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‘Because I may not date but, as we’ve ascertained, I do still enter short-term affairs.’
‘Well, I don’t.’ Gesturing at the food, she added, ‘Help yourself.’
Without further ado he sampled the chicken and closed his eyes. ‘April, this is truly wonderful.’
She cut a sliver of chicken and tasted it, her brow creased as she concentrated. ‘Perhaps a bit too much lemon—or maybe I could have cooked it a little less time—’
‘Stop.’ Marcus realised what else had been bugging him. ‘Every time I say something nice about you, you reject the compliment. It’s as if you’re waiting for the “but”. This food is delicious. Period.’
April stared at him for a long moment. ‘Maybe I’m modest.’
‘Maybe—but it seems to me that you don’t actually believe the compliments. You can’t see that the food is lovely, that you looked beautiful in that dress last night.’
‘I... I...’ She paused, looked down at her plate.
‘You need to believe in yourself. That’s what I tell Gemma and Blake and all those teenagers. They have to believe in themselves and their own unique talents.’
It was one of the most important skills that he wanted to teach those teenagers in Lycander’s poverty stricken areas.
‘I do believe in myself.’ Her voice sounded hesitant, but then she frowned, as though annoyed with herself. ‘And I believe in my chicken.’
‘Good! Because it is delicious.’
‘Thank you. And thank you for pointing out that I can be a bit over-critical of myself. It’s a bad habit I thought I’d got rid of.’
Genuine self-annoyance was etched on her face and he knew he’d hit a nerve. ‘Any reason for it?’
April hesitated, and then shrugged as if there was no harm in sharing the information. ‘A super-critical ex. Everything I cooked, Dean would find some fault with it. It was always a bit burnt, or had a pinch too much salt, or I’d underdone the beef or overcooked the steak... It got to the point where I got so nervous I made more mistakes, and then I suppose the criticism became justified... I used to believe my cooking reflected my emotions—the stews became a little more bitter day by day, the chili con carne a little less spicy, the lemons a bit more sour.’
Her attempt at casualness fell flat—instead sadness permeated her voice now, and he wanted to reach out, hold her, tell her that Dean wasn’t worth it.
But before he could do anything a loud crash had him on his feet as a curse dropped from his lips.
Hell. He’d taken his eye off the weather, so intent on his conversation with April that in truth he’d almost forgotten the storm outside. Insulated in the windowless room, it had been easy to forget the reason they were there—easy to forget everything except the woman opposite him.
Fool.
‘Wait here.’
‘No way. I’m coming with you.’
‘No.’
‘Yes.’ Her mouth set in a line of determination. ‘I don’t need you to play the hero, Marcus.’
‘I’m not playing the hero. I’m being sensible. I don’t know how much damage has been done out there. One of us needs to check.’
‘Fine.’
He opened the kitchen door and slipped out, banging it shut behind him. He moved down the corridor and into the lounge, where he saw the window had cracked from the impact of an uprooted tree that the gale had slammed against it.
Swiftly Marcus closed the door and returned to the kitchen, where April had already cleared the table, packing the remaining food into containers. Her face was pale and he noticed her knuckles had whitened where she grasped the table-edge.
‘What happened? How bad is it?’
‘The window in the lounge has cracked, but not completely shattered as yet. The storm is really going for it now. My plan is to barricade the lounge door in the hope that we can contain the damage to that room. But in case the storm breaks through we need to hole up in the larder.’
‘I’ll help with the barricade.’
