“Which isn’t the same thing as it not happening.”
Closing the oven, she sets a timer, clicking the old-fashioned device and setting it onto the table.
“No,” she says softly. “It’s not.”
I’m going to kill that piece of shit, just as I did my own father. It shouldn’t take too long to find him. Flowers is a reasonably unusual surname, and I shouldn’t even need any help from the resident arsehole tech expert of the London Mafia Syndicate. Her father still being alive isn’t acceptable.
Perhaps she would prefer not to know about my intentions, though.
“My father was awful too.” Understatement. And he had all of Woodford to control and terrorise until I stopped him. “We get through it.”
The bright smile returns, and it rings false. “We do.”
“Possibly with a lot of cake.”
And this time there’s a spark in her eye. “I love cake.”
“I do, too.” This is a new interest. I can’t remember when I last ate cake. It’s a matter of lack of enthusiasm, up until now. But if it’s Callie’s favourite thing, then I like it. A lot.
8
CALLIE
When I get back from work after my days off, I go to make a cup of tea and find Reid has renovated the kitchen. To say the least. That makes it sound like he replaced a few cabinets, but no. It’s… Stunning. I just gape.
“Do you like it?”
I spin and find Reid—my god he’s tall, I tend to forget since we so often interact with him sitting down, as I tend to his arm—behind me. His bright-blue eyes are serious. As though the matter of whether this astonishing kitchen, with the green shaker cabinets and marble worktops and a huge sink that will make washing up after baking so much easier, is to my taste is of premier importance to him.
“It’s bigger,” I say stupidly. “How did you do that?”
“Knocked through into the other reception room,” he replies casually.
“It’s…” There really aren’t words for this kitchen. It’s a dream. And the builders Reid hired have managed to do it in only twelve hours—while I was at work. This house must be like one of those decoration challenge television programs while I’m out, with tons of people running around everywhere and making stuff.
“Here, look at these.” Reid opens a cupboard and pulls out new cake tins. Not the cheap ones I’ve been using and are threatening to be rusty at the edges. No, these are premium.
“And…” He flicks another door, and neatly labelled containers have all my baking ingredients in them.
My throat closes up. I nod, and smile, but emotion glues together my lips as I reach to run my fingers along the worktop of my dream kitchen.
This is for me, I realise. The kitchen is irrelevant for daily meals because of Reid’s chef—who I have never met, but would like to shake their hand because their food is exceptional—and what use does Reid have for a fancy retro-style mixer or cake tins? Nothing.
He could buy a thousand cakes, if he wanted to. He’s probably never made one in his life, but he’s made this beautiful kitchen, anyway. For me.
“Thank you,” I manage to croak out. I keep stroking the lines of the cupboards and worktops, because I think that’s the only thing stopping me from throwing myself at Reid and hugging him until he dies of asphyxiation. I can’t help but glance at him though, and he has that unbearably smug expression that indicates he got what he wanted.
How a new kitchen is that, I don’t know.
So I suggest the only other thing I’m good at apart from baking, and that delineates our relationship. “Shall I look at your arm?”
And when he nods, it’s back to our familiar dynamic of nurse and patient. Billionaire, managing, grumpy, reverse-kidnapping, mafia boss, impatientpatient.
Every day there are new improvements to the house. I love baking in the new kitchen, but the hallway upgrade is nice too. Then I think they deal with the floor where Reid is living, including a new shower, because one day the water splutters when I get a drink and Reid apologises. Then the bathroom on my floor.
Instead of moving me into the lap of luxury that he’s used to, he’s quietly renovating my shared house—well, his house now—to his standards.
And then I return home, and when I open the door to my bedroom, I stop, the surprise almost knocking me physically.
