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“Fine. But don’t interrogate her. I know what you’re like.”
I don’t reply as I push the door open, making sure it falls shut behind me. She sits bolt-upright on the bed when I come in, and I can’t help but notice that she’s still wearing Callum’s clothes. It shouldn’t be a surprise, I guess, since she hasn’t got anything other than that wedding dress to wear, but she looksverycomfortable in his stuff, that’s for sure.
“What is it?” she demands, voice taut, and I hold the bowl out in front of me as a peace offering.
“Thought you could use something to eat.”
She eyes it for a long moment, as though considering turning me down. But then her stomach grumbles loudly, giving her away, and she sighs.
“Fine.”
She holds her hands out, and I gently hand her the bowl. She peers down into it, inhaling deeply, and then looks back to me.
“Did you make this?”
“Of course I did.”
“Oh, I—I didn’t know you could cook…”
“You thought we were getting takeout, all the way out here?” I laugh. “I know the stereotype is that bachelors can’t look after themselves, but give us a little credit.”
She manages a small smile. Not much, but it’s the most I’ve gotten out of her so far. She takes a spoonful and lifts it to her mouth—and then lets out a long sigh as the flavor spreads over her tongue.
“Oh, wow, that’s amazing,” she breathes. “I haven’t had proper home-cooked food in so long…”
“You not much of a chef yourself?”
She shakes her head. “More into baking.”
“Oh, really?”
I spot a point of connection between us—it was in my training, when I was working comms, to find those details that I could draw on with the people I was talking to. If they felt like they knew you, they’d be more likely to believe they could trust you, and I needed her to trust me right now.
“Yeah, I was…” She trails off and shakes her head. “You know what, it doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me,” I prompt her. “Were you going to work with food or something?”
She smiles slightly, as though a memory is rising to her mind.
“Yeah,” she admits, staring down at the bowl again. “I was…I was planning to work as a pastry chef, actually. Back when I first came out of high school.”
I let out a long whistle through my teeth. “Damn, better you than me,” I shoot back.
She turns to me, eyebrows raised. “What’s that meant to mean?”
“I could never deal with all that pastry chef shit,” I reply, waving a hand. “I think I’ve baked maybe twice in my life. Way too fiddly. Too demanding. And if you make a single mistake, everything falls apart, and you have to start over or give up entirely.”
She grins. “Yeah, but that’s what makes it so satisfying when it all works out like you wanted,” she points out. “Because youwere super careful and followed everything to the letter, and then you get a delicious pastry or whatever at the end of it.”
“I’d rather do something with a bigger margin of error.”
“That’s the coward’s way out.”
“Hey,” I protest, chuckling. “I can take that curry back, if you’re going to talk about me like that?—”
“No, no, don’t, it’s so good,” she replies, clutching it to her chest as though protecting it from me. And just like that, some of the tension seems to have dissipated between us—her walls might not be entirely down, but she isn’t making it as hard as she once was to speak with her.
“I’m glad to see you eating,” I murmur to her as she tucks in.