Page 16 of Fairy Cakes in Winter

So there. I was officially ready to venture to Bath.

Mom had some ambitious sightseeing excursions planned, but we stuck close to home initially. She showed off her quaint village, introduced me to her book club friends, and took me on a couple of hikes with her dogs in the hillside around Bradford-on-Avon.

There was talk of going to London soon and taking day trips to Salisbury and Stonehenge. And yes…Bath.

“Want to go today?”

“Oh, honey, we’d need a boat to navigate the streets. Look at that rain.” Mom crossed her arms as she peered out of her kitchen window.

I leaned against the counter, mirroring her pose. “Don’t you think we’d be fine with a sturdy umbrella?”

“Sure, but part of the charm is walking the old cobblestone streets. It’s not exactly fun to run like mad around town with umbrellas and still get wet.” She set her hand on my elbow and smiled sweetly. “Don’t worry. It’s close. I have my knitting group coming on Saturday, but Sunday is free.”

I nodded absently. “I was thinking I might go on my own.”

Mom cocked her head curiously and pivoted to face me. “Are you sure?”

“Of course. I don’t want you to feel like you have to entertain me for a month, and I’d like to do a little solo exploring anyway.”

“Hmm. I have another suggestion. Take Giles.”

I groaned on cue. “Mom.”

“I betcha he could be persuaded to play tour guide.” She fluttered her eyelashes and bumped my hip in what I think was supposed to be a “don’t I come up with the best ideas?” maneuver.

“No, thank you,” I replied quickly.

Mom frowned. “Why not? He’s roughly your age, handsome, gay, and…he’s moving to San Francisco in the spring.”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned that. Thrice.”

“Well, the stars rarely align quite that beautifully, Theo. You have to meet him properly and tell him all about the Bay Area. I’ve shared my old stories, but it’s better for him to sit down with someone closer to his own age.”

“I’d be happy to talk to Giles, but I’m not dating him, for crying out loud,” I huffed, striding to the opposite end of the long wood table in the middle of her kitchen.

A word about my mother: Shawna Belden Lewis-Burton was a pixie-small woman with short blond hair, blue eyes, and an affinity for all things British. Of course, when she was married to my dad, she had a thing for all things wine-country related.

Not to imply that she was wishy-washy. It would be more accurate to describe my mother as an incurable romantic who threw herself into her passions. Just like me.

I’d been heartbroken when my parents divorced when I was a kid, but I knew I was lucky that they’d both prioritized me, regardless of marital discord. Mom volunteered in my elementary school classrooms, chauffeured me to band practice in high school, and applauded my solo flute performances when everyone else in the audience winced. In short, she was my champion and I adored her. However, I didn’t love her troublesome habit of periodically playing matchmaker.

In a way, it was sweet. Mom was happy and she wanted the same for me.

She married Alistair Lewis-Burton, a retired historian twenty years her senior, a few years ago and loved her new life in a renovated three-hundred-year-old former rectory on the outskirts of a village that dated back to Roman times. She’d told me she’d read countless romance novels set in bonny old England and had always dreamed of living in an ivy-covered house in the country.

If I squinted hard, I could conjure a couple of similarities with our old house in Napa where we’d been surrounded by lush vineyards under a never-ending blue sky. The rectory was situated down a narrow road with a green pasture on one side and an ancient graveyard on the other. So…I supposed they were both rather quiet locations.

For a history buff like Alistair, an incurable romantic like Mom, or someone craving a break from the fast lane, Bradford-on-Avon was perfect. For me…it was a tad too quiet. But it was a nice place to visit.

And the past few days had been perfectly nice—minus Mom’s sudden rabid interest in setting me up with the town realtor.

“Not a date, honey. Call it atête à tête, or an information exchange. Giles’s firm has an office in Bath and he’s from the area. He’s the perfect tour guide. Shall I ask if he’s free on Saturday?”

I shook my head and started to protest when a renegade memory of being pressed against Scott hit me like a sledgehammer. I didn’t think I was in danger of getting hard while chatting with my mom in her kitchen since I’d just jerked off in the shower twenty minutes ago to a vision of his hands on me, stroking us to oblivion. Scott’s heavy breathing, his crooked smile, and that knowing look he’d given me when he licked our combined cum off his thumb.

Geez, the memory alone made me dizzy.

The craziest part of the entire episode was that I’d initiated it. Me. Theodore Belden, CPA in training.