‘You’ll be the first to know. Olivia.’
His commanding tone had her stopping despite herself. She didn’t turn around. ‘Yes?’ She heard the bite in her own voice.
‘Snowflake’s the only reason I’m considering it.’
She turned, looked at him, confused. ‘Snowflake?’
‘I’ll get to promote it and my appearance fee will go straight to your retreat project along with any donations the show brings in. I’ve told them my terms and they’ve agreed.’
So generous. So unexpected. She’d misjudged him too quickly. ‘Thank you. I don’t know what to s—’
‘I’ll be back in Hobart tomorrow. If you’re worried, I can get Emily to stay on with you.’
Her fingers tightened on her clothes. ‘No, I’ll be fine. Really.’
‘If you’re sure.’ He poured coffee and held it out.
‘Later,’ she said, and hurried into the bathroom. Everything would have been perfect except that he wasn’t asking her to stay another night with him.
THIRTEEN
Olivia sat at her kitchen table, mobile pressed to her ear, listening to Jett’s deep voice telling her about the highlights of his day on Taste Buds and Travel.
‘Sounds like fun,’ she said, keeping her voice bright but feeling half-hearted. Her life sounded incredibly dull in comparison. So far, with the break-in and its repercussions she’d not done much of what she’d set out to achieve on her month’s leave.
And she still hadn’t heard from her specialist.
Jett’s overnighter had morphed into its fourth day. The producers had wanted to do the show while public interest was high, which meant he’d put everything else on hold.
‘We should have a fundraiser,’ he said, switching topics.
She perked up. ‘For Snowflake?’
‘Of course for Snowflake, what else? I’ve got a few ideas if you’re interested.’
She smiled. ‘I’m interested.’
‘We can discuss it when I get back tomorrow night.’
‘You’re done? You’re coming ho—back?’ Her fingers tightened on her phone. ‘What time?’
‘I’ll be there around seven. I’ve got a dinner meeting with a publisher in an hour, so I have to go now but I’ll see you tomorrow evening.’
Nerves did a crazy whirlpool in her tummy but her voice was smooth sailing. ‘See you then,’ she said, and disconnected.
I love him. The words danced a drunken sailor’s jig in her head and her feet followed, spinning across the kitchen floor till she bumped up against the kitchen table. She was giddy, head-over-heels in love.
But it was her forever secret because she could never let him know.
But she could let him know how grateful she was for all he’d done for her. Her gaze fell on the food processor he’d bought that was pushed to the far end of the table up against the wall, still lurking in its box, waiting for her.
A challenge. She stepped over, ripped the tape off the lid and glared at it. Not only a challenge, a distraction. She’d show him she appreciated all he’d been doing. That she appreciated him. That she could cook even if it was basic. She pulled out the shiny red machine. She’d find some simple recipes on the Internet.
* * *
The lamb casserole was in the oven, its delicious rosemary and garlic aroma filling the kitchen. The fruit salad was chopped and in the fridge. The ingredients for Tassie salmon mousse were ready to go. She’d had to dash to the shop to buy gelatine so she was behind schedule but that was fine. She had time—it was only five o’clock.
She added the ingredients to the new blender, covered it with the lid, switched it on. She wrinkled her nose—salmon sure smelled fishy. When the mixture was smooth, she untwisted the glass jug from its base. Only the jug was supposed to be lifted off the base, not unscrewed like Brie’s, she realised too late. A tsunami of salmon mixture flooded out of the bottom, over the new appliance, the bench, the floor. Down her T-shirt and jeans. By the time she’d switched it off at the wall before she electrocuted herself, it was impossible to screw it back on. The blender was ruined. Her hands stank.
Where was a cat when she needed one?
Eew! She was never going to eat salmon mousse again.
She was never going to cook for him again.
The sound of a car pulling up sent her rushing to the window. Let it be the carpenter returning for his tools. But no, Jett was unfolding his tall frame from the front passenger seat. Her heart went into overdrive.
Mr Jettsetter Chef himself.
No-o-o! This was not allowed to happen. She rinsed her salmon-stinky hands under the tap—couldn’t do anything about the spatter on her T-shirt—then rushed to the door. And there he was, his stubble a tad more scruffy than usual, temptation and persuasion in his eyes.