Right Number, Wrong Girl

I opened my salad. “I can cook.”

“He can cook,” Dad said, walking into the kitchen. “It’s one of those little things he tries not to do but is actually very good at.”

Sophie frowned at me. “I don’t believe it.”

I shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

“The polite thing to do is offer to cook her dinner,” Dad mused, looking through the fridge. “She’s working hard enough. Unlike you.”

She tried not to laugh.

“Blimey, Dad. Who peed in your Cheerios this morning?”

He looked back at me with a smile. “I had to talk to Nancy.”

Yep.

That would do it.

Not even Sophie could keep her expression under control, and Dad grinned when he saw her.

“Well?” he asked me. “Are you going to offer to cook her dinner?”

I looked over at her. “I don’t mind.”

Sophie hesitated, then said, “Sure. Prove me wrong.”

“That means you’re on dessert,” I replied, turning my attention back to my salad.

“What’s the time?”

“Why?”

“I need to make sure I have enough time to go to the bakery.”

I shook my head. “That’s not the deal.”

“Oh, it is, unless you want your dessert to taste like it’s been bathed in charcoal.”

Dad chuckled and pulled a fork from the drawer, then picked his salad up. “I wouldn’t take that risk. You definitely want to make sure at least one of your dishes is edible.” He winked at Sophie and left, laughing happily to himself.

“Hey!” I called after him.

Sophie looked at me, biting the inside of her cheek.

“What?” I fought a smile.

“I think your dad just tried to set us up.”

“Well.” I stabbed a piece of chicken with my fork. “At least you know where I get my good taste from.”

***

We’d decided that Bluebell Cottage was the best place for me to cook. Cavendish House was too busy, and between Grandma’s comments and Dad’s strong-arming into this, we both agreed that having dinner together, alone, at my house wasn’t the best idea.

In an event to stop my mother asking questions, Dad had told me before I left that he was going to say I was out with a few friends.

Most of my friends were in London, so God knows how he was getting himself out of that one.