The Light Over London(32)

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi. I like your apron.”

She looked down, realizing, to her horror, that she was still wearing it. A splash of wine marred the heavy cream fabric, and a couple of bright orange carrot peelings poked out of one of the pockets.

“Oh, I meant to take this off.” She tugged at the ties frantically, but one end slipped through her hand, tightening the knot. Her cheeks burning, she tried to stick her thumbnail into it while stepping back, “I’m being rude and leaving you standing on the front step. Come in. I’ll just—”

Liam mounted the steps, set down the bottle of wine he’d been holding, and placed one gentle hand on either of her forearms. She stilled immediately, her eyes wide and blinking as she gazed up at his soft smile. “Let me help.”

Carefully, he turned her around. She held her breath as he leaned down, his fingers light on the ties, barely brushing her back. The fabric tugged this way and then that.

“It’s pretty tight,” he said.

Her head dropped back as she sent up a silent prayer that the god watching over awkward divorced women would take pity on her and either imbue her with a shot of confidence or make the earth open up to swallow her. She wasn’t sure which would be better.

“One sec. I think I’ve got it . . .”

The fabric gave and she sagged forward, lifting the neck strap of the apron over her head.

“Thanks,” she said, balling the fabric up in her hands.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

“Yes. I just—” She laughed. “I’m nervous. It’s been a long time since I had anyone over for dinner.”

Since I had a man over for dinner.

He leaned in a little, a conspiratorial glint in his eye. “I have a confession to make.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“This is the first time in a long time I’ve been to dinner at someone’s house, but I remembered to bring wine.” He held up the bottle to show it off. “And it’s chilled.”

She smiled at the sight of the bottle, sweating condensation so that the spray of festive, curling silver ribbon stuck on with a bit of tape threatened to slip off at any moment. “And it has a bow.”

“Mum would never speak to me again if she found out I showed up empty-handed,” he said. “Leah either.”

She thanked him and took the bottle, keeping a finger discreetly on the bow to make sure it didn’t fall off.

He looked openly around the entryway as he crossed the threshold. “Your cottage is different from mine.”

“How so?” she asked, leading him past the sitting room and down the narrow corridor. Her hands, she was pleased to discover, no longer shook despite the nerves that had been sitting in her stomach all afternoon.

“I think someone gutted my place a few years ago and fitted it with all modern fixtures. The only real period details left are a couple beams. But this,” he said as they passed into the kitchen, “this is almost like stepping back in time.”

Her shoulders relaxed a little as she watched him take in the space. It was a pretty room—her favorite in the house—with a small, black iron wood-burning stove on the wall opposite the oven, her reclaimed farmhouse table she’d set for two, and the gray-and-white-painted Welsh dresser Gran had given her because it was too big for her Widcote Manor flat. “I wouldn’t have the heart to gut a place like this. I love the feel of the old cottages. Cozy, comfortable, lived-in. It was one of the reasons I took this house.”

“What were the others?” he asked.

“Just the garden, really,” she said, nodding out the kitchen window to where two large bushes of bold pink Skylark roses bloomed, casting their apple pie scent into the air, and white-and-gold Japanese anemones swayed in the border along the fence separating their two yards. “I’ve had a few good afternoons sitting out there.”

“I wondered about that,” he said.

“You have?”

“There’s a gap in the top of the hedge by my kitchen and I can see your back patio.” Then, all at once, he looked horrified. “Not that I’ve been watching you. That would be creepy. I just meant—”

She burst out laughing and, inexplicably, relaxed.

He ran his hand over the back of his neck and shot her a rueful smile. “We’re making a hash of this, aren’t we?”

“We really are.”

“What are we going to do about it?” he asked.

Watching him leaning against her kitchen counter, long arms crossed over his chest, she could think of several things, but that was for a future Cara. One who hadn’t just finalized her divorce and uprooted her life. Right here, right now, what she found herself wanting most was a friend’s company.

“I should finish dinner,” she said.

He nodded. “I would offer to help, but I don’t trust myself not to ruin everything. Why don’t I open the wine?”

“The corkscrew is in the drawer to your left. Glasses are above your head.”

He set about cutting the foil while Cara slipped on a pair of mitts. She stood a little back as she opened the oven door, heat bursting forth in an angry cloud. Focusing on not burning herself while pulling out the heavy iron pot gave her something to concentrate on other than the tall man standing in her kitchen opening a bottle as though it was the most normal thing in the world.