“You can bring her basket here and leave it there”—she pointed to the doorway separating the kitchen from the hallway— “that way she won’t get anxious.”
“I will, thank you.”
He turned away and left the kitchen, Stormy close behind him, and Charity released the breath that she had been holding.
She didn’t like the idea of him being underfoot, but she could imagine how frustrating the entire experience had to be for him and part of her job was to ensure that he was content and enjoying his stay here.
That was the only reason she had agreed to his absurd request. Part of the job, really.
Nothing at all to do with the gentle look in his eyes when he had caught her crying. Even less to do with the appealing cant of his head and the almost puppy dog pleading in his eyes when he had asked her if he could help.
This was Miles Henry Hollingsworth. Modern age marauder. Present day pirate. He didn’t do puppy dog eyes. She must have imagined it.
Miles loved the squidgy feeling of the raw dough between his fingers. Kneading bread wasn’t something he had ever imagined himself doing, or even liking, but this was ridiculously enjoyable. He had followed Mrs. Cole’s careful instructions to the letter. She hadn’t touched anything but had told him which ingredients to get, how to mix them, and then how to knead the lump of gooey dough until it was “springy”—her word—to the touch.
“Stop poking at it,” Mrs. Cole rebuked, when he stuck his finger into the soft, elasticky stuff…
Again.
He liked watching the dent he had made disappear as the dough swelled back into shape.
“Just testing the springiness,” he said.
“For the fifth time?”
“I like to be sure.”
She didn’t roll her eyes, but she wanted to. He could tell. And he couldn’t imagine it at all, Mrs. Cole sinking to such juvenile depths. It made him desperate to see her actually do it.
“I never had playdough as a child,” he confided, and she threw him a look of sheer and utter disbelief. “No, it’s true. Our parents didn’t have the money to waste on such frivolities. And later, after my dad died, mum started taking extra shifts at the department store where she worked and needed my help around the house more. Whatever money she had for toys—which wasn’t much—went to Hughie and Vicki.”
She opened her mouth seemingly to say something but then shut it immediately. He didn’t like that. He wanted to hear whatever it was she had to say.
“Out with it, Mrs. Cole,” he commanded her, while surreptitiously sticking his finger into the dough one more time. Her reproving stare told him she hadn’t missed the move and made him feel like a kid caught with his hand in the biscuit tin.
“How old were you?” she asked him. The question, coming in an uncharacteristically timid voice, surprised him somewhat. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but that most certainly was not it.
“About eleven. Hugh and Vicki were six and four respectively.”
“That’s a lot of responsibility for an eleven-year-old to handle.”
“I managed.”
“I can’t imagine how.”
“I did, and that’s all that matters.” He regretted his brusqueness when she retreated completely. Her face went blank as she took a measured half-step back.
Mrs. Cole clearly required more tact than Miles possessed
“Of course. Well…the dough needs to prove for a couple of hours before it can go in the oven. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
And just like that…he was dismissed. That didn’t sit well with him. He wasn’t the type of man who allowed himself to be dismissed by his employees.
“What if I peel the potatoes?”
“No potatoes tonight.”
Well, that wouldn’t do at all. “I like potatoes.”
“Variety is the spice of life.”
“Trite, Mrs. Cole.”
“But true, Mr. Hollingsworth.” Her pithy comeback made in that deadpan voice amused him, but he didn’t think she’d appreciate his amusement at her expense and curbed the instinct to smile.
“What’s for dinner then?” he asked.
She removed a roll of cling film from one of the kitchen cupboards and unwound a strip. Miles watched, fascinated, as she tore off a piece and covered his recently kneaded dough with the plastic. She dropped a clean tea towel on top of that and dusted her hands in a satisfied manner before answering his question. “Lasagna. Honey roasted carrots. And salad.”
“With bread?”
“Way too many carbs. The bread is for tomorrow’s breakfast.”
He currently didn’t give a damn about the added carbs. He had been ravenous since arriving here—was it really only five days ago?—and had fully indulged in all the delicious foods she had been cooking. He knew he should care more. But considering the amount of weight he had lost, he imagined a few extra carbs would do him the world of good.
“I need the carbs,” he pointed out, and she eyed him in that long, considering manner of hers.