“I am… better than you at both those things,” he admitted. “But I’m not looking for a tailor or a chef.”
She appeared to think this over.
“I come from a mostly perfect family. That is, my siblings and their spouses are the finest people I know.” She winced. “My parents, on the other hand…”
