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That was when she’d reminded him of the sandwich.
‘I threw the sandwich in the trash,’ he replied now.
What the actual...?
A blush rose up her throat, combining with the surge of temper that she’d been keeping carefully at bay ever since his many hissy fits that morning had threatened to blow her head off.
‘You... You...’ she stuttered, so shocked at the sneering tone and the complete lack of gratitude for her titanic effort that morning in taking the high road that the words got stuck in her throat. ‘You did what?’ she blurted out at last.
‘I threw it in the trash. Next time you make me a sandwich, don’t drown it in mayo. I hate the stuff. And don’t leave it sitting on the counter all day, so all that’s left of it when I get a chance to eat are its fossilised remains.’
She gasped—she actually gasped—so aghast at his audacity and his total inability to show any appreciation for her effort whatsoever that she was actually struggling to draw a decent breath. ‘Next time?’ she spat the words out. ‘You have got to be joking. There isn’t going to be a next time. I’d be more willing to make a sandwich for my worst enemy than yo
u.’
‘I am your worst enemy right now, and you still owe me,’ he shot back, his tone dripping with sarcasm. ‘I’ve been out all day working my butt off and I’m starving, so a sandwich—even if it were actually edible—isn’t going to cut it. Let’s see what else you’ve got,’ he finished, before stomping past her.
She gulped, a sudden spurt of panic chipping away at her fortifying fury. ‘What do you mean, what else I’ve got?’ she asked.
Although she had a horrid feeling she already knew.
He wasn’t kidding about expecting her to cook him supper.
A hot supper, with actual ingredients, from scratch—something that didn’t come out of a ready meal container or off a takeaway menu.
He stopped and stared down his nose at her. ‘What else you’ve got in your repertoire of go-to meals. Other than prehistoric sandwiches,’ he added.
But the dig didn’t even register this time as her panic started to consume her.
But I don’t have a repertoire.
It was what she wanted to say. But she couldn’t say it because she knew it would make her look pathetic. Because it was pathetic.
She didn’t know how to cook anything. Not anything complicated. Nothing other than maybe beans on toast, or scrambled egg, or warmed-over soup from a tin. And she was fairly sure that wouldn’t cut it with this man any more than her ‘fossilised sandwich’ had—because he could whip up a pancake batter from scratch and had been a short-order chef in a diner when he was still a teenager.
The truth was, she had no excuse. She should have learned how to cook for herself a long time ago. But she’d avoided learning, avoided even attempting to learn. And the reason for that was even more pathetic.
She hated being in a kitchen and doing any kind of domestic chores because it reminded her of the day she had discovered exactly how much her father disapproved of her...
Not even disapproved of her, really. Because disapproval required some kind of emotional input. And the truth was Aldous James hadn’t cared enough about his daughter to put in any emotional effort.
He hadn’t disapproved of her. He hadn’t even seen her. And the day she had discovered exactly how little he cared had haunted her every day since—whenever she spent any time in a kitchen.
For five years—from the day Ash and her mother had come to live in the servants’ quarters at her father’s house on Regent’s Park West—the kitchen had become a place of solace and sanctuary for Cassie. A place of vibrancy and life and excitement, for good times and good feelings.
Until the day her father had chosen to change all that without telling her.
The heat in her cheeks exploded as she recalled that day in vivid detail.
She had raced down the stairs brimming with exhilaration because it had been the first day of October half-term. She had known Ash would be up early, having her breakfast while Ash’s mother, Angela, put together her father’s breakfast tray. Her friend would already be concocting some marvellous new adventures for them both for the holiday. Because Ash always came up with the best adventures.
But it hadn’t been only Ash’s latest mad plans that Cassie had been anticipating as she’d shot down the back stairs in her family’s ten-bedroom Georgian town house—a house that had felt like a prison to her—a prison full of ghosts—until Angela had appeared one day in the staff quarters and introduced Cassie to her daughter.
‘Sure, you two are about the same age. I won’t mind a bit if you want to come down and keep Ashling and I company while your father is busy.’
She hadn’t just been excited about spending some quality time with her best friend again after weeks and weeks of boring school, when they’d only got to see each other for a few hours a day because of the endless hours of homework Cassie was set by the posh private school she’d attended. She’d also been anticipating basking in the homely atmosphere Angela and Ash had created ever since they’d come into her life.
She’d loved all of it. The comforting wittering of Angela Doyle’s conversations about fairies and crystals and other nonsense, the sound of Ash’s slightly off-key singing as they sang along to her favourite show tunes while sharing the headphones from Ash’s MP3 player, the tempting aroma of the scones and breads Angela baked from scratch and the scent of lavender floor polish.
