Page 10 of Saved By Love at Christmas
“It’s okay, Ruby. You’re home now. That man can’t reach you here. Let it all out. You’ll be fine. You’re a fighter.”
I moved away from him to wipe my eyes. “I know I will, Grandad. I was taught by the best.” I patted his cheek.
“Nan would smile if she could see me with all the latest kitchen gadgets.” His gaze wandered around the kitchen worktops.
I chuckled. “Oh, she really would. How many times did she ask you to get a slow cooker and bread maker?”
“Too many to mention. The sausage casserole is ready whenever you are.”
Right on cue, my stomach growled. “Now would be great.”
I savoured each mouthful. This was the sort of food I’d missed. Great, home-cooked meals made with love. I closed my eyes as I allowed my tastebuds to enjoy the flavours.
“I’ve missed your cooking.”
He reached across the table and patted my hand. “And I’ve missed cooking for you.”
“I guess the freezer is full. This isn’t the sort of meal you can cook for one.” I mopped up the last of the juices with my bread. I didn’t want to waste any of it.
“Ah, I’ve had help eating it.” He tapped the side of his nose and grinned.
I rolled my eyes. “Ben?”
“Well, he can work some strange hours, and I know sometimes he doesn’t eat properly. He’s great company too.”
Ben always turned up at our house around mealtimes. But then, we were inseparable until I upped and left with Jamie. Just as I was feeling happy, my gut twisted with guilt again.
“Are you overthinking?”
“You know me too well, Grandad. I just wish I’d taken a breath before leaping in with both feet because I thought Jamie loved me.”
Grandad got up from the table and began clearing dishes away. I helped him and then put the kettle on. We were both addicted to tea. Another thing I’d missed in Spain: a decent British cuppa. I looked at the Christmas cake cooling on a wire rack. The smell of it lured me closer, and I bent down and took a deep breath.
“Hey. No touching it until the week before Christmas. You know the rules.” He waggled his finger at me.
“I remember. It needs to be fed with brandy several times to keep it moist.”
“And whose job is it to do this?”
My smile was wide; so wide it almost hurt. “I put the holes in with the metal skewer and you drip the brandy in.”
“Correct. And who puts the marzipan and icing on the cake?”
We were both chuckling now. This was a ritual we went through every year from the time I was about seven.
“You put the apricot jam on, I roll out the marzipan, and you put it on the cake. I’m not allowed to.” I tried to do a pretend pout, but I was full-on laughing now.
“Andwhydo I have to do that?”
“Because I love marzipan and try to eat it.”
“Correct. And the icing?”
“We do this together because we like the crunchy royal icing. And what do you call the ready roll icing?”
“Shoe leather.”
“Why do you call it that?”
