Page 38 of Fairy Cakes in Winter

“I thought you should know, but I don’t want to waste a precious FaceTime call talking about that dipshit.” She switched to a faux-British accent and continued, “You’re going to meet a lovely English…person with a hot, single older brother who’s hoping to meet a single mom from Seattle. I just know it. Does Becca have a brother? I’m still hoping you fall for her and—”

“We’re just friends,” I intercepted. “That’s all.”

Heather arched her brows and leaned into her screen till her eyes blurred from view. “You met someone.”

“Huh?”

“Omg! You’re blushing!” She rubbed her palms together gleefully. “Who is he or she?”

I waved. “Later, Sis. Gotta run.”

“This must be new, so…yay. Have fun.”

I fixed her with my best deadpan stare. “Good-bye, Heather.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll be cool. But let me say one tiny thing…” She brought her fist to her mouth, closed her eyes, and crooned into her fake microphone, “Baby, you gotta looooove again.”

“Bye-bye, Heather. Love you.” I blew her kisses, snickering when she pretended to catch them.

My sister was a grade-A goofball and one of my very best friends. I missed her. I missed home. I missed a lot of things about my old life.

But I didn’t miss Jack.

He was the past, and the past should stay where it belonged. The present was complicated enough.

Or was it? I mean, my business was doing okay, and there was a plan in place to make it better. Maybe this wasn’t so complicated at all. My ancient ex was out there living his best life with a wife, a dog, and a kid on the way, and I should be doing the same.

So…I scrolled Theo’s number and typed,Code.

7

Theo

Code.

My eyebrows grazed my hairline.

I tightened my hold on Guinevere’s leash and glanced over at my mother, standing in her foyer pulling on a coat while chatting with Alistair. He’d volunteered to take care of the shopping to save Mom and me the trip into town, but I knew my mother well. The walk would give us privacy so she could grill me about my “job” at the bakery while casually passing by Giles’s real estate office, where she’d probably insist that we stop in to say hello.

I’d been in the middle of putting together a business plan, or what I liked to refer to as a creative directional storyboard for Scott, when she’d asked for the pleasure of my company. And yes, she did say “pleasure of your company.” The longer Mom lived in the English countryside, the more she sounded like the heroine in a historical romance novel.

Of course, I agreed. After all, the point of this trip was to spend time with my mother. I understood her concerns about me taking on a side project, but as I’d already assured her…offering PR help to a tiny bakery was the kind of thing I could do in my sleep. I’d worked on major accounts for huge firms with multi-million-dollar budgets, for crying out loud.

She probably also wanted to address my accidental sleepover with the baker. Sure, I was a twenty-nine-year-old adult, but I’d still felt the need to overexplain my whereabouts. I’d told her where I was, and who I was with, so she wouldn’t worry. I wasn’t in the habit of lying to my parents, so I overemphasized the business angle, hoping it might help me keep perspective too. However, missing the last train and showing up the following morning in the same rumpled clothes told the whole sordid story. And shockingly enough, I didn’t care.

That night was magical.

I’d been deliciously sore in all the right places for forty-eight hours afterward, but in the light of day, I realized I’d made a tactical mistake. I’d never mixed business with pleasure before, and it felt sort of…squicky.

I’d had every intention of going downstairs to maturely say good-bye on my way to the station that morning, but I woke up late. By the time I’d showered, the shop was open and full of customers and…I lost my nerve.

Bumping into Joanne and Becca hadn’t helped. I’d been caught staring in the window, which felt vaguely villainous. That made me nervous and when I got nervous, I talked too much. I’d oversold my professional prowess like a huckster selling moonshine from a carpet bag.

So unprofessional.

Marketing 101: those who offered professional services should act professionally.

Code.