Page 82 of Baking and Angels

Helena cocked her head at him curiously. “Do you know much about broadcasting?”

He shrugged. “I cooked for a TV executive once. He liked to talk while he ate. I did not understand much of what he said, but I am a very goodlistener.”

A wary look passed over Helena’s face, though he had no idea what he could have said to inspire it. Then she asked, “What happened to him?”

It was like she had punched him inthe chest.

“He died,” Rafferty said simply.

A tension stretched between them, then Helena shook her head, banishing the expression from her face. “No, let’s not do that. Let’s not spoil a good morning. I’ll see you later,” she said, grabbingher coat.

He felt the urge to go to her, to hug and kiss her one more time, but he didn’t, and she didn’t look to him for one. His stomach felt sick, and the overwhelming urge to bake something tickled at his fingers.

I’m not the man she thought I was. And she realizes it now. It’s only a matter of time,his darker voice said in his mind, the one that had been with him in Hell keeping himexisting.

Before he could turn to the refuge that was the kitchen, however, or pick up the remote control to lose himself in other people’s cooking, his own phone rang. Glancing at the screen, a fresh hitch in his chestcaught him

“Hello,Eleanor.”

Chapter 32

The

Temptation

Eleanor was a sight as she worked in the auxiliary kitchen of the hotel. A cooking goddess in her element, her tied-back hair under a bloodred handkerchief was striking. Her snow-white chef’s jacket was a stark contrast to it. Before her was an array of tiny beige blobs, but Rafferty couldn’t see what they were from thatdistance.

She wasn’t alone in the room: two other people armed with a camera and another with a microphone on a stick documented her every move. Or rather the cameraman did. The mic guy was leaning against one of the empty counters watching as his counterpart zeroed in his camera on the surface that Eleanorworked on.

There was also a fourth, familiar, person in the room. Éliott stood on the other side of the workspace, getting in the way of the mini-camera crew while he talked at her in a low voice. Whatever he was saying seemed urgent, and not for the millionth time, Rafferty hated that he couldn’t sharpen his hearing tocatch it.

What really caught his focus was all four sets of eyes shifting up to him. A feeling of unworthiness washed through him.

“Let’s take a few minutes,” Eleanor finally said to the two working men, wiping her hands on a damp towel, but her stiff demeanor was reserved for Éliott.

He took the silent rebuke, straightening himself, then turned, walking toward the door where Rafferty stood.

“If it’s alright with you, I’ll go ahead and get some still shots,” the camera guy said, clearly uninterested in what washappening.

“Yeah, sounds great,” she agreed.

“Hi,” Éliott said to Rafferty, “what are you doing here?”

“Eleanor asked for my help,” he said simply. “What about you?”

But Éliott clapped his shoulder instead of answering. “I’m glad. That’s good. She needs all the help she can get, and you are a good person togive it.”

Rafferty frowned at him. “The one thing I am definitely not is a good person.”

But Éliott only gave a sad smile. “And if you need help, brother, know that I am here for you.” Then he exited out the swinging doors of the auxiliary kitchen, which rebounded into Rafferty’s backside, as if giving him a little push to enter further.

Taking the impetuous, he crossed the space to meet Eleanor, still wiping up with her towel, which she tucked under her arm as she crossed them. “Well, there he is,” she said, the hostility from the first time they met having returned with full force.

Instead of cowing him, he felt the familiar posturing of the king’s kitchen slip through him. Crossing his arms, he leaned one hip into the table beside him, letting a confident grin overtakehis face.

A twinkle appeared in her eye in response, despite her determination to maintainher scowl.

He had missedthis game.

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