Page 39 of Mistaken Impression

“I think it’s just the realisation of how little time we’ve got, how much there is to do, and that we’re working without all the ingredients we need. The pressure is…”

“Getting to you?”

“Yes, it is. But it’s not your fault, and I’m sorry if I keep snapping at you.”

“It’s okay. I’m sorry, too.”

“What on earth for?”

“For making your life harder than it needs to be. If I knew how to cook…”

“That’s not your fault either, though, is it? Kennedy hired you. She should have known it would…”

I reach out, placing my fingertips on her lips, the softness taking me by surprise, as does her sharp intake of breath.

“I’m gonna stop you there, Ella, before you find another way to insult me. Okay?”

She nods her head, and I pull my hand away. For a second or two, she just stares at me while I regret my actions. I’m not sorry I prevented her from insulting me again. I don’t think itwould have done either of us any good. But I regret the way I did it. I wish I’d kissed her into silence. Still, the moment’s passed now. It’s too late for regrets… and kisses.

She seems to startle back to life, a blush creeping up her cheeks, and she turns back to the countertop.

“W—We’ve probably got a little while yet until the vegetables are ready, so why don’t we make a start on the alternate roast?”

“Okay. What are we making for that? And when I say ‘we’, I’m using the word in its loosest sense. You’re the one doing all the work.”

She smiles up at me, her eyes twinkling. “We’re gonna make garlic roast potatoes to start off with.”

“I’m sold.”

She chuckles. “That’s just because you like garlic.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Which is just as well because it’s in the vegetable dish as well.”

“What vegetable dish?”

“The Provençal green beans that will be served with the lamb and roast potatoes.”

“What exactly would Provençal green beans be, when they’re at home?”

“Anything that’s called ‘Provençal’ comes with a tomato sauce. It originates in the south of France.”

“Is a lot of your cooking influenced by the French?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says, nodding her head.

“And apart from tomatoes and garlic, what else goes into this sauce?”

“It usually includes onions, olive oil, Herbes de Provence, maybe some capers and a little white wine.”

“Stop it. You’re making me hungry.”

“In which case, you’ll be pleased to hear that you’re going to need to taste all of this, so you can describe the flavours with more accuracy.”

“Great… when do I start?”

She giggles, and the sound pulsates through my body. “When it’s all cooked.”

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