“No,” she agreed.
His head turned back toward hers. “It’s brilliant, Sylvie.”
She looked straight into his eyes, searching their expression. The side of her lips slowly curved, and she saw him flick a glance in the direction of her dimple. “I know,” she said complacently. “But thanks.”
A reciprocal flash of amusement in those hard, sculpted features.
She worked amidst the steam and fog down here all the time, but it was making her a bit light-headed tonight. Returning her attention to her work, she made a face. “Apparently, my raspberry toffees have now appeared on Darren Clyde’s menu. As ‘Darren’s Dewberry Dreams.’ Gag. We’ve only been stocking those for three weeks ourselves. He’s on the ball.” Opening a small metal box, she added a pinch of blue salts to the syrup mixture and blew on the cauldron. A burst of smoke puffed up, sending a dusting of glitter particles spinning in the lights. He turned his head to follow the twinkling trail, and she slanted a sideways smile. “Magic.”
“Predictable chemical reaction,” he returned, examining the box of salts. “And once again in your company, I have glitter in my hair.”
“And your stubble. Bit of technicolor glam to liven up the grays. You’re welcome.”
He rolled his eyes, but she thought she saw a slight relaxing of his shoulders. “So Clyde’s still nosing about nicking your work.”
“Mmm.” In a second cauldron, she started mixing cranberry juice and vodka. “Having spent hours today deconstructing his top seller, I should probably feel on shaky ground in my moral indignation. But as I remain convinced that he ripped off that recipe from someone as well—I do not.”
“And how’s your version of the Midnight Elixir cake?” Dominic hooked a stool closer and sat down, watching the motions of her hands.
“Great, thanks,” Sylvie said, plucking a mint leaf and dropping it in the first brew. “As delicious in crumb form as it is in a flagon.”
She handed him a vanilla bean, and with expert precision, he sliced it open and scraped out the seeds.
“So, as inedible as mine, then?” he asked, handing her a knife coated with pure vanilla.
“Tongue-curlingly vile.” Mixing the vanilla into the sugar syrup, she kicked a lever under the table. “But I’ll get there.”
Flashes of lightning lit up the forest, revealing the silhouette of an old country estate house through the branches, a hologram against the far wall. Flapping wings crossed over their heads, dipping close to Dominic’s stool.
He didn’t so much as flinch.
“Throw me a bone and at least squeak,” she muttered, stirring the cranberry vodka.
A second kick of the lever, and six large cauldrons along the central bench lit up one after another: blue, purple, red, green, pink, yellow. Smoke spiraled upward to the ceiling, where little flames licked.
Sylvie lowered her eyes from the burning roof and looked at Dominic.
He looked back.
“Eek,” he said solemnly.
She grinned. Shaking her head, she moved down the bench to where more cauldrons bubbled, keeping sugar solutions on a low boil. Taking a spoon, she took a decent blob of the thickest solution, transferred it to a heated pad, and started rolling it, kneading and pulling.
“Teflon hands.” Dominic turned on the stool. With the bulk of his chest and shoulders, he took up a fair amount of space, was still within touching distance even after she’d shifted position; but his movements were always so light and fluid.
She held up one palm, kept kneading with the other. “Calluses for life.”
He turned his own big hand. “Likewise.”
On sheer instinct, she almost high-fived him. Her special effects might have zero impact on his nerves whatsoever, but she imagined that would have him doing a spooked-cat scarper out the door.
Although . . .
Dolores’s words yesterday. A touch-starved five-year-old. It made her feel like crying every time she thought about it. It made her furious.
And it made her wonder.
Attaching a tiny piece of sugar mass to the end of her blow pipe, she started blowing air into it, keeping an eye on the density as it stretched and expanded. With a thin, delicate syringe, she injected a flavor emulsion into the bubble that instantly flooded the interior with sparkling rainbow. She sealed it off, released it carefully, and started on another.
Dominic glanced over at the silhouette of the old house on the wall. “I understand the location shoot has been moved up.”
Every season of Operation Cake had a special episode shot out of the studio, usually on location in a stately home. This year, they were going to Middlethorpe Grange, an hour outside of London. On the initial schedule, it had been booked for a later date but the owners were planning to fumigate. As nobody wanted insecticide in their cakes—some of the bakes emerging from the contestants’ ovens were bad enough this season without the extra help—they were shooting on Monday.
Sylvie laid a third bubble next to the others, progressively smaller in size, all twinkling under the lights. “It’ll be nice to get out of the city for the day. And I like stately homes. Lets me indulge my Pemberley fantasies.” She realized she was singing softly under her breath and stopped before he pointed it out. “Hopefully it’ll be really romantic.”
His head lifted, and a traitorous heat spread down her neck.
“For Emma and Adam.” Too much emphasis.
There was a heart skip of silence before he reached out and gave her sugar syrup a stir. Just when it needed one. “Thanks for getting Pet hooked on that fantasy,” Dominic said sardonically—and with a note of something else when he spoke his sister’s name. “Evidently, my new daily routine will involve a summary of her reading material, followed by my own contribution, a detailed update on the imaginary romance between two total strangers.”
“It’s not imaginary.” Sylvie had accumulated a little pile of bubbles in various sizes. She took her mint-scented syrup off the boil and poured it into the cranberry and vodka. Turning around, she scanned the towering shelves of little bottles and jars, took down a pink one. “Emma laughed at Adam’s joke today.”
He waited.
She added a few drops of a shimmering lilac solution to the cauldron.
“And?”
“And he’s not funny. Trust me, if she mustered more than a polite titter, she wants to ride him like Space Mountain.”
At one point, Dominic had rarely addressed her with more than two words together.
She appeared to have sent him back into the realms of total silence.
Carefully, Sylvie decanted the whole mixture into a long beaker. Collecting a handful of the sugar bubbles, she floated them in the drink. She popped in a sugar straw and set it in front of him. “The bubbles contain our signature Sorceress emulsion, which releases as they dissolve.”
He picked up the glass, examined it under the light. Ignoring the straw, he tasted it from the side, curling his lip when he realized she’d rimmed it in popping candy.
“Well?” she said, realizing—to her faint horror—that the sensation twisting in her stomach was actually nerves.
It shouldn’t matter whether he liked or approved anything that she did.
It definitely hadn’t four years ago on set.