Page 12 of Holly's Christmas Countdown
Bristling, I grabbed a hair bobble, piled my hair on top of my head and secured it in place, all the while asking who Fin thought he was. “First, he wanders up and down the landing like some Greek god,” I said. “And then he commandeers the kitchen.” I fumed at the man’s audacity for clearly making himself at home. I paused in my thinking, realising I may well have described the perfect man. “Perfect, my arse,” I said, dismissing the idea. In my experience, when it came to men there was no such thing.
My irritation continued as I headed downstairs to the kitchen. But I stopped in the doorway, staring at the table, surprised by what I saw. Fin wasn’t just cooking for himself. The table was laid for two, completed with a little vase containing a sprig of heather from one of my garden pots.
“Just in time,” he said.
I felt a bit guilty as he smiled my way, frying pan in one hand, spatula in the other.
“I hope you’re hungry.”
I stood there, gobsmacked at the lengths he’d gone to. Apart from on the odd occasion when I ate out, no one other than family had ever cooked for me before. Not even Jeremy and he’d practically moved himself in.
“Breakfast is served,” Fin said.
Watching him plate up the most delicious looking start to the day, I thought about the limited food stuffs in my fridge. Eggs, cheese, and a half bag of spinach. Fin was clearly some kind of culinary wizard, able to make something out of nothing.
“Come on,” he said. Indicating it was time to eat, he placed the empty pan on the stove. “Before it gets too cold.”
I took a seat at the table and feeling impressed by his efforts, picked up my knife and fork.
“It’s frittata,” Fin said. “An Italian dish. Or as I like to call it, posh omelette.”
Stuffing some into my mouth, I didn’t care what it was called, it smelt divine and was blooming mouth-watering. Slightly firm on the outside with a seductive ooze in the middle, as soon as the flavours and textures hit my taste buds, I groaned in delight. “Beats a bowl of cereal,” I said.
Fin laughed. “Glad to hear it.”
As I tucked in, I sensed Fin’s eyes on me and feeling self-conscious I stopped chewing to return his gaze. I put a hand up to my chin to make sure I didn’t have a string of cheese or rogue piece of spinach hanging off it. “What?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
He seemed to have the same look in his eye that Mum had when Vee and I were growing up. Be it a mug of home-made soup or a dish of ice cream, Mum liked nothing more than to see her children enjoy their food. It was as if our delight at the meals put in front of us somehow reciprocated the love that she’d put into preparing them.
“It’s good to see a woman enjoying her food for a change, that’s all. Instead of pushing it around her plate pretending to eat.”
“No chance of that here, I’m afraid,” I replied with gusto. “When it comes to food, I don’t have that kind of willpower.”
Fin laughed. “Glad to hear it.” He, at last, began to eat too.
Silence descended as we both concentrated on our food and after a while, an awkwardness began to settle. I knew why, of course. Sharing a breakfast table had an intimacy to it, yet Fin and I were no more than strangers. Wondering if he felt uneasy too, I snuck a peek at Fin, only to find him looking at me in return. He held my gaze longer than necessary and finding myself drawn in, I forced my eyes to look away. “Where did you learn to cook like this?” I asked, shaking off the moment. “Because this isnotlike any omelette I’ve ever tasted before.”
“I’m surprised Annie didn’t explain. She told me all about you. I loved the bit about you wanting to be a novelist, by the way.”
My blushes were twofold. Firstly, I hadn’t got around to even trying to follow that dream of mine. And secondly, I knew Annie would have told me everything about Fin, I just couldn’t remember. And after thirty-six hours I doubted I ever would.
“It’s my job. I’m a chef.”
“Well going off this you’re obviously very good at it,” I replied. “I’m impressed.”
Fin smiled to himself, seemingly glad of the compliment.
Keeping my attention on my food, one inner voice told me it was a shame Fin would be gone by the end of the day. I could have got used to having a professional cook on the premises. Another voice told me it was probably for the best that he wasn’t staying. If he could rustle up something so simple yet lip-smacking for breakfast, goodness knew what pleasures he conjured for an evening meal. The man might’ve been a culinary magician, but my bones were big enough.
Looking over at Fin again, I sensed the whisperings of a third voice trying to interject, but I refused to let it speak.
8
Thanks to Fin, I might have had a full belly, but that didn’t stop me feeling the cold when I set out for work. Jack Frost had left a blanket of white in his wake and as I stepped out onto the street, with my duffle coat buttoned up tight and a thick scarf around my neck, my breath steamed forth in recognition.
Scraper in hand, my fingers went numb as I chipped away at the ice covering my car windscreen, clearing it for the drive. By the time I climbed in I was shivering, and the temperature inside the vehicle was no better than the temperature outside. Placing my bag on the passenger seat, I put the key in the ignition and turned on the engine, whacking the heater up to full as I pulled out.
