Sedimentary cooking

Frances added the potato slices overt the rest, covering, layer by layer, the onions and eggplants that coated the bottom of the cooking pot. Then she added pepper, salt, coriander and more olive oil.

— “And now, the tomatoes,” she quipped.

Tristan gave her the chopping board, one eyebrow rising in amusement. And when Frances eventually put the lid upon the pot, she noticed the twinkle in his eyes. Warmth pooled in her belly, the joy at seeing such a fond look directed at her not unexpected, but always welcome.

— “What?” she asked cheekily.

Tristan’s tongue darted over his upper lip, as if he hesitated to tease. Frances’ eyes cringed at the corner, daring him to voice his thoughts. The former priest took up the challenge, his face dead serious save from that gleam in the depths of his gaze.

— “Are you sedimenting our food, Frances?”

The young woman burst out laughing; he certainly had a sense of humour. So when her giggles abated, she quipped merrily: