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A sinking sensation pulled her stomach down. She’d given herself away. “No, I, uh…I put all sorts of food in the book.”
He looked at her with piqued interest. “Do you?”
She nodded, feeling utterly sheepish. “It’s weird, I know. But I keep a log of all the new foods I eat.”
Amusement danced in his eyes. That was fine. She’d take amusement over ridicule. “How long have you been doin’ it? Just for this trip?”
Ugh, if only. “No, since college. Almost a decade now.”
“Wow.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What?”
“That is strange.”
She scoffed, though she knew he was in jest. “Says the guy who thinks his fish are his children.”
He raised a scolding finger. “Hey, them fish are me wee ones. They’re just as bleedin’ hard to rear, I’ll have you know.”
They shared a smile before he continued. “Aye, to be honest, keepin’ a book ’bout food isn’t all that strange. It makes sense, writin’ down somethin’ you love. And if it makes you happy, why not?”
That was exactly her way of thinking. She—
“So when will you be lettin’ me have a gander at your book, then?” he asked, interrupting her thoughts.
Instinctively, her hand pressed against the book in her pocket. “Yeah, um, never.”
“Ach, why not? It can’t be as personal as a real journal. Unless…” He leaned in closer. “Unless there’s somethin’ about me in there.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “I hate to break it to you, but I only have entries of food.”
He straightened with a shrug. “I’ve been known to be called a tasty morsel before.”
Daphne had called him “tasty” only yesterday, hadn’t she? Maisie couldn’t help but laugh at the irony.
“Sorry,” she said. “If I haven’t tasted it, it doesn’t go in the book.”
“Aye, if that’s the only qualifier, I reckon we can sort that out between the two of us,” he said.
His words settled on Maisie, and her cheeks felt like two hot flapjacks pressed against her skin.
She watched him pop the last of his Fifteen in his mouth, chewing through another grin.
He was too attractive for his own good, and boy, did he know it.
“So what’s in these Fifteens, then?” she asked, needing to distract herself from his jawline before it sent her into cardiac arrest. She was seriously going crazy watching him, losing all sense of time and logic.
“Anythin’ you fancy, really,” he responded, “so long as there are fifteen of each thing. Hence the name. Ma puts in more or less of each ingredient. Digestive biscuits, mallows, cherries, coconut. That sort of thing.”
Maisie tried to log the information away.
“You want to write it down now, don’t you?”
Blast his astuteness. “Yes.”
“Go on, then,” he said with a sigh, facing the sea. “I promise I won’t look at your precious journal.”
She hesitated a minute, then opened the book, filling in the rest of the entry before closing it once again. “There. Finished.”
