Fact: They were going to see each other. Most days, if not every day. In close quarters. There was no configuration of hours or schedules that would allow them to avoid each other entirely, and attempting it would be not only impractical but glaringly, conspicuously strange.
Which led him, reluctantly but inevitably, to the only sensible conclusion.
They would simply have to make this work.
There. He turned the thought over and found it sound. He had a task to complete and she had a craft to practice and there was no earthly reason the two of them could not occupy the same kitchen for the duration without the entire enterprise collapsing into stammering and apologizing and not-quite-meeting each other’s eyes.
Which meant the awkwardness had to be addressed. Not the past itself—stars, no, not the past—but the awkwardness. The surface of it. They could acknowledge that this was strange, agree that it need not be, and then proceed as two reasonable adults who had once known each other and now found themselves working in proximity.
A clean reset. A wiped slate. Start afresh, as though the slate had never had anything written on it at all.
Yes. That was the fix.
He took a breath, clicked the watch shut and slid it back into his waistcoat pocket, straightened his coat, and crossed to the door.
Then he turned around, walked back to the window, and stood there for a moment with his arms folded tightly over his chest, staring out at the lane below without seeing it.
He could do this.
He turned again, walked back to the door, set his hand on the handle, and opened it. He started down the stairs before he could change his mind—and the stairs, helpfully, made sure he followed through.
The heel of his boot caught the edge of a step that had not, he was certain, existed a moment ago, his ankle turned, and the world tilted. He caught the railing with one hand and the wall with the other and arrived at the bottom several seconds sooner and considerably louder than he had intended.
He stood at the foot of the stairs, gripping the rail, and let out a breath.
Yes, here I am, the same clumsy boy of three years ago, and absolutely not the suave, refined, self-possessed gentleman I’d always hoped you might see if we ever ran into each other.
Well. At the very least, no one in this kitchen would be startled by his arrival. He had announced it the way a dropped anvil announces itself. There would be no walking into her this time. She had had ample warning. The whole lane had had ample warning.
A small mercy, that. He would take his mercies where the architecture saw fit to provide them.
Lucie was at the worktable when he came round into the kitchen proper, very carefully not looking at him and very thoroughly wiping a section of the worktable that did not, from where Kazrian stood, appear to require it. She wore a clean apron and had tucked away most of the loose strands of her hair. The ruined caramels, he noted, were nowhere to be seen. Another stab of guilt pierced his chest.
“The stairs,” she said.
“The stairs,” he agreed. “Perhaps I shall attempt to fix that particular quirk first.” He moved a few steps closer and stopped at what he judged tobe a sensible distance—near enough to converse, far enough to be unmistakably professional.
“Lu—Miss Fields,” he began. “I owe you an apology.”
She stopped wiping the table and met his gaze. “You have already apologized. Multiple times, in fact.”
“Not for the caramels. Well—yes, also for the caramels—but more broadly, for …” He searched for the right words. Every option seemed either insufficient or dangerously close to territory he had resolved not to enter. “For the surprise of it. I truly did not know you would be here. My grandmother did not mention—she said nothing about—” He stopped himself. Took a breath.
“I know this is … awkward,” he continued. “But I see no reason it has toremainawkward. The past is … well, in the past. We are both grown. We both have work we care about. I should like, if it is agreeable to you, to simply … begin again. Civil acquaintances who happen to share a kitchen. I can repair your lattice and your contrary cooling cabinets and your Thursday door and all the other quirks without the two of us tiptoeing about one another.”
For several moments, Lucie said nothing. Then she smiled, small and a little careful, and the relief of it loosened something in his shoulders. She set down the cloth and took a deep breath.
“You are right. This need not be awkward. There is more than enough to keep us both occupied. The Season begins in a few weeks, and The Honeycomb’s official launch is approaching. There are dozens of recipes to finalize, commissions from noble houses, Georgiana and I have the front displays to redesign, and there is Henry?—”
“Who?”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“Who is Henry?”
“Who?”
“You said ‘there is Henry.’”
