The answer seemed to be: He wants you. Not just her body, but her. Her comfort. Her willingness. And he was prepared to wait, to tease, to build the tension until the wanting was a shared, palpable thing.

That afternoon, fortified by the morning's confusing encounter, Olive threw herself into her kitchen work. She was determined to master a Victoria sponge cake. Mrs. Beecham oversaw from a respectful distance, offering the occasional gruff tip. The kitchen was warm, filled with the good smells of sugar and baking.