His eyes lift up to the counter above us then back to me. “The sauce.”
“Right.” My thighs tense as I jolt up and splash the vodka into the pan without measuring, the hiss filling the space between us.
10
“Well, I’ve never eaten dinner with someone who committed a knife crime against me, but I guess there’s a first time for everything.” Bancroft’s face is shadowed by the street lamps outside, the contrast across his skin highlights his sharp cheekbones and squared-off jaw. I scoff as I look up at him, but then, guilt-ridden, my eyes flick to the hole in the cashmere.
I scratch the back of my head and wince. “I really am sorry about it. I didn’t mean to. How’s your stomach?”
He lifts his jumper to reveal the square white bandage on his abdomen for inspection. “A flesh wound. You’ll have to try harder than that if you actually want to kill me.”
My mouth twitches into a smile as we wave goodbye to the rest of the class. The couple next to us brush up close and entangle arms over each other’s shoulders as they walk down the dimmed pavement.
We walk in silence. The only sound is the rustling of the leaves from the gated residential park across the road and cars driving faintly in the distance. My hands grip my workbag in front of me while his hold the lukewarmbrown takeaway box containing our pasta. There is less awkwardness than our last “date,” but when my mind drifts all I can think about is the hidden strip of photographs of us on his coffee table, and then all I can think about is the harsh sound of his voice as he said those things about me all those months ago. But then there are times, like when I twisted my ankle on the trail, when he looked at me with the eyes of someone who genuinely cares. I can’t decide which version of him is real.
Behind me, I register the scuff of shoes against the pavement and realize Bancroft is no longer walking beside me on the quiet, sleepy road.
Despite myself, I follow him over the road toward a private residential garden fenced off from the public by tall black gates with ornate spiked ends.
“What are you doing?” I ask in a strangled whisper, whipping my head both ways down the street to check for onlookers.
“We need somewhere to eat our expertly crafted meal.”
He grips the top of the iron bars, just higher than his head, and pulls himself up until his knees can balance against a horizontal ledge running against the top. He twists his torso and drops down over the bars in a swift movement before catching me staring. “Coming?”
“We’re not allowed to go in there!”
My stomach churns at the idea of getting in trouble. But even as I’m protesting, I’m picking up the takeaway box he left resting on the sign that states “Residents access only” and angling it through the bars.
Bancroft leans his arms above him against the bars, his triceps pressed across the black metal as he smirks at me. “Sometimes, Hastings, it’s better if you don’t wait for permission. You’ve just got to grab an opportunity when it presents itself.”
I don’t reply, instead peeking around his body to see a beautiful moonlit garden filled with white wisteria. He shoves against the black iron entrance gate until it creaks open just enough for me to squeeze under the clinking chain through the gap.
The scent of freshly cut grass, warm earth and sweet florals fill the night air as we leisurely pace around the garden toward one of the wooden benches surrounded by sparkling festoon lights. I make a mental note to ask Chef Giada about this place. It would be so romantic to come in here to bask in the private tranquillity away from the city and eat the delicious food from the cooking class. The old bench creaks slightly as we sit and open up the takeaway box, breathing in the smell of freshly made pasta and rich garlic.
My phone dings and I pull it out of my jacket pocket to see a text from Susie. I grimace.
“What?”
“Susie wants a proposal sent to her for a meeting first thing tomorrow.”
He knots his brows. “So, it’s her meeting... but you’re doing the proposal?”
“Yeah...” I wrench out, running a hand through my hair and letting the artificial glow of the phone screenburn into my brain. I drop my phone back into my bag. “I’ll reply later. I’m starving so there’s no way I’m leaving you with that entire box.”
I pick up the plastic fork and scoop up the now room-temperature linguine.
Bancroft stares at me, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that.”
“What?” I ask, chewing the delicious savory bite.
He leans in, his voice lowering as though he’s suggesting something illegal: “Disregard an order from Susie.”
He watches me, waiting for a response, but I turn my chin, shrug and take another bite. Overanalyzing my brief moment of insolence is a guaranteed one-way ticket to Anxietyland. He seems to understand not to press the subject, because when he speaks again he is laughing at me.
“No one on earth takes as big bites of their food as you do.” He takes the fork from me, twirls a much smaller amount and holds it up to me. “Thisis what a normal human-size bite looks like.”
My lips curve at his teasing and, before he can move, I lean forward, take his wrist in my hand and eat the presented ball of pasta.
