mixture and waited for him to say something. The fine hairs on the back of her neck started to lift and she became so self-conscious she whisked the dressing into a tornado.
In the end, she couldnât stand it any more and she turned slowly. Her eyes met his.
âIs there anything I can do to help, Gaby?â
She shook her head. âNo. Itâs just about ready. You could call Heather, though, if you like?â
He just stood in the doorway and kept looking at her. She looked back, doing her best not to fidget. And then he disappeared without saying anything. A shadow seemed to hover in the doorway where heâd been standing, as if the intensity of his presence had left an imprint in the air. The whisk in her hand was hanging in mid-air, dripping dressing on the floor. She quickly plopped it back in the jug and reached for the kitchen towel.
By the time Luke returned with Heather, the lasagne was on the table and Gaby was ready and waiting with an oven mitt in one hand and a serving spoon in the other. Heather slid into a seat and eyed the serving dish suspiciously. Gaby gave her a small portion, then spooned a generous helping on to a plate for Luke.
She waited, eyebrows raised and spoon poised to cut through the pasta, waiting for him to signal if he wanted more. He nodded so enthusiastically that Gaby couldnât help but smile as she dolloped another spoonful on to his plate and passed it across.
âDo start,â she said, serving herself.
The Armstrongs werenât ones to stand on ceremony, it seemed. Both Luke and Heather started to demolish their dinner without further hesitation. Gaby, however, took her time and watched. She tried with difficulty to keep the corners of her mouth from turning up as Luke closed his eyes and let out a small growl of pleasure. It was the first time sheâd seen him genuinely forget his troubles and live in the moment.
She shook her head and stared at her own plate. Get real, Gaby! A nice lasagne is hardly going to undo five years of emotional torment. But when she looked up at Luke and Heather, both on the verge of clearing their plates, she couldnât help feeling just a little triumphant.
âThis is even better than Grannyâs,â said Heather, her mouth only half empty before she shoved in another forkful.
âI thought you were boasting this afternoon, but you were right. My taste buds are serenading you. Where on earth did you learn to cook like this?â
Gaby flushed with stupid pride. Lukeâs approval shouldnât matter. He was talking about her cooking, not passing judgement on her as a person. She really needed to calm down. âJust cooking courses at the local adult education college.â
Six of them. Including the Cordon Bleu one. David had insisted. Heâd liked the idea of hosting dinner parties for his business associates. But heâd never savoured her food the way Luke was doing now, as if every bite was a small piece of heaven. Perhaps their marriage would have been salvageable if he had, but everything had been too salty, lumpy or cold for David.
Not for the first time, she sighed with relief that catering to Davidâs fussy eating habits was now Caraâs job. Or perhaps it wasnât. She doubted that Superwoman did anything as mundane as cooking. The thought of David tucking into a plastic-wrapped meal with his silver-plated cutlery made her feel strangely warm inside.
A small smile still lingered on her face as she started to stack the plates at the end of the meal. This kitchen seemed warm and inviting and cooking for Luke and Heather had been a joy. Sheâd thought sheâd be treading on eggshells while she stayed at the Old Boathouse, but it all felt very natural.
She balanced the plates on top of the serving dish and picked the pile up, only to find Luke step towards her and place his hands over the top of hers. The tingle where their fingers made contact was unexpectedâso