Page 124 of Morally Black Betrothal

I didn’t, but she didn’t need to know that. Just like all of these people, except maybe Ruth, didn’t need to know that I had more in common with them as employees than they realized.

“I hear you’re a baker. Care to lend a hand?” Rosie nodded toward the bread loaves. “Or work side by side, if you like. Could be you’ve a thing to teach me.”

“I just fiddle around.” I went to remove one of the large vats of dough from the proofing box. “Bread, mostly. Those are for a coffee shop near my apartment.”

“Looks like more than fiddling to me,” she said as I emptied the vat across from her onto the marble worktop. “Sourdough’s not an easy thing to master.”

“My mother taught me. Do you know where the—” I stopped as she handed me a pastry cutter, and then I smiled. “Thanks.”

“Made a few loaves myself.” Rosie rolled out the pastry onto her side of the counter. Her forearms flexed with muscle as she worked. “Your baking skills will come in handy today. Ever made a Beef Welly?”

“I haven’t,” I admitted as I grabbed a handful of flour and shook it on the counter so I could start separating the dough for the bench rests. “But I know what it is. A beef tenderloin baked in a pastry, right?”

“That’s it.” Rosie nodded toward the tenderloin sitting in a bowl near one of the sinks. “Bit more involved, as it takes a few hours to make the pastry, of course, and then has to be cooked just right. Too little, and you’ve got a soggy bottom. Too much, and the meat’s like leather. It’s important to know if you’re serving your future husband. He’s very particular about his Beef Welly.”

“Can’t have a soggy bottom, according to Prue and Paul.”

Rosie grinned. “I take it you’re a Bake-Off fan too?”

I grinned right back. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

We continued to work together in the kitchen, and for the first time in days, I started to relax. Going shopping and getting primped was all fine and well, but I hadn’t really felt like myselfuntil I was right here, up to my elbows in bread dough, baking for others.

An hour later, I had all forty-five boules and batards set for a second, overnight rise in their bannetons, and Rosie had the Beef Wellington stuffed and ready for the oven. We were just starting to clean up our respective messes when my fake fiancé walked in.

He had removed his suit jacket, but he still wore the matching gray trousers, along with a white button-down rolled up at the sleeves and an unbound tie hanging around his neck. A few buttons on his shirt had been opened, and I could just see a hint of dark chest hair.

In other words, he was my newest fantasy come to life.

His eyes met mine, and he stopped short, staring at me sweeping flour from the counter. I looked down at my clothes, only to find that once again, I was covered in the stuff. I really needed an apron.

By the time I looked back up, Brendan had already reached me. His hands found my waist, he lifted me to the countertop, and then he delivered the kiss I’d been fantasizing about all day, whether I had wanted to or not. Tongue and lips collided, our hands found each other’s hair, and my legs wound themselves around his waist.

Just as quickly as it started, the kiss ended, leaving me breathless.

Brendan’s eyes were frantic, and his breath was short. But he didn’t step out of my grasp. “Hi,” he whispered as his forehead met mine.

“H-hello,” I managed. “Rough day?”

His eyes closed and opened. “It’s better now.”

“Aren’t you loves.”

His hands dropped at the sound of Rosie’s voice. He spun to where she was scrubbing out the pan used for the mushrooms.

“Welcome home, Mr. Black,” she called out like we hadn’t just been making out in front of her like lovesick teenagers.

Forher, I reminded myself with some distaste.

Brendan opened his mouth, but not before his eyes met mine again. “I think you can call me Brendan, Rosie. You’ve known me most of my life.”

Rosie paused, clearly surprised, then glanced between us with something of a knowing look. “Of course, sir. Happy to…Brendan.”

She went back to cleaning, chattering on about dinner plans and how helpful I’d been, if only to keep her company.

I barely heard a word because Brendan was staring at me again.

“What is it?” I looked down at my clothes, which had transferred some flour onto his now. “I need to change, I know. Or at least find myself an apron. All this flour, and on these nice clothes too. It’s just?—”