He narrows his eyes. ‘Says the woman who’s home making meringues in the afternoon … and having parties – sorry, soirees – more evenings than not.’
Damn. ‘But I already told you, I’m on paid leave.’ Except he didn’t knowallof that. As soon as it’s out, Sophie’s in my head ordering me to keep my mouth shut.
‘Really?’ He’s suddenly super interested, then he back-pedals. ‘Good for you. How long’s that for?’
‘For as long as my employer’s in Geneva.’ I’m feeling smug that the truth is so unclear. She has emailed saying she could be extending her visit beyond the planned three weeks. But time’s whizzing by, and I’ve still not started to look through Laura’s flat yet. It’s all so overwhelming. Every time I promise myself I’ll begin I always end up wandering along the beach instead. Or reading Laura’s recipe books on the balcony.
‘Remind me what you do?’ I ask, scraping meringue mixture out of my hair and flicking it into the sink as we talk.
‘I’m at the front end of a development company, acquiring the sites. I hang out with the local agents and solicitors so I’m first to know when land and property hits the market. Then once I’ve bagged the sites and sorted the designs, the building team comes in, and I move on to find the next.’
I’m thinking of the new flats everyone assumed I was moving in to. ‘So you get places like Rock House?’ They’re fabulous apartments in a converted warehouse on the quayside.
His sniff is dismissive. ‘There wasn’t enough in that one for us. We like to play for bigger stakes.’ He narrows his eyes. ‘A lot of what I do is a waiting game. It’s about standing back, assessing the profitability, then knowing the perfect moment to move in.’
‘For the kill?’ It’s no surprise he can be so hard-nosed and calculating. Those soft faded jeans and unthreatening bare feet are definitely sending out the wrong message.
He pulls a face. ‘I’m an honest speculator, Clemmie, not a predator.’ Like those two words ever go together.
My laugh is hollow. ‘I’m not sure Sophie would agree with that.’
‘I’m sure she wouldn’t. But then she’s in no position to be judgemental.’
I push the towel up and screw my head around so I can see his face. ‘What do you mean by that?’
He shrugs. ‘They’ll have made a tidy sum renovating that farm of theirs.’
‘But that’s theirforeverhome.’ All their effort, it couldn’t be anything else. ‘How the hell do you know this stuff when you’re the new kid in town?’
‘I only moved in recently, but I’ve been around a while. When Nate was chatting at the party, he sounded much more interested in profit than longevity. I actually looked at their place when it was up for sale a few years back.’ He lets out a sigh then moves on. ‘Shall I clear up in here while you get washed and changed? Then I’ll show you where you’re going wrong with your meringue peaks.’
‘Sorry?’ I’m so horrified by the implications for Sophie, I miss the last bit.
‘I’ll show you what to do, pass on a few tips, so next time, those meringues of yours stay in the bowl.’ He hesitates. ‘If that’s okay with you?’
Let’s face it, right now I’d give anything to get perfect peaks. Even if it does mean hanging out all damned afternoon with Mr ‘killer-deal’ Hobnob. ‘Thank you. That would be exceptionally useful.’
Wait ’til Nell hears this. Hot, heartbroken – her words –andhe can bake. I can’t help feeling this is big news for St Aidan’s singles’ scene. For anyone who can tempt him onto it. And overlook his ability to suck the fun out of life. And who doesn’t mind his profiteering side.
13
Still in Laura’s kitchen
Another crack at breaking eggs
Wednesday
You know that sweet sticky marshmallow creme called Fluff? Imagine buying ten jars and massaging it all into your hair. And you still won’t be close to the cleanup I’m facing in the bathroom. By the time I’m egg- and sugar-free, I’ve scrubbed off every scrap of makeup and most of my nail varnish too, and my legs are pink and hot from the shower. If I spend another two hours blow drying my hair and making myself into my very best self, Mr Hobson will get bored and leave for sure. And let’s face it, my priority here are meringues. End of. So, the second I’ve toweled my hair, I pull on a clean dress and add a flash of lippy. As I hurry back bare-faced the kitchen looks like meringue-gate never happened. If this is how he cleans, I’ve no idea why Charlie H would ever call in professionals.
He’s standing by the scales, sugar in a bowl, eggs already separated. ‘I’m wiping down the whisk and bowl with vinegar. A speck of egg yolk or dirt, and your egg whites won’t stiffen. Put the whites in and start off slowly.’
It’s like having YouTube in my kitchen. Only better. With a delectable, yet indefinable scent of hot guy, which obviously, I’m ignoring. And I think he’s tactfully told me where I went wrong with my last mix. As for leaving off the makeup – not that I wear it for the benefit of guys – that was a good call, because he hasn’t even looked at me yet.
‘So how come you’re a meringue expert?’ Even as I ask, the penny drops so loudly I’m putting my proverbial hands over my proverbial ears. There’s one screamingly obvious answer. ‘Are you gay?’ And damn that my heart has plummeted and hit the floor.
The corners of his eyes crinkle. So, he can do amused. Approximately once a century. ‘Sorry to mess with your gender stereotyping assumptions, but I’m a hundred per cent straight. I just had the kind of mum who thought teaching me to cook would make me more marketable for a future partner.’
I laugh, to cover that I’m mentally punching the air, even though I’m totally not in the market etc. etc. ‘So that didn’t work out either did it?’ I might as well be honest. He didn’t exactly hold back about Sophie.
