The irony of that statement isn’t lost on me, considering she definitely imposed guidelines on my personal time when she asked me to stay away from Liam. A guilty wave passes through me at the thought, and I turn to watch the TV to drown it out.
“Well, if you don’t need me for anything else tonight, I should go pick up Ollie.”
“You can stay for a few minutes. I already went down to check on him. I planned on bringing him back up here myself for some one-on-one time, but he was fast asleep. Phillip said they went on a rather long walk.”
“That was very nice of you to check on him,” I tell her.
“It was nothing. I didn’t mention it to you before, but I’ve been working on potty training with Ollie for the past few days. He’s doing really well with the wee pads, but we should figure out a more permanent walking schedule for him so he can stay consistent.”
Her words prompt me to scan the apartment and I look over to realize that there’s not only a wee pad in the kitchen, but there’s one in the far corner by the windows as well. I don’t know how I missed it.
“Thanks, Juliette. That’s awesome.”
“No worries. I just figured he could stay up here longer this way, and he would be more comfortable.”
“I completely agree. Are you sure I shouldn’t go get him, though?”
“Honestly, he looked content beyond compare resting on his mountain of pillows. But it’s up to you, of course.”
Mulling it over, I slip back further in the chair. “I guess I won’t rush, then. Phillip could always bring him up if he needs me.”
“Very true,” Juliette replies.
Turning my attention back to the TV, I do my best to get caught up on the show. “How long have you been watching this?” I ask her.
“Since I got home. It’s a marathon, and it’s entirely soothing.”
I can see what she’s talking about, already falling for the show’s charming allure as the polite contestants whisk and mix for our viewing pleasure, their melodic voices from their interviews immediately drawing me in.
Forty minutes later, we’ve barely moved. We have, however, become honorary judges on this baking show’s panel of experts.
“How do you forget to grease the pan?” I ask, utterly crestfallen. “Damn it, Gertrude! I was rooting for you.”
“It’s looking bleak for our front-runners, kid.” Juliette shoves a handful of popcorn into her mouth. “Graham’s presentation was completely sub-par. You can’t do sloppy fondant rosettes like that and expect to advance to the next round.”
“Obviously. And I have to say, after years of careful consideration, I think I’m finally ready to admit that British baking shows really are more enjoyable than the ones that are filmed back home. At least here they give you normal ingredients and sufficient time.”
“Oh, I agree,” Juliette says. “American cooking shows make me spiral into a panic attack after watching for five minutes. They’re like, ‘Okay, you have to make this tiramisu, but if you use flour or eggs, you will be shot, and substitute lobster and raw fennel for all dairy products, and if you don’t finish in three and half minutes, we’ll gouge out the eyes of your oldest living family member. Good luck.’”
I giggle and reach over from the chair to grab a handful of popcorn from the bowl beside her. “I think I actually watched that episode last week.”
Juliette ends up passing me the bowl. “Not to brag or anything, but I think I’d be really good on one of these competitions. Contrary to what you think of me, I do exceedingly well under pressure and with improvisation.”
“You wish,” I tell her, stuffing the popcorn into my mouth. “I can already picture you cursing the judges out and crying in your exit interview.”
“Winners don’t cry, Winnie. And I would absolutely win.”
I dust the crumbs off my hand with a mischievous gleam in my eyes. “Let’s test that theory, shall we? Let’s have our own little cooking show right now, and we’ll see how well you do.”
Juliette lifts an intrigued brow and pivots around on the couch to face me. “What kind of cooking show?”
“Let’s make it toned-down but American, to keep things spicy. You’re not nice enough to be on a British baking show. They would totally cast you as the villain.”
“True.” She reaches forward and enjoys another mouthful of popcorn, and I’m pretty sure her ego is inwardly calculating her odds of success. My boss doesn’t like to fail.
“Unless you’re too scared,” I say, goading her.
And that’s all it takes. Her go-to confidence is awakened and jolting her into sitting up, tall and proud. “Is that a challenge?” she asks.
