Page 62 of Strawberry Kisses

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Patrick

I stared down at the list of bullet points I’d written in my notebook and sighed. I was supposed to be making an order list and figuring out a pudding menu for the next week, but instead I’d found myself jotting down ideas of things to say when I finally plucked up the confidence to talk to Connor about how I felt.

I’d promised Aaron I’d do it, but I hadn’t said when I’d do it.

Tapping my pen on the page, I crossed out one of the points that read, “mention how long we’ve been friends”. I wasn’t sure that was relevant. At least, not in the way I’d written it. So far, my points were: we’re already very good friends so we know we get on well and have similar interests. We’re sexually compatible (which I thought we were from our brief period of sexual interaction). We spend a lot of time together. You don’t mind that I work weird hours. My family likes you and you like them. You love President Whiskers as much as I do. I love you.

They sounded like good points, but I wasn’t sure what order to bring them up. Was I supposed to start by telling him that I loved him? Or was I supposed to start slowly and list all the reasons out? My love of romcoms had given me a skewed sense of perspective. In the movies, the guy made some sort of grand gesture and declared his love, then the girl said yes, and they lived happily ever after. But it couldn’t be that simple in real life, could it?

How did you even do a grand gesture? Was I supposed to get a hundred roses or a million pink balloons and make an idiot of myself in the hope Connor would say he loved me too? That sounded more like a bad marriage proposal than a grand gesture. I was only asking him if he wanted to date me.

I groaned and tore the piece of paper off the pad, scrunching it up and throwing it in the nearby bin. This was getting me nowhere, and it was just making me more confused. Putting the notepad on the shelf above me, where I kept an assortment of notepads, recipe files, pens, cutters, piping nozzles, and old storage tubs, I tried to focus on what I needed to do. Maybe instead of making a list, it would be better if I just got on with the baking. My subconscious would figure it out while the rest of me got lost in pastry.

I headed for the chillers, tray in hand. There were several tubs of soft fruit that really needed to be used. They’d make a nice compote. There was plenty of soft cheese, so cheesecakes were a given. I spotted a box of lemons I hadn’t noticed before. I wondered if one of the main kitchen sous-chefs had put them in here. Maybe they’d had extra or maybe Darcie had ordered them. To my left, I saw a carton of pasteurised egg whites that I used for making meringues because it was easier than separating several trays of eggs by hand. Lemons and egg whites screamed lemon meringue pie to me. It wouldn’t be hard to knock up some pastry shells if I didn’t have any already. And any leftover meringues could be easily broken up to go in something like Eton Mess. That was always a popular summer option.

We had quite a lot of cream, and there were several large blocks of chocolate in the kitchen. I could easily make a ganache, and having something chocolate on the menu would give it a nice balance. Plus, I could make a nice white chocolate and raspberry crème brûlée too.

The tray was full by this point, and I’d even wedged a few things under my arms. It was a bit of a balancing act to get everything back to the kitchen, but I got there eventually. Setting everything on the side, I divided everything up and began.

Time seemed to slow, and everything slipped away as I focused on cooking. I heard someone walking up and down the corridor outside the kitchen, and at some point, it registered that they might be calling my name, but I wasn’t really listening. Instead, I chopped and sliced and mixed and measured, heating fruit, sugar, and the tiniest bit of vanilla slowly on the two little burners I had until the kitchen was bursting with sweetness and I had the perfect compote cooling in a pan. I emptied huge tubs of cream cheese into the mixer, blending it until it was smooth before combining it with icing sugar and lime zest and juice, until it was just the right amount of sharp before spreading it out onto a base of crushed ginger biscuits and butter that I’d had in the fridge. I’d had enough to make two huge cheesecakes, and I carried them on a tray back to the chiller to set, retrieving the pastry I’d set aside to cool. I could roll that out and make shells now, blind baking them before I filled them with a tart lemon filling and topped them with perfectly piped meringue.

I was halfway through whisking egg whites into stiff peaks when a hand on my shoulder jolted me out of my calm reverie. I spun around to see a concerned-looking Aaron standing behind me in the doorway of the kitchen. He wasn’t wearing whites, just an old T-shirt and jeans. I wondered why he was here. He wasn’t scheduled today. Nobody came in on Mondays, unless they had something they needed or were prepping new menu items. That was about the only time I saw Aaron on a Monday, and then it was best to steer clear while he worked his food magic. I wasn’t even supposed to be here today, but it had seemed like the better option than sitting at home and worrying.

“Jesus Christ, Aaron. You gave me a heart attack,” I said, turning down the stand mixer and examining the egg whites. I’d be able to add the sugar soon, it just needed another minute.

“Sorry. I tried calling your name, but I don’t think you could hear me.” He looked down at the mixer. “That thing’s louder than a cement mixer.”

I shrugged. I couldn’t disagree with him. Flicking the mixer back on, I leant closer to him so he could hear me. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. I was coming to ask you the same question.” There was a deep wrinkle of concern on Aaron’s forehead, and he raised an eyebrow at me. “It’s a Monday, and you’ve been here for hours, Pads. Your timecard says you started at six this morning.”

“What time is it now?” I asked. I didn’t think it was that late.

“Nearly four.”

“Well, that’s not that bad,” I said as I walked over to the giant bin of caster sugar on the other side of the kitchen, taking the scoop out of it and quickly measuring some into a bowl. Then I used the scoop to slowly trickle the sugar into the stiff egg whites, transforming them into a perfect, glossy meringue. “That’s a standard day.”

“Yeah.” Aaron didn’t sound convinced. He gestured to the counters and the large trays of lemon-filled pastry shells. “But you’re not done, are you?”

“Not quite, but I won’t be much longer. Besides, why are you concerned about me working so much? You’re hardly one to talk.”

“True, but I’m an asshole with no life outside my kitchen.” He chuckled, but it sounded hollow. “I thought you were going to talk to Connor?”

“I am. Or at least, I will. I just haven’t had time yet.”

“Didn’t you see him at the weekend?”

I shook my head. “No, we were both busy. He had some extra classes to teach and he said something about Levi suddenly wanting to do a summer showcase, so he was going to spend the evenings with him to plan it.”

“It sounds like you’re avoiding each other.”

“We’re not.” Despite my denial, it was something that had crossed my mind. I hadn’t seen Connor since Thursday night, and although we’d texted all weekend it had been strange not to see him. I did wonder whether something was going on, but I hadn’t given myself time to think about it. Darcie had asked for the weekend off, and I’d happily covered for her. It had given me a chance to keep busy, and if I’d happened to stay late last night to deep clean parts of the kitchen so I wouldn’t have to go home by myself, well, that was something nobody else needed to know.

Connor had still been in contact, so it wasn’t like he’d dropped off the map, and he’d even rang me yesterday morning to complain about Levi having too many ideas and not enough actual plans. I’d mentioned working all weekend, and we’d promised to catch up as soon as possible, so were we really avoiding each other?

Aaron huffed. He clearly didn’t believe me. “Sure you’re not.”

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