Page 143 of Secret Paths

He spoons the filling into the dish.

I watch his hands.

The steady way he works. The small frown of concentration. The fact that he hums under his breath and never seems to know he is doing it.

I have seen those hands on my worktop, in my hair, wrapped around a mug at seven in the morning. I have seen them folding laundry badly because he insists helping is more important than technique. I have seen them holding mine at his mother’s grave, and around Bernard’s lead when Mrs Higgins claimed her hip was playing up and then walked perfectly well to the bakery.

I know those hands.

I want my ring on one of them.

I want his ring on mine.

My mouth goes dry.

Peter sprinkles cheese over the mash. “You are staring.”

“I am supervising.”

“You do not cook.”

“I have eyes.”

“You once asked whether mince could be over-browned.”

“That remains a valid concern.”

He laughs, and the sound loosens something in me and tightens something else.

I set down the wine glass.

“Peter.”

He stills.

“Yes?”

I walk to my bag.

My fingers catch on the zip.

Once.

Twice.

“Bloody hell,” I mutter.

Peter puts the cheese down. “Mandy?”

“I am fine.”

I get the box out before I can lose the nerve.

It is dark blue velvet. I stand in front of him and hold it out.

“I am not getting down on one knee,” I say.

His mouth opens.