laughed. ‘Okay. I didn’t think you’d go for that one.
‘Do you have games? Board games? I could challenge you.’ She could obviously see him racking his brain. ‘Chess?’ She was getting desperate.
‘I might have some board games. But they will be years old. Some are probably originals.’
He walked over to a cupboard and went down on his hands and knees, crawling right inside. She heard some groans as some sports-kit bags, rackets and balls shot past her ankles. ‘Need some help in there?’
There was a little cloud of dust followed by a coughing fit and Dan crawled out with a pile of games in his hands. He held them out towards her. ‘How about these?’
She carried them over to the table. ‘Wow. You were right—some of these are originals.’ And even better than being originals, they all showed visible signs of wear and tear. It was obvious that these games had been used and loved at some point in their history. ‘I think these would be perfect.’
He appeared at her side, a big smudge across his cheek. ‘What does the winner get?’
She couldn’t help it. Her fingers reached up to wipe the smudge from his cheek. He froze, then caught her hand in his before she could pull it away. ‘What does the winner of this games tournament get?’
His words were quiet this time, the jokey aspect removed, and she could sense the feeling hanging in the air between them.
A whole variety of answers sprang to mind; some of them would make her hair curl and save her hours at the hairdressers.
Then a safe option shot into her mind. ‘Can you bake?’
‘What?’ He looked stunned. He’d obviously had something else in mind.
‘I said can you bake?’
‘I suppose so. My grandmother baked all the time. But it’s been years since I’ve tried anything like that. Anyhow, you’ve seen my cupboards. Old Mother Hubbard had nothing on me. I don’t have any ingredients.’
‘But I do. There—it’s settled. The loser has to make the winner a cake. Just what we need on a day like this.’
‘You’d trust me to make you a cake?’
‘I love cake. I’d trust anyone to make me a cake.’ She held out her hand. ‘Do we have a deal?’
He hesitated for just a second, before his competitive edge took over. ‘I’m a chocolate cake kind of guy. You better get your apron out.’
* * *
The waft of baking filled the whole apartment. It had been years since the place had smelled like this. It only made him miss his grandmother more.
Apple pie. That had been the thing she’d baked most frequently. And it was the smell he most associated with his grandmother. Freshly baked juicy apples bubbling under the surface of the golden pie, topped with a sprinkling of sugar. Bliss.
Now the smell was a little different. The timer on the oven buzzed. He hadn’t even known that his oven had a timer, let alone how to use it. But Carrie had insisted it was essential to bake the perfect cake.
Or cakes as it had turned out.
The game marathon had resulted in a dead heat.
And now his kitchen was filled with the smells of chocolate cake and carrot cake. He pulled the door open as a waft of heat flooded out from the oven. The chocolate cake that Carrie had baked for him looked spectacular. His carrot cake? Not so much. A little charred on top. But nothing that the mound of frosting she’d made him prepare couldn’t hide.
He lifted both out and watched as she tipped them onto a wire rack to cool—yet another thing she’d brought down from her apartment upstairs. Along with the mixing bowls, spatulas, ingredients and cake tins. She probably had more of her possessions currently in his apartment than her own.
Baking was definitely her thing. She seemed relaxed, she seemed happy and she liked it. Even Abraham seemed to be more chilled out. Two feeds, lots of wind and no crying fits. Finally things were starting to settle.
‘We need to let the cakes cool before we ice them. So let’s give them a minute.’ She pulled out some plates from the cupboard, then shook her head and went back to look for more.
‘What’s wrong with my plates’?
‘Nothing.’ Her voice was muffled as she crouched in one of his kitchen cupboards. ‘But cake-eating is an art form. You have to have better plates than those. Aha.’ She pulled herself back out of the cupboard with something in her hand. ‘These are much better.’
She stood up and put the fine bone china plates on the countertop. White with tiny red flowers painted on them. Another remnant of his grandmother. She’d used them for eating cake, too—probably why they were now hidden in the depths of his cupboards.
The lights flickered around them.
‘Uh-oh,’ murmured Carrie. ‘That’s the third time that’s happened now.’
Dan walked over next to her. ‘This could be a problem.’
She turned to face him. ‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t have any candles.’
She looked at him in mock horror and held up her hands. ‘You don’t? What kind of emergency guy are you? Aren’t you cops supposed to be prepared for anything?’
He didn’t move, just kept his eyes fixed on her face. ‘Not everything.’ His voice was quiet, barely a whisper. There was no mistaking the alternative meaning.
She looked up at him. He was only inches from her face, inches from her lips. The lights flickered again, so he moved a little closer, his hand resting on her hip.
She didn’t move. Not an inch. Her tongue came out slowly and ran along her lips, as if, without even realising it, she was preparing them for kissing.
She could feel the pull. She could feel the same draw that he felt. He wasn’t wrong about this—he could tell.
It had been there all day and they had been dancing around the edges of it. But now it wasn’t hiding any more. It was right there in front of them.
His fingers pressed into her hip, pulling her pelvis a little closer to his, giving her every opportunity to object—to resist.
But she didn’t.
He leaned forward. ‘Carrie McKenzie, I’m going to kiss you now.’ His voice was low, trying to entice her to edge forward to hear it.
But she didn’t do that.
She did something totally unexpected. She lifted her hands and wrapped them around his neck. ‘It’s about time,’ she whispered as she rose up on her toes to meet his lips.
Honey. She tasted of honey. Was there honey in the chocolate cake she’d just baked? At least that was what it felt like. The kiss started out shy—tentative.
