He disappeared into the kitchen. I heard a drawer open and close before he returned with a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a towel. “Twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off,” he instructed. “Can I get you something else? Paracetamol? Water? Coffee?”
“No, thank you,” I said, mimicking his good manners.
“I have bottled water, if you prefer. Or you can watch me open some wine.”
I smiled. “So I can see if you slip something into my drink, you mean?”
He stared at me with his usual lack of expression. “If that’s a concern.”
“Well, it’s not.”
I sat on his stuffy-but-comfortable couch while he opened a bottle of white wine. He went back into the kitchen. I stirred myself to text Reeti, letting her know where I was.
Tim reappeared with wineglasses and a plate, which he set on the coffee table.
“Thanks.” I adjusted the peas. “Yum. Are those...?”
“Chelsea buns.”
“I saw those onGreat British Bake Off. Bread week.” I reached for one, reacting on an animal level to shelter, food, comfort. “I love bread week.”
“Yes.” Another pause. “The recipe’s online.”
“Wait!” I licked icing sugar from my lip. “You made these?”
Faint color stained his cheekbones. “They’re not difficult.”
“They’re delicious.”
I ate the whole thing.
I was intruding. I knew I was intruding. But... I had been so miserable and confused, and now there were buns. And wine.Twenty minutes on. He could endure my company for twenty minutes. It was oddly reassuring to have a time limit on our relationship. I didn’t have to make an effort to be smart or entertaining. I didn’t need to worry about making him like me or be concerned that he was hitting on me.
After twenty minutes, I set my empty wineglass on the table, more relaxed than I’d felt in ages. My elbow felt... Not fine. But not bad. There was no reason for me to stay. I set the peas, still wrapped in the towel, on the coffee table. “I should go.”
“You’ll miss the next episode.”
“But...”
“It’s the dessert round.”
I settled back on the couch. “Can’t miss dessert.”
He refilled my glass. “A good philosophy.”
A joke. I smiled. “Plus, it’s anyone’s game now.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re baking, not cooking.”
“I don’t see the difference.”
“You can’t simply throw things into pans in baking. You need to measure.”
“That’s why I enjoy it. It’s... precise.”
“Exactly. You have to follow the recipe. Men don’t follow instructions. It’s too much like asking for directions.”
