She switched on the radio before rummaging through the cupboards, pulling out the flour, sugar, eggs and chocolate. It was all going to plan until she noticed the pesky puffin was back eyeing up the ingredients through the open window. She quickly leaned forward to shut the window and knocked the bag of flour that was teetering on the edge of the counter. She lunged, hands outstretched, but it was too late.
The bag tipped over, spilling an avalanche of flour.
‘Damn.’ Clemmie blinked through a cloud of white powder. Two minutes ago, her kitchen was spotless, and now it looked like a snowstorm had passed through. She stood there for a moment, locking eyes with the puffin as it stared back at her, unblinking. With a sharp clap of her hands, the puffin startled and took off, its wings flapping noisily. ‘Clemmie, one; Puffin, one,’ she muttered, thinking back to the little thief’s audacious dive straight into her Victoria sponge. She shook her head. ‘Brilliant start, Clemmie,’ she said dryly, brushing flour from her face, only to leave streaks of white across her cheeks. ‘Let’s try that again.’
Brightening the moment, one of her favourite tunes came on the radio. Clemmie grabbed a wooden spoon from the counter. ‘You’re just too good to be true…’ she sang into the spoon, enthusiastically. She began to twirl around the kitchen, ignoring the flour on the floor as she shimmied to the music and belted out the chorus. ‘Can’t take my eyes off of you!’
Her hips swayed, and she threw in a few dramatic spins, nearly colliding with the open fridge door. Laughing at her own antics, Clemmie grabbed a mixing bowl and used it as a makeshift drum, tapping out the rhythm to the beat. She was mid-twirl, the wooden spoon held up to her mouth, when she spun around– and froze.
Oliver Lockwood was leaning against the kitchen doorway, his arms crossed, a wickedly amused grin plastered across his face. ‘Can’t take your eyes off me, huh?’
Clemmie’s heart jumped into her throat. ‘What the?—?’
She stared.
‘Don’t stop now,’ he said with a laugh. ‘You’re not a bad singer or dancer.’
She felt a blush rise in her cheeks. ‘What are you doing here? How did you even get in? We don’t open for another couple of hours.’
‘The door was unlocked,’ he said with a casual shrug, his grin never wavering. ‘I knocked, but apparently you were too busy channelling your inner pop star to notice.’
‘You could’ve announced yourself or, oh, I don’t know, waited outside like a normal person until we opened?’
‘But then where would the fun have been in that? I’d have missed the performance,’ Oliver said, his eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘Seriously, Clem, that was a showstopper.’
Her pulsed raced at the way he said ‘Clem’, but she glared at him, determined not to back down. ‘If you’ve finished mocking me, I’ve got a torte to bake.’
‘Is that what you’re baking for the competition?’ He tried to peer over her shoulder towards the counter.
‘I’m not divulging that to you, as no doubt you’ll run straight back to the opposition, your girlfriend, and share the information.’ Damn, she couldn’t believe that had slipped right out of her mouth.
Oliver cocked an eyebrow. ‘I’m sensing a little bit of jealousy.’
‘I’m absolutely not jealous,’ she protested, but she wasn’t even convincing herself.
‘And for your information, Fiona’s not a girlfriend, just a long-standing family friend.’
‘Who you’ve probably been intimate with at some point.’
Oliver remained silent.
‘I rest my case.’
He was watching her closely. ‘I did miss you, you know, after our week of?—’
‘Great sex.’ Double damn, more words slipped out that were not intended. She could kick herself.
He grinned. ‘Well, I was going to say “exploring London”, but I like your version better.’
‘You’re insufferable,’ she muttered.
‘And yet, here I am,’ he quipped, stepping closer. ‘You know, that week wasn’t just about sightseeing or, apparently, great sex. I actually liked spending time with you.’
Clemmie bit her tongue for a moment. She knew women were drawn to him. His confidence, sharp intellect and magnetic presence made him irresistible. But for all his allure, Oliver was a man married to his work. His relationships were fleeting, his love affairs whirlwind, and he liked it that way… uncomplicated, with the world as his playground.
Her pulse was racing but thankfully her poker face didn’t give anything away. ‘Well, too bad you liked your career more.’
‘Touché.’
