Grinning, Lola tapped her temple. “I’m filing that information away for later.”
I caught my lips curving up as I let my hip rest against the counter, the stiffness draining from my body. She was the sweetest little thing. Innocent, somehow. “Are you going to keep baking for me, love?”
My smile vanished almost as quickly as her pale brows popped over the top of her glasses.
My heart stuttered to a stop in my chest.
Love.
I’d called herlove.
Not just in my mind. Not just in the shameful moments when my hand had been an efficient but hollow substitute for her. I’d almost slipped up once before but had managed to clumsily smooth it over before she noticed. No, this time, I’d been stupid enough to call herloveout loud.
I had no business thinking about Lola like that. None. I had even less business talking to her like there was ever any possibility she’d be mine.
Did she know that, too? Was that why she twisted the wooden button of her cardigan?
Unsure how to rewind the term of endearment that had threatened to spill out for weeks, I stammered, “I should, um… Yeah… Wash up…or…or something,” and headed for the sink under the window.
Stuck in the cramped kitchen with Lola, my pulse pounded like a jackhammer. A distraction wouldn’t hurt. I unbuttoned the cuffs of my shirt and rolled up the sleeves to my elbows. Lola was right beside me. Her tiny blue eyes were glued to my hands, examining the way I worked the soapy lather like she was collecting evidence from a crime scene. Something about that look made me want to tug my collar away from my neck.
Lola shoved a scrunched-up tea towel at me to dry my hands before shuffling to the fridge to rummage around.
“So, who’s your egg guy?” Her voice floated from somewhere near the vegetable drawer.
Huh? “Egg guy?” I hung the tea towel back over the oven handle, arranging it—and rearranging it—to make sure the stripes were in a perfect line. I didn’t want her worrying any more than she already was.
“People talk a lot about the Hollyoak farm,” she said. “Is that where you go?”
“Nah, the eggs are from my place. I’ve got six chickens.”
“Six chickens!” She sounded impressed. “What do you do with all the eggs?” She whipped a look over her shoulder to bless me with a grin. “Other than sharing them with amateur bakers, of course.”
There was nothing amateur about Lola’s chocolate cake. I’d demolished most of it before lunch that day. Her cake was that damn good. I’d grumbled about sharing a slice with Harry when he’d dropped by but snatched the container away before he could help himself to a second.My cake.Made for me bymy girl.
I shrugged. “Eat them.” I took some down to Ruth, but now wasn’t the time for a messed-up history lesson. “Cook with them.”
Her hands still empty, Lola flicked the fridge shut. “I can’t imagine having my own chicken coop. It must be so peaceful to havespace.”
Peaceful? I guess. Isolated. Lonely… “Yeah, I’ve got a couple of acres.”
She pressed a hand to her heart and fell against the fridge. “That must be so…Wow.”
“You’d like to live in the hills?”
She bobbed her head in an eager nod.
“You think you’ll find a bigger place…if…” I swallowed heavily. “If you decide to stay?”
She didn’t hesitate before answering, “I’m staying.” There was a firmness to her voice I hadn’t heard before. “There’s nothing for me back on the mainland.”
“What about your folks?”
Lola mustered half a smile. “Bruce and Barb retired a few years back and bought themselves a Winnebago bigger than this place.”
“Are they doing the whole grey nomad thing around Australia?”
“Yeah. I think they’re somewhere in the far north at the moment. And I love my parents, but…”
