Beatrice rolled her eyes. “She takes care of herself.”
“I made some inquiries at an estate agency about potential townhouses for sale. With your economy having been depressed as ours since ’73, I shall be able to get a home at a fair price, maybe even a steal.”
She could picture him and pretty Lady Emily St. George living on one of the elegant Mayfair squares with a central park, letting Miss Sylvia play outside in the greenery. Or maybe they would have a private back garden big enough for the cat to roam in.
Beatrice didn’t know if it were the walks with his cat or something else that had given him a fine figure, muscular and trim. She swallowed, knowing she oughtn’t to be thinking about his private person in any manner, and absolutely not his figure.
Throwing up her hands at his obstinacy and immovability, she returned to the back room and lit the stovetop. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him enter.
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him how inappropriate it was for him to be there with her alone, but she stopped herself. He knew that and wasn’t bothered, so obviously he had no ill intentions.
Nevertheless, as she added the ingredients, including the treacle, when he poked around the room, moving behind her to reach the other end, her neck prickled with awareness as he passed.
She couldn’t help recalling their first kiss. It had been spontaneous, outrageous, and wonderful. And had never been mentioned nor repeated, despite their having been alone together upon a few occasions since then.
It wasn’t as if they couldn’t keep their hands off one another when by themselves.
She stirred more vigorously as he opened the cold box against the far wall.
“Close it,” she ordered just as her mother used to say when Beatrice would look inside as a little girl. He did so at once.
“That’s a clever invention.”
Beatrice said nothing to that, but realizing he was staring at her, flustered, she dropped the spoon into the toffee pot splattering the hot mixture onto her hand and apron.
“Ow!” she said, quickly brushing at the back of her hand to get the sticky substance off her skin.
“Did you get burned?” he asked, swiftly coming to her side. “Let me see.”
“I’m fine,” she said, turning off the stove. But it did sting, and she couldn’t recall the last time she’d been so careless. Toffee was a dangerous substance, and she had only been allowed to create it after much training and many warnings.
Before she could stop him, Greer took hold of her hand and inspected it.
“Some cold water would help to ease your pain and cool your skin,” he insisted. Turning back to the cold storage, he drew out the pitcher of water Amity always kept inside. “Hold your hand over the sink.”
She did as he instructed and let him pour the blissfully chilled water over her hand until her skin went numb. After he’d poured half the pitcher out, he stopped. Turning, he looked around and grabbed one of Amity’s bowls, pouring the remainder into it.
“Come here and soak your hand for a while.” He drew out her blue stool from under the marble counter, and she sat. Her hand was throbbing again already, so she plunged it into the water and hissed at the searing sensation.
Then she remembered her confection.
“The toffee!” she exclaimed, starting to stand.
