I spend the next thirty minutes determined to blow his mind with my mad culinary skills.
The kitchen fills with the scent of hot oil and starch, and soon the two of us are hunched over a heaping plate, fingers brushing as we reach for the crispiest pieces.
Whoever said the fastest way to a person’s heart was through their stomach wasn’t kidding. Callum ends up devouring my fries, eyes wide with astonished pleasure. He eats nearly all of them, and watching his delight fills me more than food ever could.
“There’s nothing a little lard and salt can’t fix.” I swab the last of the salt from the plate with my fingertip and, without thinking, suck it into my mouth.
I glance up to find him watching me.
Watching my mouth.
Awareness flows hot to my cheeks. “Sorry. One taste of home, and I go all feral on you.”
“Good to know.” A slow grin spreads across his face. “A man daren’t stand between a lass and her potato fries.”
“Just ‘fries.’” I hop up and direct my nervous energy toward clearing off the table, but find he’s still watching me with that unsettling intent.
“What?” I ask warily. “Do I have grease on my face or something?” I swipe a quick, surreptitious hand over my cheeks.
“It’s your hair.”
Appalled, I run a hand along my head. “I have grease in myhair?” I hadn’t known it was possible to feel this mortified.
“Och, no. Not that.” He’s laughing again, and this time, helosespoints. “I’m just looking at the color.”
“No need for commentary.” I give him my best glare. “Margie already gave me a hard time about it.” I remember her ridiculous pronouncement—how red-haired children are bred—and scowl. Is that what people really believe here?
“Ah.” He curls his lip with distaste. “Margie. Our patron saint of the scullery.”
“She’s not a big fan of mine.”
“Fan?”
“Meaning, I’m not exactly her favorite person.”
“Ah, well she’s nae mine, so we’re all in good company.”
“Yeah, and she doesn’t like my hair, either.”
He stands, stepping close. Too close. Heat radiates between us. His scent reaches me—smoke from the forge, the earth after rain. My pulse pounds at my ribs like a caged thing.
“I dinnae recall saying I don’t like it.”
“Whatever. It doesn’t matter.” I start to turn, but he catches my hand. His grip is gentle. Warm. Unmistakably deliberate.
“Be at ease, Rosie.” His gentleness catches me off guard. “It’s only that your hair, it’s lovely.” He lifts his hand toward my head. I’m terrified he might touch me, devastated when he doesn’t. “Like sun on the leaves in autumn.”
“Don’t mess with me, Callum.” I try to toss off the words, but I’m not used to this. Not prepared.
“There’s no mess with you,” he says, misunderstanding my phrase. “You’re the first person I’ve known who sets the world to rights. Like I’m where I’m meant to be. Here, with you, it’s the first time I’ve known peace, since”—his eyes go distant—“since a verra long time.”
Oh.
I don’t know what to do with this—with him looking at me like I’m something precious when I feel anythingbut.
“Why haven’t you just…left?” I blurt suddenly.
“Left?” He angles his head to meet my gaze, and damn, he’s got beautiful eyes.
