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He saysnil pointsin a French accent like he’s giving out a score at theEurovision Song Contest. It’s funny but also a stark reminder—like a slap across the face or a bucket of ice-cold water being tipped over my head—that Cameron is my best friend’s son.

“Anyway, no worries. I’ll pick up everything we need. Your place or mine?”

I blink. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Do you want to bake cupcakes here or at yours?”

“Oh, right, of course.” Is it getting hot in here? “I don’t mind. Do you have a preference?”

“Nope.”

“Nor do I.”

He chuckles. “We could go back and forth like this all evening. Why don’t I come to yours?”

“Fine by me.” I think.

“Great.” He taps the breakfast bar.

Am I supposed to be saying something? “I should get Peter home.” I walk to the bottom of the stairs and call him.

Cameron lounges in the kitchen doorway, watching while Peter runs downstairs and grabs his things. Elliot comes downstairs too, and before Peter walks out the door, they do an elaborate series of fist bumps, finger hooks, and high fives that only a pair of ten-year-olds would be able to remember.

“I’ll see you on Monday,” Cameron says.

“To make cupcakes,” I reply.

He grins. Is it my imagination, or does he have a mischievous glint in his eyes?

He clicks his fingers and dashes into the kitchen. He returns holding a glass dish with a plastic lid, which he gives to me. “Don’t forget this.”

The dish is warm. My mouth waters. “Forget lasagne cooked by you? Never. I’m looking forward to it.”

His grin softens into an expression I can’t name. Contentment? No, that’s not right. Pride? Happiness? Perhaps a cross between all three. Not that it matters. What matters is that beautiful smile turns my legs to jelly.

I clear my throat. “I’d better go. See you on Monday.”

“Monday.”

ChapterThree

Cameron

Before Dad went to Hong Kong, he and Euan would take turns driving the boys to the school’s breakfast club every school morning. Now that I’m in charge, Peter comes to ours for breakfast, and I walk them to school in time for registration.

At least, that’s the usual plan.

This morning is different.

Euan and I walked the boys to school together.

We’re standing in the playground while Elliott and Peter dash around, running off excess energy before school starts.

“I got everything we need for cupcakes,” I say. “At least, I hope I did.”

“Supermarket-bought is the backup plan if baking goes wrong, right?” Euan asks.

I laugh. “Absolutely. But hey, how hard can it be to make cupcakes?”