Running From the Storm. Lee Wilkinson
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friends had admitted to living on tinned food, takeaway pizzas and being helpless in the kitchen—she asked, ‘Really? Can you cook?’
‘Can I cook!’
Noting the gleam in his eye, she demanded, ‘Well, can you?’
‘Of course I can.’
‘Honestly?’
‘Oh ye of little faith.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I should think so.’
‘What kind of thing can you cook?’
‘I make a mean omelette.’
‘In that case, an omelette would be great.’
With a fresh pot of coffee keeping hot, he quickly set the table before taking a pack of bacon and a bowl of brown eggs from the fridge.
While the bacon grilled, he made a large omelette, golden and puffy. Folding it neatly, he garnished it with rolls of crisp bacon before dividing it between two warm plates.
They ate their meal in a companionable silence, and when her plate was empty Caris thanked him, adding, ‘I really enjoyed that.’
‘Good. Ready for more coffee?’
Reluctant to tear herself away but afraid of outstaying her welcome, she shook her head. ‘I really ought to be going.’
‘Why? What’s the hurry?’
Trying to put conviction into her voice, she told him, ‘I’d really like to get home.’
A glint in his eye, he asked, ‘Now, why don’t I believe that?’
Vexed that he’d seen through her pretence, she asked tartly, ‘Why don’t you?’
‘You have a very expressive face.’
A little disturbed by that remark—wondering what else she might have inadvertently given away—she felt the colour rise in her cheeks.
With a slight grimace, he said, ‘Now I’ve embarrassed you.’
‘Not really,’ she denied, sticking to her guns. ‘But I really ought to be going.’
‘If you’re determined, I’ll get the car out and drive you back.’
‘You’re sure I won’t be interrupting your work?’
‘I’ve done all I need to do for the moment. I’m now planning to enjoy myself.’
That made her smile. ‘I can’t believe chauffeuring a strange woman around counts as enjoyment.’
‘Surely that depends on the woman?’
She could think of nothing to say to that.
When she stayed mute, he pointed out teasingly, ‘That was meant to be a compliment.’
As lightly as possible she said, ‘In that case, what can I say but, thank you.’
He pretended to consider. ‘You could possibly add, “you’re very gallant”.’
‘I’ll be happy to, especially if you were to offer to bring my things downstairs.’
With a grin, he saluted her spirited answer.
Then, his face growing serious, he asked, ‘If you go back to Albany, what will you do with yourself?’
‘Well, I …’
‘Do you really want to hurry home just to sit in an empty flat all weekend?’
Caught on the raw—because that was precisely what she almost certainly would be doing—she said a shade crossly, ‘Well, what would you suggest I do?’
‘You could always stay here.’
Hurriedly she said, ‘Thank you, but I really couldn’t.’
‘Still not sure you can trust me?’
‘It’s nothing like that,’ she denied.
‘Then why can’t you stay?’
‘I couldn’t put on you.’
‘A quaint phrase, that, and if it means what I imagine it means—i.e. to impose—then my answer is if I’d thought you were putting on me I wouldn’t have offered.’
‘You might have felt obliged to.’
‘Well, I didn’t,’ he replied shortly. ‘And when you get to know me better you’ll realize that I don’t do anything I don’t want to do.’
He smiled at her suddenly, lightening the tension. ‘Now, if that’s set your mind at rest and you have no other serious objections, please stay. I could use the company.’
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