Page 74 of Secret Paths

“You could have eaten before you came over.”

“I could also have gone home, showered, cooked for myself and fallen asleep on my sofa like a man with no prospects and mud in his socks.” He holds up the potato. “Instead, I came here with ingredients.”

“And charm?”

“I was hoping that was implied.”

I fold my arms. “This looks suspiciously like a date.”

“It is not a date.”

“You brought dinner to my house.”

“I brought raw materials. A date would involve flowers, a reservation and me pretending I know more about wine than red or white.”

“You do not?”

“I know enough to bring red when instructed.”

I should say no.

Dinner is not what we do. Cooking together is worse. Cooking together is domestic. It has chopping boards and timing and the possibility of reaching for the same spoon.

But Peter is already washing his hands and rolling up his sleeves. There is a faint line of mud near his wrist from the walk, and his hair is still messy from the wind. He looks comfortable in my kitchen, which should be annoying.

It is annoying.

Not only annoying.

“What are we making?” I ask.

“Cottage pie.”

I look at the potatoes again. “That sounds ambitious.”

“It is mince with a hat.”

“That is not a recipe.”

“It is an emotional description.”

“I cannot cook.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“You once brought shop-bought coleslaw to a barbecue and served it in a ceramic dish so people would think you made it.”

“That was strategy.”

“It still had the plastic film stuck to the bottom.”

“One person noticed.”

“I noticed.”

“You’re too observant.”