I sigh. “You don’t know what I’m talking about. Coffee…it’s this amazing drink that wakes you up. Like tea, but stronger. And in the future, you can get it with all sorts of tasty things added. Maybe a pump of vanilla topped with whipped cream and a drizzle of caramel.”
“And you are the only one in your home to prepare such things?”
“I don’t make lattes, but otherwise, yeah, I love to cook. It’s one of my favorite things.”
He looks stunned. “Truly?”
“Totally. Food can be so much better than this,” I say, tappingmy stale bread on the table. “All you need are a few more ingredients. Actually, you probably already have everything you’d need to make things taste better.”
I picture the baskets of roots, herbs, and vegetables stored inside the Campbell larder. “Like, how is it you’re knee-deep in potatoes, but all anyone eats is mush? Why do you all feel so compelled to pulverize them? Neeps and tatties is basically mushy turnipy potato sludge. But potatoes can be awesome.”
“What doyoudo with them?”
“I make potatoesau gratin—that’s potatoes and cheese. Or, sometimes I stuff baked potatoes with chives and bacon. But really, my favorite best-food-of-all-time is french fries.”
“We’re nae in France.”
“They’re not really French. That’s just the name, which…I don’t know why that is.” I wave an impatient hand. “Whatever. They’re potatoes cut up and fried, and they’re delicious, and I don’t know why you people haven’t figured them out yet.”
“Then make them.”
He opens a cupboard and pulls out two potatoes. Weighing them in his hands, his eyes crackle with mischief. “Or are you afraid?”
“Wait. You mean”—I look around as if there might be someone poised to stop me—“now?”
“Whyever not?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Because I might get in trouble?”
He scoffs. “This is a kitchen.”
He stands behind my chair. Sets down the potatoes. Bracketing his hands on either side of mybody, he leans down.
His breath warms my cheek as he leans in, voice low and teasing. “What else d’you think happens in here, Rosie?”
Chapter
Nineteen
Callum’s breath tickles my ear, his body cradling mine from behind. Awareness shimmers through me, hotter than any oven.
“I need oil,” I blurt, the words embarrassingly loud in my head.
But Callum just grins wide as he bounds to the other side of the room, rummaging through cabinets until he triumphantly holds up a small bowl. “Will lard do?”
“Sure, probably.” His pull is irresistible. I get to my feet. “What are you so happy about anyway?”
“I’m excited for your France fries.”
“French fries.” I glance around, doing a mental tally of what I’ll need. “We’ll definitely want salt.”
He produces a small jar. “Do you need the pepper box as well?”
“Wow, aren’t you resourceful? Just the salt, thanks.”
I reach for it, but he holds on for a moment too long.
My eyes shoot to his, and he gives me an easy smile as he releases the salt from his grip. “I aim to please, Rosie.”
