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Monica obliges, stepping out onto the shady deck covered in pine needles, the deck with no view. Liza runs after them.
I stay put, leaning back against the kitchen island, trying to ignore the mess behind me. I didn’t really notice until now, but there is flour absolutely everywhere, like the bag exploded. Broken eggs, herbs, and spilled salt are scattered along the counter.
You know how when people really tidy their house, people joke about the Queen coming to visit? Well, we have an actual duchess in our house, and it looks like a disaster zone.
I sigh at the mess and turn back around to see Harrison still standing in the corner. “I’m surprised you’re not running out to the deck to make sure Monica doesn’t get a splinter or something.”
He grunts. Like a caveman in a suit. Then comes walking over to me.
I stiffen, wondering if I’ve taken things too far, though I can’t imagine what he’d do. Can he arrest me for being a pain in the ass? Can he arrest anyone? And why can’t he wear his sunglasses inside? His eyes are far too distracting.
He stops a foot away, close enough for me to smell that woodsy, fresh cologne of his, the kind of cologne that makes my stomach do a curious flip, then looks over my shoulder at the kitchen. “What’s happening in here?”
“My mother’s attempt at baking,” I tell him.
“She any good?”
I don’t want to throw my mom under the bus. “Sure is.” I pause. “For a beginner.”
He nods, and to my surprise, he walks past me over to the counter where the baking science experiment is. “What is she making?” he asks as he peers into a bowl. “Scones?”
“Focaccia bread.” I walk over to him, my arms crossed and already defensive.
He cocks an eyebrow, his forehead wrinkling. “I see.” He looks over at the buttermilk. “I hope she didn’t put that in there.”
“Why? Maybe it’s her secret ingredient.”
“It’ll make the dough too wet. She should be using honey if she needs a bit of sweetness. Has she added the yeast yet?”
I stare at him. “Since when do you know anything about baking?”
He gives me a wry look. “Let’s not repeat our little argument from the other day about being able to wear many hats.”
“So you’re a bodyguard, a royal consultant, and a baker?”
He gives me a small smile. “It’s just something I used to have an interest in.”
I look him up and down, my eyes coasting over his well-suited, mammoth frame. “You don’t look like you’d have baking as a hobby.”
“I’m sure this is no surprise to you, but looks can be deceiving, can’t they?”
“Oh dear!” my mother cries out from behind me. I turn to see her, Monica, and Liza stepping back into the house. My mother comes over, flapping her hands anxiously.
“It’s such a mess, I’m so sorry,” she says.
“It’s quite all right,” Harrison tells her. “I was just curious about your baking process here. Seems very creative.”
Thankfully, to Harrison’s credit, his voice is warm and genuine.
“Oh,” my mother says, blushing. “Well, I’m just trying new things. I like to keep busy, you know, new hobbies. Last month it was crochet, I made a sweater—want to see?”
“Mom,” I warn her, but it’s too late and she’s scurrying off to her bedroom.
“Sorry,” I apologize. “Once she gets her mind set on something . . .” I look at Monica. “And sorry about the tour.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about, Piper,” she says. “Your mother is delightful. Actually, the reason I came over was to invite you both to dinner tomorrow night. If you’re free. And want to, of course.”
I blink at her. Even after all this she’s inviting us to dinner?
I glance at Harrison, but he merely nods.
“Well, yeah. Of course. We would love to,” I tell her, trying to keep my enthusiasm at an acceptable level.
“Great,” Monica says, and then takes her cell phone out of her pocket. “Can we exchange numbers? Might be easier than me having to show up at your door. And vice versa of course.”
Unless I felt like being attacked by one of her tree guards.
Regardless, I can’t believe she wants to exchange numbers with me. I tell her my phone number, and she quickly sends a text. My phone beeps from the living room table.
“And now you have mine,” she says with a bright smile.
“I found it!” my mother cries out, carrying what looks to be a heap of dark green material. “I made a sweater.”
My mother is slightly overweight and on the short side, and when she unravels the sweater and holds it up, the arms and shoulders are way too broad for her. “Here,” she says to Harrison, pushing the sweater into his hands. “You take it. It will fit you.”
“Uh,” he says, totally caught off guard. “I can’t accept this.”
