“No,” I practically growl at her, causing her to chuckle.
“So grumpy. Are you still mad about having to walk back to the castle with a semi-hard-on?”
“I’m not sure you understand how painful that is.”
“When you start having period cramps, then you can talk to me about pain. Your half-hard dick really gives me no concern.”
She has a point.
After the heightened sexual awareness settled in the hot springs, we put our clothes back on over our wet bodies and made the trek back to the castle. Instead of trying to bombard her with more knowledge about Torskethorpe, I asked her to play twenty questions with me, but we shortened the game to ten questions and kept it to only celebrities. We both won two rounds, tying. The games mellowed her out and lightened me up. By the time we reached Harrogate, there wasn’t much anger between us, but we were more at ease, which has carried into the kitchen, thankfully.
“Let’s focus on baking.” I place a bowl on the counter.
“I’d love to.” She claps her hands together. “What should we do first?”
I hate admitting this, but I also think there’s another reason we’re both in a better mood. When we got back to Harrogate, we took turns showering. While Lilly was in the shower, I huddled in the corner of my room and rubbed one out, because despite being able to get back to the castle without my dick falling off, there was no way I’d be able to continue the day without relieving myself after the tit show in the hot spring.
And I’m almost positive from the smirk on her face and the buzzing sound I heard while I was showering, she did the same.
Now, the air between us is light and breezy. Not tension-filled.
“We need to heat up the prunes,” I say as I take out a saucepan and put it on the stove. I bring the pot filler from the wall and fill it up. “Grab the prunes for me.”
Lilly grabs the box of prunes from the island and brings them over.
“You can dump the box in there.”
“Okay.” She opens the box and shakes the prunes into the water, letting some of the contents splash out. “Oops, sorry.”
“It’s okay. Now we’re going to let that cook for about thirty minutes or until the water is evaporated.”
“Lovely. Now what?”
“We make the dough.”
Together, we add ingredients into two separate bowls, one dry, one wet, and I offer her direction that she takes easily, and we move seamlessly through the kitchen, almost like we’ve been doing this together for years.
“That’s good, see how the dough has pulled off the side of the bowl clean?”
“Yeah,” she says as I stand behind her.
“That means it’s ready to be rolled and cut. Let’s take the dough out.” But she doesn’t move. Instead, she turns around and leans against the countertop, her wary eyes meeting mine. “What’s wrong?”
“You just said rolled and cut.”
“Yes . . . is that a problem?”
“No, I just . . .” She shakes her head. “Wow, I just had this memory flash through my mind, almost like déjà vu. When you said it’s ready to be rolled and cut, that . . . that reminded me of a time when I was really young and baking with my mom. It was around Christmas. But we were making something called . . .” She presses her hand to her forehead. “God, she called it cardamom cake. It was layers of cake and a mixture for between the layers.” Her eyes turn to mine. “This feels so familiar.”
Smiling softly, I say, “Because that’s what we’re making. Queen Katla always called it cardamom cake because she wanted to remind people that she loved more cardamom than cinnamon in the filling mixture.”
“Wait, seriously?” Lilly asks.
“Yeah. So, you’ve made this before.”
“Yeah.” Her eyes well up. “My mom loved this cake. Every holiday, she would make it. Even Easter, which would make my dad mad because he loved lemon cake on Easter. Not my mom, though. She hung tight to her real love, cardamom.” She smiles softly as a tear falls past her eyelid and down her cheek.
“Hey, come here,” I say, pulling her against my chest and offering her a hug. Her arms wrap around my waist and her head presses against my chest. I smooth my hand over her hair and say, “This was my dad’s favorite Christmas cake as well. He made several for the palace holiday party, and then when he got home, he’d make one for just our little family of three. He never got tired of making it.”