‘Fine.’
Stonewalling each other with single-word answers wasn’t going to do anything to help the situation. Brad decided to make the effort and try some polite conversation. Offer some information, which might make her offer information in return. ‘My team’s working on developing a new antibiotic.’
‘Sounds good—we definitely need that.’ She paused. ‘So are you happy in London?’
He hadn’t been happy in the last five years. But he did like his job. And she was asking about his job, right? ‘Yes. How about you? You’re happy here at the café?’ If he focused on work rather than the personal stuff, then she wouldn’t tell him about her new love.
‘Yes, I’m happy at the café. Like you, I’m developing something, except mine’s rather more frivolous.’ She paused, then said brightly, ‘Ice cream for dogs.’
‘Ice cream for dogs?’ The idea was so incongruous that it made him smile.
‘Don’t knock it,’ she said, smiling back. ‘Think how many people bring their dogs to the beach, then come and sit with them outside the café.’
He knew that Scott’s Café, on the edge of the beach, had tables outside as well as inside, plus water bowls for dogs; it had always been dog-friendly, even before it became trendy to welcome dogs.
‘Half of the customers buy an ice cream for their dogs to help cool them down, too, but obviously the sugar’s not good for the dogs’ teeth and the fat’s not brilliant for their diet, either,’ Abby said. ‘So we’ve produced something a bit more canine-friendly.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘So you’re telling me you’re making chicken-flavoured ice cream?’
She laughed. ‘Not quite. It’s more like frozen yoghurt. We do a carrot and cinnamon one, and a cheese one.’
He stared at her. ‘Cheese ice cream?’
‘They serve Parmesan ice cream at the posh restaurant round the bay in Little Crowmell,’ she said. ‘That’s what gave me the idea. Especially as Waffle—’ her parents’ dachshund ‘—will do anything for cheese. He loved being one of my beta testers. So did your mum’s dog.’
He wondered who’d taken her to Little Crowmell and had to damp down an unexpected flicker of jealousy. He had no right to be jealous. She was a free agent. It was up to her who she dated, he reminded himself yet again.
‘Dinner smells nice,’ he said, reverting to a safer subject.
‘It’s not that fancy. Just chicken arrabbiata.’
He’d always loved her cooking. ‘It’s still better than I could’ve made.’ Not that he really cooked, any more. Cooking for one didn’t seem worth the effort, when he was tired after a long day in the lab. It was so much easier to buy something from the chiller cabinet in the supermarket and shove it in the microwave for a couple of minutes. Something he didn’t have to think about or even taste.
Abigail’s chicken arrabbiata tasted even better than it smelled.
And how weird it was to be eating with her again, in this intimate little galley kitchen, at this tiny little table. Close enough so that, when he moved his feet, he ended up touching hers.
‘Sorry,’ he said, moving his feet swiftly away again and banging his ankle on the chair leg.
She gave him a half-shrug. ‘Not a problem.’
She might be immune to him nowadays, he thought, but he was far from immune to her. There was a time when they would’ve sat at a tiny table like this together, their bare feet entwined. When they would’ve shared glances. When dinner would’ve been left half-eaten because he would’ve scooped her up and carried her up the stairs to their bed.
And he really wasn’t going to let himself wonder if she slept in a double bed.
It was none of his business.
This was supposed to be civil politeness. A truce. Getting rid of the awkwardness between them, so Ruby’s wedding would go smoothly at the weekend. So why did he feel so completely off balance?
He forced himself to finish the pasta—she was right, he did need to eat—and then cleared the table for her while she rummaged in the freezer.