‘Betty Bradwell, ravenous and reporting for duty, what have you got for me, Miles?’
He laughs. ‘I came across a Cornish palm tree yesterday along by the beach huts, so I thought we’d go tropical. Hot banana, hot banana with chocolate, and banoffee.’
‘You know banoffee pie was invented in Essex not the Caribbean?’ I am terrible at pub quizzes, but this is my star useless-knowledge fact, and I’m not going to waste it.
Miles raises an eyebrow. ‘I’m all about the taste, not the geography, Betsy Bets.’
I take the plates and knives that are waiting and spread them out. ‘I haven’t had any breakfast, so let’s try first, and argue the details later.’ As he turns to load up his platter I can’t help adding, ‘Squirty cream might work with this.’
I can’t believe I’ve been here almost three weeks without buying any, but now I mention it, it’s not the kind of thing Scarlett would have in her cupboards. It’s more the kind of item she’d ban from the house.
Miles laughs. ‘Great minds! I’ve made my own.’ He opens the fridge and pulls out a bulging piping bag and puts it in front of me on the island next to his baking. ‘Go ahead, dive in!’
I push up my sleeves. ‘Right, I’ll start with the plain banana and work my way up. And stuff messing about, I’m going for the full buns.’
As I close my teeth on the crust it snaps and crumbles, then gives way to the soft chewy dough in the centre, all still warm with strips of hot banana.
I wave the bun in the air. ‘I have to give it to you, Milo-pie, this pastry couldn’t be better.’ I sink my teeth in for the second bite and sigh. ‘Cooked banana is an inspired idea.’
Miles looks like he’s holding his breath when I go in for the next. ‘This one has a swirl of chocolate spread in the dough spiral and chocolate chips in with the banana.’
I take my time to chew. ‘If this were the only one you’d given me, I’d be deliriously happy.’
‘And now for your favourite.’ He takes a breath. ‘This is a croissant swirl, with cooked banana strips and caramel in a hollowed-out centre, topped with grated chocolate spirals. In the real world, it would be sold with a swirl of cream on top, but for now, I’ll let you help yourself.’
I pick up a banoffee bun, squeeze on a dollop of cream, take a taste and let out a groan. ‘That is orgasmic!’ I choke as it hits me what I’ve said. ‘It’s delectable. Luscious. Heavenly even. And very moreish.’ I squirt on more cream and demolish the rest.
His smile widens. ‘No one’s ever compared my baking to sex before, but that ultimate pleasure explosion is what I was aiming for. So thanks for that.’
I’m kicking myself for being so careless with my compliments. ‘I’ll finish these, and we’ll see if St Aidan agrees with me.’
Miles has his finger in the air. ‘For the record…’
‘Yes?’
He gives a cough. ‘The kitchen and I already have a five-star local authority hygiene rating.’
‘When did you get that?’
He shrugs. ‘As soon as I got here. A few weeks before you arrived.’
His timeline at Boathouse Cottage is getting longer and longer.
He carries on. ‘And I’ve sorted out a street trading permit, too, with permissions to make sales on all the nearby beaches.’ He nods. ‘If you were worried about everything being legal and above board– now it is.’
‘Well, thanks for looking out for me. I’d probably have winged it for a bit longer myself, but that’s just me.’ This is so typically Miles. If selling buns isthisofficial, all the joy goes out of it.
He rubs his hands together. ‘The rest of the buns are in bags, whenever you’re ready.’
I’m thinking how I can make this fun again. ‘I might bring Pumpkin. If we’re short of custom, he’ll pull in a crowd.’
‘Oka-a-a-y.’
I can tell by Miles’s tone that it isn’t. ‘If you’re worried about his dirty look, I’m sure he’s moved on.’
‘It’s not that.’
While I’m waiting for Miles to come out with objection number six hundred and forty-eight, I’m testing myself. I want to see if the mesmerising attraction I feel towards him reduces when he’s being a complete tool. Are his super-charged testosterone levels easier to block out when he’s boring the pants off me with his obsession with rules and red tape? Nope, there’s no change at all. I could still happily rip the T-shirt off his disgustingly honed pecs, morning, noon and all bloody night.
