The Millionaire and the Maid

‘New potatoes and green beans.’

‘Then you might want to include that at the end of the recipe too.’

Good point.

She suddenly laughed. ‘I can see you’re itching to check it out, so go. But wash your hands first. I don’t want dog hair in my reduction.’

He raced into the kitchen. He washed and dried his hands and then moved to the small saucepan sitting on the stovetop. He could tell at a glance that she’d used too much onion. He lifted the saucepan to his nose and sniffed. It was a pity about the tarragon vinegar—if she was happy to continue this experiment of theirs then they’d need to stock up on some of the more exotic ingredients—but all in all she’d done okay. The tension bled out of his shoulders.

She glanced up when he stepped back out onto the veranda. ‘Well?’

‘You’ve done a fine job. It’s not exactly how I’d want it, which tells me what parts of my instructions I need to fine-tune.’

Elation suddenly coursed through him. He could make this work. He could! Then there’d be enough money for Ethan’s hospital bills for the foreseeable future.

And after that?

He pushed that thought away. He had every intention of making sure Ethan was looked after for the rest of his life. Maybe he could do a whole series of cookbooks if this one sold well?

‘This was a brilliant idea of yours, Jo. I can’t thank you enough.’

She waved that away.

‘If there’s anything I can do in return...?’

She glanced up. The sage in her eyes deepened for a moment. ‘I believe you mean that.’

‘I do mean it.’ He’d have sat on the bench beside her, but that would mean sitting with the left side of his face towards her. He leant against the railing again instead.

‘Hold that thought.’

She disappeared into the house. She returned a moment later with a picture. His heart sank when she handed it to him. It was that damned macaron tower she’d already mentioned.

‘Macarons are tricky.’

‘Yes, but could you write me a recipe telling me how to make them—how to make that?’

He blew out a breath. ‘This is an advanced recipe.’

‘But practice makes perfect, right? I have plenty of time on my hands. I’ll just keep practising.’

‘Why do you want to make a macaron tower?’ He could name a hundred tastier desserts.

He handed her back the picture. She took it, but a bad taste stretched through him when he realised how careful she was not to touch him.

She stared down at the picture before folding it in half. ‘My grandmother turns eighty-five in two months, one week, four days and—what?—eleven hours twenty minutes? I’ve promised to make her one of these.’

Wow.

‘I want to do something nice for her.’

‘Nice’ would be taking her flowers, or treating her to lunch at a decent restaurant. Or making her a macaron tower.

‘Please, Mac, don’t look like that! This has to be possible. I’m not that much of a klutz in the kitchen. This is something I can build up to.’

‘Of course you can.’

‘He says with fake jollity,’ she said, so drily he had to laugh.

‘I didn’t mean that you can’t do it. I’m just blown away by the fact you want to.’

‘I love my grandmother. I want to do something that will make her happy. She’s as fit as a horse, and as sharp as a tack, but she’s still coming up to eighty-five.’

She rose and seized the other half of her peanut butter and honey sandwich and came to lean beside him on the railing, on his left side. He turned to stare out to sea, giving her his right side instead.

‘My grandmother and my great-aunt raised me. Their relationship has always been tempestuous. My grandmother always praised me and indulged me. My great-aunt always thought it in my best interests to...um...not to do that.’

He stilled and glanced at her, but he couldn’t read her face.

‘There’s an ongoing dispute over the rightful ownership of my great-grandmother’s pearl necklace. My great-aunt scoffed at the idea of my making that macaron tower and I’m afraid my grandmother has staked the pearl necklace on the fact that I can.’

His jaw dropped.

‘I believe my so-called womanly qualities have always been in dispute, and I’m afraid my great-aunt is now convinced that the necklace is hers.’

He straightened. ‘What exactly does she mean by womanly qualities?’ As far as he could see Jo’s ‘womanly qualities’ were exemplary. ‘You mean the domestic arts?’

She pointed what was left of her sandwich at him. ‘Exactly.’

He reached around her for another sandwich. It brought him in close. She smelled faintly of onions, vinegar and honey. His mouth watered. He ached to reach across, touch his lips to her cheek to see what she tasted like.