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Chapter 10
As he grabbed the cake tin out of the oven, the tea towel slipped and heat raged through his fingertips. He managed to thrust the tin onto the stovetop, where it teetered, flipped sideways and fell onto the kitchen floor with an ominous thud.
“Fucking hell,” Solo shouted.
When he’d got in from work an hour ago he’d flung the ingredients he’d bought onto the kitchen bench top, plus the bowl, scales and cake tin he’d purchased, because there was no way in the world Carts would have any, and mixed and stirred and hoped to God he’d remembered Nan’s recipe correctly.
And now the thing was literally a hot mess on the floor.
He looked around desperately for something else to pick it up with; salvaging it was definitely going to require both hands. Nope. Nothing. Carts’ kitchen was like an operating theatre; one where all the equipment had been removed for sterilisation. Carefully doubling up the tea towel, he tried to twist the tin upright, using his other hand to prod the cake back in place. It broke, half remaining in the tin, the other half ending up on the floor tiles. He’d let it overcook and now it was clearly going to crumble to buggery.
With a quick flick of his wrist and the heat of the cake burning his other hand, Solo managed to get it onto the kitchen counter and finally breathed a huge sigh of relief. It was more or less intact. And the four-second rule with regard to floor contact applied. Besides, hadn’t they’d proved a few germs were good for you? Though looking at Carts’ kitchen floor, you could probably eat off those shiny tiles with no risk to your health.
Solo gathered his scattered wits.
Now for the topping. Grabbing the icing sugar, butter and cocoa, he threw it all together in the bowl and started beating with grim determination. A glance at his watch told him he had twenty minutes before he had to leave if he was going to get there in time.
Solo cursed liberally under his breath. Why hadn’t he just bought a stupid cake? Or used a packet mix? What the hell was he trying to prove?
For the last couple of days, he and Polly had studiously ignored each other on the ward—apart from one encounter they’d had no say in. Dr Death had insisted they do a joint interview with Bernie because, after twelve weeks on the ward, he needed his medications stabilised and to be gently encouraged to move into hostel accommodation. The psychiatrist and the social worker were the obvious choice to raise the issue. They’d sat in the doctor’s office awkwardly waiting for Bernie to be located, Solo trying not to get side-tracked by the fact that Polly was wearing a skirt that showed off a tiny slice of tantalising thigh as she crossed her legs.
He was at risk of turning into a letch. For Christ’s sake.
So he’d mentioned how humid the weather was and that there must be a storm brewing.
Double Christ’s sake.
And then her lips had quirked and that eyebrow raised like she could see right through his neat suit and into his heart…
Heart?
No way. She wasn’t affecting him that much. It was just that she fascinated him. That was all. He really wasn’t sure what drew him to her in a way that was more than that initial crazy physical attraction; why the odd urge to confide in her, spill out all the misery of the past year. Or, for that matter, why he had such an urge to find out more about her. That tantalising glimpse into her childhood had intrigued him because it wasn’t what he’d imagined. He would have guessed Polly had a loving, rough-and-tumble, rag-tag family who teased each other and hugged a lot.
From her brief account, he’d clearly got that all wrong.
And as for the sex thing—truly he couldn’t get his head around it, he’d never been that turned on by curvy women before. Emma was waif-like. He’d got used to the way her body fitted so neatly into his hands, how he could smooth his palms over her hip bones, trace his fingers up her ribs one by one and cup her almost non-existent breasts. Nothing about Polly’s body fitted neatly; it overflowed, it enveloped, it drowned him in all sorts of delicious possibilities.
Having located the one dessert spoon in the cutlery drawer, he used it to smash icing onto the cake, then stared helplessly as it dripped down the sides. Goddamn it, the cake was still too hot. And there wasn’t time to let it cool down properly…
Rifling a hand through the short spikes of his hair, Solo debated messaging Polly and telling her he’d just got a bad bout of food poisoning. But, hell, he wasn’t that much of a coward, surely?
He shoved the cake into the freezer, leaving a trail of icing blobbing across the kitchen floor, and went upstairs to take a lightning-fast shower.
Twenty minutes later the cake container was in the box on the back of his Ducati. He’d have to ride carefully so as not to dislodge the precarious icing.
The desire to go to his dressing table and find his cigarette packet before he left was almost overwhelming.
That would be a good look, turning up smelling of smoke.
Yeah, he’d really be setting a great example.
When he arrived at the centre, Polly was already setting up the room. He stood for a second in the doorway, helmet in one hand, the container with the apology of a cake in the other, watching the play of her arms, strong and capable as she lifted chairs and arranged them in a neat circle. She’d looped her hair into a loose ponytail—maybe it was an evening concession—and a few curls had wiggled their way out of the sides, glinting in the rather harsh lighting of the community centre meeting room.
She must have sensed him there, because she turned and looked over her shoulder and her mouth spread into a glorious smile.
Her beauty smacked him right between the eyes, took his breath away.
“Hey there, Dr J.” She straightened and faced him. Tonight she had on a more casual T-shirt-style top in candy pink and grey stripes, and he had to be careful not to let his eyes stray to the way those stripes spread across her full breasts. Feet planted wide, she splayed her hands on her hips and cocked her head.
