Page 78 of Secret Paths

“That is at least two potatoes’ worth of emotion.”

“Three.”

He laughs, and I grin before I can stop myself.

We spoon the mince into a dish, spread the mash on top and scrape lines across it with a fork. Peter lets me scatter cheddar over the surface, then rescues the bowl before I turn it into a cheesy nightmare.

“That is enough.”

“You said cheese gives depth.”

“I said Worcestershire sauce gives depth.”

“I prefer cheese.”

“Most reasonable people do.”

The cottage pie goes into the oven.

Which means we are now waiting for dinner to cook.

Together.

In my kitchen.

Peter pours wine. I wipe the worktop because I need something to do that is not acknowledging how ordinary this feels. He watches me, but for once he does not comment.

We lean against opposite sides of the kitchen while the smell of beef, stock and browning cheese fills the room.

“This takes a long time,” I say.

His mouth curves, and for a moment the kitchen warms for reasons that have nothing to do with the oven.

When the cottage pie is finally done, the top is golden and bubbling around the edges. Peter serves it into bowls with the care of a man who has made something properly and wants it appreciated, even if he would deny that under interrogation.

I take a mouthful.

Then another.

Peter watches me far too closely.

“Well?” he asks.

“It is fine.”

“Fine?”

“Pleasant.”

“You ate half the bowl before choosing pleasant.”

“I was gathering evidence.”

“You like it.”

“I might not hate it.”

“That is practically a love poem from you.”