My stomach does a somersault at hearing Art say my name. “All that shopping has made me hungry. How about we pick up some takeaway for dinner. I’ll even let you pick where we go, my treat.”
I hope he takes the bait and doesn’t fight me over dinner. We missedlunch because of me. He was so patient. This is my way of paying him back.
He hesitates a few moments, an internal battle of wills playing out inside him. “I’m a man of simple tastes. How about Pret?”
“Sounds brilliant.” I clap my hands together.
Art locates the closest Pret a Manger by checking the map on his mobile. “We’re about ten minutes away.” A cool female voice on the navigator directs him to exit the car park and turn left.
“Do you already know what you want? Or should I load the menu and read it off to you?” I ask.
“No need. I’m getting the Swedish meatball hot wrap and the smoked salmon protein pot.”
I stick out my tongue. “Those donotgo together.”
“Maybe not to you, but that’s my usual order. What areyouplanning to have?”
“The chicken salad sandwich and maybe a side of soup.”
“Good choice. They had a tasty butternut masala one the other day. The seasoning is just right on it.”
“Are you getting a dessert too?”
“No.” He wrinkles his nose. “What they have on offer isn’t made with the right crispness. Take their chocolate croissants, for instance—the outer shell should flake off in your hands when you pick it up. The interior should melt in your mouth when you take a bite. They don’t tend to proof their dough long enough.”
Art sure knows a lot about baking. “You’re making me hungrier with all this talk about chocolate croissants. Now I want one. It sounds delicious.”
“If youmusthave something sweet for dessert, I’ll take you to a proper bakery when we finish our meal.”
“Deal,” I say. “So, how do you know so much about baking?”
“It’s a hobby of mine.”
I sit up taller in my seat. “You bake?” That explains it.
“I do.
“Oh, that’s dangerous information,” I tease. “Now that I know you bake, I may order you to whip up a batch of fresh cookies or scones.”
“It would be my pleasure, Alice. Except I’d have to use your kitchen.”
“What’s wrong with yours?” I ask, cocking my head to the side.
“It’s tiny.”
“Are you just saying that? Or is that an excuse to get out of it?”
“I’m a decent baker.” We stop at the signal, and he glances back at me. “I applied and was accepted to be a contestant onThe British Baking Championship.”
I can’t believe it. Getting ontoThe British Baking Championshipis extremely difficult. The competition is stiff. All the contestants who appear on the program could be star bakers in any of London’s top Michelin restaurants. “Art, that’s amazing! When are you going to be on the telly?”
“I’m not. I declined the offer.” The signal changes and he returns his focus to the road. “I had another opportunity come my way that I couldn’t pass up.”
My mouth opens and closes. Turned it down? That doesn’t make any sense. Why would he do that? “Art, no.” I’m gutted for him. “Can you ring the producers and tell them you’ve changed your mind? I’m sure we could sort some leave out for you.”
“No, it’s too late.” He shakes his head. “I was told by the network I’d have to reapply if I was interested in appearing in a future season. Anyway, it worked out for the best. I would’ve had a terrible time working with others and being filmed all the time. I’m a private man. I can’t imagine anything worse than sharing my life with the world. I only applied in the first place to see if my skills would make the cut.”
“How long ago was this?”
