It’d beenfive minutessince she’d laid down the groundwork about how this evening would go, and he still was asking questions.
Eliza turned to him and gave a slow, frustrated blink. “I thought I said no chatting.”
“Technically, you laid strict guidelines that I was not to speak about my job, mostly. Not that I couldn’t ask questions about your personal life,” Lachlan ever-so-kindly pointed out.
Eliza massaged her temples. “Okay. New rule. No chatting aboutanything. Not just interest rates and beach houses.”
Lachlan blew out a breath into his mug of hot chocolate. “C’mon, mate, that’s not fair. What am I supposed to do besides just sit here and drink hot chocolate? You at least have your baking to keep you busy. My laptop still refuses to open.” He frowned at the device.
“I don’t know,” Eliza gave a fake smile. “With all due respect, that isn’t my problem.”
“Could I offer you a helping hand?”
“No, thank you,” she sing-songed politely as she continued to stir the batter.
“I’m practically a chocolatier expert after watching seven seasons of the Great British Bake Off” he bragged.
“Not making chocolate,” she stirred more forcefully, “but still, no.”
Lachlan decided to give up, just picked up the recipe tin, and began going through the recipe cards one by one. He read them off, muttering to himself how he’d like to bake this one, or how he’d never have the patience to complete that one.
Somehow, Eliza tuned him out as best she could, receding into her own thoughts as she cracked the egg, creamed the butter, and churned in the molasses. Puffcake made an excellent assistant, wordlessly reaching for the ingredients and already having them measured for Eliza so she wouldn’t have to concern herself with the exact proportions.
It was nice to have a helping hand in the kitchen, both from Puffcake and from the enchanted kitchen. It strangely reminded her of the days she’d spent her Christmases here as a child with her nan, learning how to bake in this very space. Though she hadn’t remembered ever seeing Puffcake before, or any creature quite like him.
She did remember, however, the magic. The art. The skill. She remembered watching her grandmother’s bony hands as they rolled dough, stirred batter, and poured caramel drizzle over the freshly made cake. She remembered the laughs that reverberated through the cottage walls late into the evening as the two of them talked and tasted to their hearts’ content.
She hadn’t realized it then, but her grandmother’s company had been the magic all along.
A smile spread across Eliza’s lips at the sweet memory of her. When she baked, she always felt like she wasn’t so far away anymore.
The thought suddenly turned bitter as she remembered why she was back here to begin with. It wasn’t for the holiday, but to escape.
Back in London, she’d felt like the dough she placed in the oven every morning: expected to rise and perform even though she’d been stretched too thin. Owning her own business had been hard enough, but partnering with someone who couldn’t fully commit? Impossible.
Davis couldn’t commit to the bakery, or to her.
Sometimes she regretted giving it up. The license, the name, the menu, and even the cute little brick and mortar building the color of a robin’s egg. Every day, she missed it. Every day, she wondered if she had made the right decision to leave.
But she’d been cornered. And Davis always knew how to win a fight.
Now, she worked for a corner café serving flapjacks, mushy peas, and coffee to a loyal stream of old, dying, and grumbling population. The owners were good to her; steady, salt-of-the-earth kind of people, but she missed the freedom. Thecreativity. The serene yet hustle and bustle of making something entirely her own.
Only, if she ever were to have another opportunity to do something like that again, she’d do so much differently. She’d do it right.
Eliza glanced at the clock, the hour hand pointing to eight in the evening. How did she seem to always enter a time warp when she started baking?
“I’ve never had a puffcake,” Lachlan stated. “What about you, Puffcake?”
Puffcake shook his head before twisting back around to help Eliza finish off preparing the last batch of the desserts. Seemed like he’d even grown tired of conversation.
Lachlan sighed heavily, scooting away from his seat. He slowly inched his way over toward where Eliza was working, as if waiting for permission to come closer. She didn’t give it.
“Behind,” he muttered, taking a pan from the counter and waving it neatly over her head.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m going to cook dinner. I’ll need more than just butter and sugar to fill me up.” As if on cue, his stomach rumbled. He snagged another apron from the hook and tied it around his waist. Eliza couldn’t help but snicker. It was pink with jolly looking Santas printed all over.
