He’s back to the sink, then back at my elbow. ‘Excellent rolling there, Betty Eliza! Ready to move on to the next stage?’
I’d actually like to run as far away as I could, find a friendly local hill and roll down it, but I’d rather die than admit defeat. ‘Bring it on, Milo.’
‘For our next trick we’re going to cut this sheet of dough into sixteen equal strips.’
Miles hands me a knife and a metal ruler, does one strip himself then leans in close to show me how wide to make the first one, and puts his hand firmly over the top of mine to steady it as I make the cut along the ruler’s edge.
I’m biting my lip as I concentrate but all I can think of is how good he smells up close. ‘I might cut straighter if I did it on my own.’
He laughs. ‘I’ll leave you to do yours then and get on with mine.’
As we stand side by side making our cuts I relent. ‘Talk me through what happens next.’
He looks at me sideways. ‘We’ll give each strip a little stretch, then spread them with the fillings you choose, roll them up, put them on their baking trays and leave them to expand in the proving drawer.’
My heart sinks at how long it all sounds. I’m looking at the jars lined up on the island. ‘For the fillings I’ll have four apricot jam, four raspberry jam and white chocolate chips, four dark chocolate chips, and the rest will be Nutella.’ I look up at him. ‘I don’t see any pecan and toffee?’
He laughs. ‘I’m keeping those a secret in case I need them for persuasion later.’
I let out a cry. ‘That’s not fair! What have I got to bribe you with?’
As he turns to me again for a second his eyes are smouldering, then he blinks and when I catch his eye again the look has cleared. ‘I’m always happy when you take Fudge for walks.’
I try to detach myself from what’s going on in the moment and concentrate on what we’re working towards.
He eases a slice of dough off the side. ‘This is how you stretch the strips.’
I groan. ‘You make it look easy and you work like the wind.’ I watch his tanned hands, with their long fingers and broad knuckles, then go back to my own.
In no time his baking tray is filled with a regular pattern of identical spirals. By the time I add the fillings, roll them up, and get them into the tin, it’s such a mess I let out a wail. ‘Mine looks like an explosion in a jam factory!’
Miles gives me a nudge. ‘It’s great for a first try. You’ll get better with practice.’
I’m frowning at him. ‘You think I’ll be doing this again?’
He raises one eyebrow. ‘If you’re free on Saturday evenings, I’d appreciate the help.’ He hesitates then begins again. ‘Most people find it easier to learn from a video rather than from written instructions. So I’m hoping to film a step-by-step guide to use as a manual.’
I’m still catching up. ‘For your national chain?’
When he laughs his voice is so low it makes my nipples stand out. ‘That’s the one.’ He picks up the trays. ‘While these are rising, you could open your latest postcard package?’
36
The kitchen at Boathouse Cottage, St Aidan
Rude words and heavy loads
Saturday
When we share an address and a bathroom it’s hard to keep anything under wraps, so Miles could hardly miss the huge box when he was the one who signed for the delivery. That’s how busy today has been– my parcel arrived and I haven’t had time to open it.
He swings in from the mud room with the box and hesitates by the island. ‘Here or on the coffee table?’
If it’s been hard brushing elbows by the workstation, I’m not up for clamping my thigh next to his as we pour over postcards, so I make my excuse watertight. ‘It’s a shame to disturb Fudge when he’s quiet.’
Miles frowns. ‘He’s settled really well this evening. He’s usually a lot more in your face.’
I’m looking to where Fudge is lying on the sofa end, his head propped on his paws. He’s got one eye on Pumpkin in the field, who is swishing his tail beyond the windows as the evening sky turns smoky purple.
