Obviously, the pricey kit is the reason his bum looks so hot. The upside of expensive gear is that it makes the most of every asset. And leaves poorer mortals like me struggling to keep my (mental) hands off them. At least that’s that problem explained to me.
‘How exactly would you describe your style?’
His voice cuts into my thoughts, and I have to say he’s got me there. I think about earlier, doing twirls along the beach singing at the top of my voice with ‘Prada’ in my ear bud, Pumpkin trotting beside me.
‘Each outfit I choose is thrown on in a multilayered way so it’s easy to move in, but with unexpected gaps.’ I know he loves a definition. ‘If you insist on giving it a name, I’d say it’s pre-loved stratification. Or it could even be retro-surprise-lamination.’
He lets out a slightly bitter laugh. ‘A bit like that damned laminated pastry, which proved so impossible to make.’
My heart sinks again because this is another thing that’s been playing on my mind since yesterday. I know Miles isn’t my favourite person, and I know I was sizing him up and couldn’t afford to appear weak, which is why I was economical with the truth when the situation came up that first day. But as a person, overall I like to think I’m honest and would treat people as I’d like to be treated myself. And since the question of the pastry came up again yesterday, much as I disapprove of and dislike Miles, I’m going to have to come clean on this.
I remind myself of the way he opened the roof of his car and swung my battered old screen into the space without any more hesitation than a quick dust down with his jacket sleeve. Then I screw up my courage, and launch.
‘You’d made a tray of pastries the day we arrived.’
He pulls a face. ‘Every one ended up on the ground in the field. Not that it mattered– the bin was the best place for them.’
I’m wrinkling my nose. ‘Why do you say that?’
He gives a shrug. ‘I’m not chef-trained, but coming down here sparked an interest in artisan baking. As an on-trend growth area it’s a no brainer. The entrepreneur in me had this warped idea that muffin shaped croissants would be the perfect base for hundreds of different fillings.’
Something in the intensity of his gaze has caught my interest. ‘Go on.’
He pulls a face. ‘I had time on my hands, so I studied the YouTube videos, and began to experiment for myself. My idea was to short-cut the croissant dough process to speed up production. I’d been trying to perfect the bake for weeks and every batch had been like rock.’ He takes a breath. ‘I’d made one final change with the method, but I seriously doubt it had made any difference. That one final disaster felt like a subliminal message, so I took the hint to leave baking to the bakers, and moved on with my life.’
I’m screwing up my courage. ‘The bin mightnothave been the best destination for those buns.’
He looks at me. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I ate one before they fell.’
His eyes narrow. ‘And?’
‘They tasted good enough for you to bake more.’
He looks like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. ‘So they were edible!?’
‘More than that.’ Damn, now I’ve come this far, I might as well go all the way. ‘They were delicious. Beyond delicious. I actually ate four.’ Thinking back to the crusty outsides giving way to the soft, doughy centres, I remember the taste of the toffee pecan and I’m practically drooling. ‘I only stopped at four due to dropping too many flakes on the kitchen floor, and because Scarlett rang to ask me to test the shower.’
Miles is nodding. ‘Now you mention it, I wondered where all the mess had come from.’
I have to protest here. ‘There weren’tthatmany crumbs.’
He refocuses and looks at me again. ‘So two weeks down the line, what do you suggest I do with this information?’
I might as well give my honest opinion. ‘I wouldn’t waste any more time. I’d say go and bake your ass off. ASAP!’
There’s a smile around the edge of his lips. ‘And if I do, would you be around to assist with some analysis?’
‘Hell yes.’ A housemate who bakes croissants could turn out to be a dream houseshare after all, except he hasn’t moved yet. ‘So what are you waiting for? Go and do baking!’
He raises one eyebrow. ‘To get in the zone, I’m going to need Figaro…’
I let out a groan. ‘Please tell me you’re not going to make the ceiling shudder again?’
He nods. ‘It only works when it’s extra loud.’
I brighten. ‘So you won’t be using the sun terrace?’
