“Vanilla cake,” was all she said.
“Looks amazing, lass,” he told her.
“Thanks,” she mumbled, pulling out two trays.
One, crab stuffed mushroom tops. The other, bacon wrapped dates.
When Ned said Blake could cook, he wasn’t fucking about.
“Looks great,” he told her.
“I’ll be out in a minute,” she said to the trays as she moved food from them to large, round, wooden plates.
“I’m here to help.”
“I’ve got it.”
Like his mother earlier, he realized then, she hadn’t looked him in the eye since he got there. Even her murderous look had been directed at his ear.
“All right?” he asked.
“Really, Dair, I’ve got it,” she said, still transferring mushrooms.
He put his hand to the small of her back.
She shot straight and turned to him.
“What’s up?” he pushed.
“Nothing,” she lied. He could see it in her eyes.
“Blake.’
“Can you ask Dad to make me a martini and kill the vermouth?”
“What’s up?” he repeated.
She tried to turn away from him, snapping, “Nothing, Dair.”
He put his fingers to her jaw and turned her head his way.
She yanked from his touch.
Oh, aye.
Something was wrong.
“Have I upset you?” he asked.
“No,” she bit out. “You haven’t.”
“Then who has?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” She finished with the mushrooms and went to the dates.
“Blake, you’ve obviously worked very hard on dinner. Talk to me so ye can enjoy the night, as ye should.”
She transferred dates and said nothing.
