He cast his eyes around the brightly lit, almost clinical cleanliness of the kitchen until he spied the sink piled high with dishes and frowned.

‘Don’t you have staff to handle that?’ he asked, only belatedly realizing that the question sounded pompous and arsy. ‘I didn’t—’

‘I do,’ she said, cutting through his half-formed clarification. ‘But he has school in the morning and I am certainly not above washing up a few pots and pans. And Kate’s husband is only just back from a two week-long business trip, so …’

He looked at her then, her eyes catching his before turning away, as if she’d given too much away, as if she’d singled herself out as having nothing better to do, nowhere else to go. But he was damned if he was going to sit in her restaurant, alone, with her waiting on him hand and foot. He might have, ten years ago, but he really wasn’t that same angry teen.

‘What are we having?’

‘We?’

‘Yes, unless you’ve eaten?’

‘No, I—’

‘Then at the risk of almost certain rejection, would you care to join me?’

The refusal was ready on Lily’s lips when her stomach growled in utter horror.

‘I think that settles it, don’t you? Where are the plates?’ Henry demanded, pulling away from where he leaned against the doorframe, as if ready for action.

‘Bowls. It’s pasta.’ She couldn’t help the outrage edging her voice. It was her restaurant, her domain, where everything had to be just right.

‘Bowls then. I can be your sous chef for the night.’

‘Aim lower,’ she muttered under her breath and was surprised by the bark of laughter that erupted from the doorway. She turned, quickly, catching Henry mid laugh, the sight of which momentarily stunned her.

‘Yes, chef. What’s the lowest of the low?’

‘Dishwasher,’ she said without missing a beat.

He cocked his head to one side, the laughter still shining in his eyes. ‘Then I’ll get started on that, while you finish the pasta.’

‘Henry, you don’t—’

‘I am more than capable of washing a few pots and pans, and I’ll even let you check my work before I’m done.’

The teasing in his tone was too much. It covered too much.

She turned, leaving the pasta on the side for just a moment otherwise it would be ruined.

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why are you here?’

She watched as he seemed to pick and discard answers to her question until finally settling on one that felt right. Clearly choosing his words carefully, he said, ‘Can we start over?’