Instead of a sensible suggestion, he tears into the packet of Jaffa Cakes and offers me one.
‘Arguably a good answer to any question.’
He laughs and stuffs a whole one into his mouth. ‘I do have some ideas, but they’re more for the tearoom in general. You want to hear them?’
‘Of course.’ I like that he phrases it as a question. Most people are only too quick to force their opinions on you, and he makes me feel like I have a choice.
‘I think you’re going too traditional. You want to bake your nan’s tearoom staples like lemon drizzle and Victoria sponge, but I think that’s doing a disservice to what you’ve created with the atmosphere there. If the tearoom was mine, I would embrace the bonkersness. We need to make things that people are going to talk about. That people are going to remember. And this is how.’ He holds an open hand towards the things on the unit. ‘By using things people already love and making something new with them. Nutella muffins are just the start. What about Cherry Bakewell cupcakes? Or Creme Egg cheesecake?’
‘Jaffa Cake brownies?’ I suggest.
‘Yes!’ He nudges me again. ‘Laura would absolutely love any of those at the wedding, but it’s the sort of thing you should bring into The Wonderland Teapot too. No one is going to remember a bit of Victoria sponge, but when people talk about Ever After Street, someone is going to say to their friends, “Oh my God, I had the best slice of Terry’s Chocolate Orange cake there, you have to try it!”’
I think I lost the thread of this conversation at the mention of Creme Egg cheesecake, and I steal another Jaffa Cake to mop up in case I’m drooling. He’s like a walking Pinterest board. He’s so animated as he talks that he could almost be a cartoon character. His enthusiasm is contagious as he gesticulates with his hands, his singular dimple deepening with every sentence as his smile grows. A really, really gorgeous walking Pinterest board.
‘And right now, I think we should test one of the endless possibilities by making some Nutella muffins.’
‘I don’t have a recipe.’
‘Don’t need a recipe. You have your experience and instincts. You just need to trust yourself. And I can help. I’ve made muffins many times.’
Is it that simple? I could go online right now and grab one of countless recipes from the internet, but for once, I don’t want to. I want to do what I used to be able to do – go into a kitchen, use a basic recipe that I knew by heart, and add things to it to make it extra-special. Measuring by sight and guesswork, tasting along the way, and never being bothered if the results weren’t perfect. I haven’t felt like that in years, but tonight, I do.
I can’t help grinning at him. ‘You had me at soft, gooey, chocolatey, hazelnutty goodness.’
‘Yoghurt keeps muffins moist.’ Bram whisks together melted butter, eggs, and yoghurt, while I measure out sugar, flour, bicarb, and cocoa powder and suddenly stop stirring when I remember something.
‘Yoghurt! That’s what my mum used to put in her cakes to keep them fluffy and light. It increases the moisture without increasing the fat content. She always used to tell me that, but I’d forgotten.’ I look over at him. ‘Thank you. That’s the first time I’ve thought of that in years.’
His smile is warm and genuine. ‘See what happens when you don’t think about it?’
When he brings his bowl over to mine and pours the wet ingredients in, I go to mix them and his hand instantly covers mine on the spatula handle. ‘Gently.’
He’s noticed my tendency to beat up ingredients rather than fold them in. He steps up behind me and all I can concentrate on is the heat of his body and the sense of his height behind me.
‘This okay?’ His voice is right beside my ear as his fingers wrap around mine on the wooden handle and force me to move it slowly.
I make a noise that could best be interpreted as ‘more than okay’. His closeness has obliterated all sensible thoughts. It’s been a while since I had a gorgeous man get this close, and Bram is extra gorgeous and extra close.
‘This isn’t a punching bag that you take your frustrations of the day out on.’ His chin is resting on my shoulder as he looks at the bowl we’re sharing now, his voice low and calm. ‘Overmixed batter makes tough and chewy muffins. Doesn’t matter if it’s still lumpy.’
If I turned my head even slightly, I could kiss his cheek. His stubble grazes my neck with every movement, and his exuberant aftershave has taken over the scent of chocolate in the kitchen.
I let him take the lead with the spatula, telling myself I’m absorbing his expertise, but my entire focus is on every point where his body presses against mine, and the space where his hand covers mine feels like it’s burning with tingly heat.
‘We’re overmixing this batter, aren’t we?’ I whisper when an abnormal amount of time has passed.
‘We might be.’ His chin presses against my shoulder. ‘Got to admit I’m struggling to care.’
‘Me too.’
‘Consider this a theoretical lesson. I’m telling you what to do in theory but showing you what not to do in practice.’
I laugh and lean back against him the tiniest smidgen. I’m starting to think the biggest hazard when it comes to baking is getting too close to Bram in the kitchen. ‘There’s a bag of chocolate chips over there that we should have mixed in at least five minutes ago.’
‘Yeah.’ He glances at them and then sighs and steps away to reach the bag, and I instantly miss the closeness.
I pour them in and he moves further along the unit to line a muffin tin with paper cases and then slides it down to me, and I spoon in equal amounts of the chocolatey batter.
We clean up while they cook, and when they’re done, Bram slices the tops off and uses a mini scoop to score out a hole from the middle of each muffin and passes them over to me, where I splodge a spoonful of Nutella into the middle, put the top back on, and dust them with icing sugar.
‘Cheers.’ We take a muffin each and he knocks his against mine in a toast, and we peel the cases back and take a bite.
‘They’re amazing.’ I put a hand up to cover my mouth because they’re too good not to say it instantly. The Nutella has started to melt with the heat of the muffin, creating a mix of soft, gooey, hazelnutty chocolate cake. ‘Now we just have to do it a hundred and fifty more times. With several different things. And get them all ready in time for one day.’
He flashes both dark eyebrows at me. ‘What, that? Easy.’
‘Easy,’ I echo, although there’s something about Bram that makes things feel much less daunting than they would if I was alone.
13
‘What are they?’ Tabby peers into the front of the display case as I stand behind it, using tongs to arrange the muffins onto a three-tier stand in the centre.
‘Nutella muffins. Bram and I made them last night.’
‘Don’t you make all of this?’ She waves a hand towards the other things on display, including a coffee walnut cake from the supermarket that I’ve unwrapped and decorated, cherry tarts with added fresh cream and heart sprinkles, and flapjacks with card suits iced onto them.
