As she unloaded bags and found her way around Patrick’s state-of-the-art kitchen, Hayley couldn’t help wondering if she’d done the wrong thing by staying.
Patrick knew exactly how she felt about him—how could he not? She’d crossed an ocean to find him. Cringing with embarrassment, she put a net of sprouts on the table ready to be prepared. Patrick, on the other hand, had given away nothing.
Frowning slightly, Hayley tipped a container of fresh cranberries into a pan and reached for an orange.
What had he told her about himself?
Precisely nothing.
The only information she had about him was the obvious stuff—like his two children.
He had told her he was divorced, but he hadn’t told her anything else, had he?
She added the zest and juice of an orange to the simmering cranberries.
He hadn’t told her why his relationship had fallen apart. He hadn’t told her why his wife wasn’t spending Christmas with them.
Leaving the cranberries to simmer, she dug around in the fridge, searching for the ingredients for stuffing, her heart rate doubling as Patrick walked into the kitchen, Posy in his arms. ‘Do you have any pork?’
Patrick looked at her blankly and sat Posy on the nearest chair. ‘Pork? As in a joint of pork? I thought we were having turkey.’
‘I need pork for the stuffing,’ Hayley said patiently, and Patrick gave a lopsided smile.
‘I’m lucky if I can get the thing in the oven, let alone stuff it.’
‘It just helps the flavour. Don’t worry,’ Hayley muttered, ‘I’ll see what you have in your fridge.’ She returned to the fridge, found some sausages and parsley and helped herself to an egg. ‘This will do. I don’t suppose you have any chestnuts?’
‘I think there’s a box in the larder, but they’re probably past their sell-by date.’ He produced them and Hayley checked the date and emptied them onto her chopping board.
‘They’re fine. Alfie, can you pass me an apple from the bowl?’
‘I don’t like apples.’ He wrinkled his nose in disgust and she smiled.
‘It’s going in our stuffing. You won’t taste it.’ As she chopped, stirred and cooked, Alfie buzzed around her, helping.
‘What’s that you’re doing now?’
‘Bread sauce.’ She infused the milk with an onion and cloves. ‘It’s delicious. If I do it now, it will be one less thing to worry about tomorrow.’
Alfie was watching, wide-eyed with admiration. ‘Who taught you how to do all this stuff?’
‘I taught myself. I had to. No one else in my family can cook.’ She took the milk off the heat. ‘Well, they probably could cook if they tried. Everyone can cook if they try.’
‘My dad can’t.’ Alfie stood on a chair, slowly stirring cranberry sauce, his lower lip locked between his teeth. ‘And he has tried. His cooking is a disaster.’
‘Thanks Alfie,’ Patrick said dryly, and Alfie shrugged.
‘Even your pasta is gluey.’
‘You’re not cooking it in enough water,’ Hayley said absently. ‘You need a large pan so that it doesn’t stick together. That looks done, Alfie. Take the saucepan off the heat and put it on the
mat to cool. Good boy.’
‘This is so brilliant. Like being in a restaurant or something.’ Alfie lifted the pan carefully and put it on the table. ‘Now what?’
‘We let it cool and then we put it in the fridge.’
Alfie watched, wide-eyed, as she deftly made little stuffing balls. ‘Wow. You are so clever at that. If you’re here with us, who is cooking Christmas dinner for your family?’