Lily took a deep breath. She’d hated the way they’d left things in the herb garden that morning and, despite the fact he seemed to infuriate her at every turn, she knew that Blake would want that. And if she were to have any hope of talking about Victoria’s wedding, she’d have to get him on side somehow.

She nodded, finally. At this, he stepped around the kitchen pass and entered her space.

‘Hi, Lily. It’s good to see you again,’ he said, holding out his hand for her to shake. As she tentatively reached for his, warm fingers wrapped around her hand, sending a lightning streak from her palm to her elbow. She flinched, but he seemed to be as momentarily startled as she was and they both released the brief contact as if stung.

Lily turned back to the pasta on the butcher’s block, the reciprocal words dying on her tongue as he turned towards the sink. She heard him ferreting out some gloves and soon the whoosh of the tap filled the kitchen. For a while, she lost herself in feeding the pasta through the cutter setting on the maker. She gathered the mound of delicate linguine, teasing it with her fingers to separate the strands, before turning back to the bowl with the fragrant scent of chilli, garlic, lemon and the delicious crab that had been caught earlier that morning. She dipped her little finger into the mixture, checking the seasoning and with a final sprinkle of salt, and another squeeze of lemon, she left it aside and turned her attention to the pasta. She dropped the fresh strands into a furiously boiling pot, reaching for the tongs and ensuring that the fine linguine strands didn’t clump together.

Two bowls appeared on the kitchen pass, beside a fork and a spoon, without her even having to ask. She cast a glance to where Henry was drying a large metal pan and shut down the wayward thoughts her mind conjured at the sight of his powerful tanned forearms, jumper and shirtsleeves rolled back.

Stop it! she told herself sternly.

She tested the pasta, knowing full well that it was ready, and moved to the sink where, again, without having to ask, Henry had cleared a space for her to pour away the boiling water.

Frowning, she asked, ‘Have you worked in a kitchen before?’

He gazed at her momentarily. ‘I spent a bit of time in the restaurant kitchen. Annabelle was hardly reticent about how she wanted it run.’

‘I didn’t …’

‘I was in Borehamwood by the time you worked there.’

It felt strange and wrong to Lily that she felt oddly proprietorial about the kitchen at the Hawkesbury estate. To suddenly realize that he’d once known it as well as she did now. And awkward that he had more right to it than she ever had. No. Not right, but …