a little swell of pride. She had the ovens hot for the frittatas for lunch. They were almost ready to pop in. She had fifteen minutes before smoko and she was totally in control.
Matt would walk in any minute.
And here he was. He looked filthy, his pants and open neck shirt coated in dust, his boots caked in...whatever, she didn’t want to think about it. His face was smeared with dust and his hair plastered down with sweat. ‘Hey. Nearly ready?’
She lifted her lamingtons for inspection. ‘We can take them over now if you like.’
He glanced at the table and his gaze moved on. ‘Where’s the rest?’
‘The rest?’
There was a pregnant pause. And then... ‘This is all there is?’
‘Two lamingtons, two points of sandwiches each. How much more...’
He swore and headed for the pantry, leaving a trail of filthy footsteps over her nice, clean kitchen floor.
Her kitchen. That was how she felt when she worked. This was her domain.
Um...not. Matt had flung open the pantry door and was foraging behind the flour sacks. He emerged with three boxes.
Charity sale Christmas cakes. Big ones.
‘They hate them but they’ll have to do,’ he snapped. ‘Help me chop them up. They’ll stop work in half an hour and if this is all you have...’
‘But there’s plenty,’ she stammered and he gave her a look that resembled—eerily—the one her father gave her all the time. Like: You’ve been an idiot but what else could I expect?
‘This isn’t your society morning tea,’ he snapped, ripping cartons open. ‘It’s fuel. Grab a knife and help me.’
She was having trouble moving. This was supposed to be her domain, the kitchen, her food—and he was treating her like an idiot. She felt sick.
A memory came flooding back of the dinner a month ago. She and her parents in the family home, the mansion overlooking Sydney Harbour. It had been her birthday. She’d like a family dinner, she’d told them. Just her parents, her half-sister and her fiancé.
And she’d cooked, because that was what she loved to do. She’d cooked what Brett loved to eat—stylish, with expensive ingredients, the sort of meal her father would enjoy paying a lot of money for in a society restaurant. She’d worked hard but she thought she’d got it right.
She’d even made time to get her hair done and she was wearing a new dress. Flushed with success, she’d only been a little disconcerted when Brett was late. And Felicity... Well, her sister was always late.
And then they’d walked in, hand in hand. ‘We’re so sorry, Penny, but we have something to tell you...’
Matt was already slicing the first cake but at her silence he glanced up. Maybe the colour had drained from her face. Maybe she looked how she felt—as if she was about to be sick. For whatever reason, he put the knife down.
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