Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 47254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 158(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 158(@300wpm)
And at the end of the day, it was just food.
On that thought, I broke the seal on the pastry box and stuffed a macaron in my mouth. This was good.
4
Scott
“Who was the cutie with the bobble hat?”
I frowned as I finished calculating the day’s receipts and glanced up at Becca. “Huh?”
“The plane acquaintance?” she offered with an amused grin. “The one you sent off with thirty pounds worth of macarons.”
Of course, Becca would have noticed that.
Yeah, I was the sole owner of Scott’s Bakery, but Becca shared space in my kitchen for a percentage of her earnings. She volunteered to help me manage things too, so in a way, she had a stake in the business. Our individual success was tied to the combined success of my cakes and her pies.
But Theo wasn’t business. He was personal. And I had no idea how to explain him to my good friend and business associate, who I was beginning to worry liked me…as in really liked me. I didn’t know how to address this weird new dynamic or if it was something that would play itself out.
C’mon, she knew I was a terrible catch and a deeply flawed dude with hang-ups and all kinds of bullshit I didn’t talk about anymore. She knew I didn’t do feelings…or talking. Or talking about feelings.
Becca Parker was one of my closest friends and I loved her—as a friend. We’d bonded making desserts for a pastry tyrant in the kitchen of a Michelin-star restaurant and became fast friends. She was a whimsical thirtysomething who wore kitschy tights with rainbows, tulle skirts, and combat boots. She loved cats, chick lit, old movies, and baking.
Nothing got her down. Soggy bottoms, crumbling crust, underdone meringue? No problem. When I complained about the weather, she always had a spare umbrella. When I mentioned missing my friends back home, she introduced me to her friends. Becca was the relentlessly cheerful counterpart to my cynical self.
Like Theo.
But I didn’t have romantic feelings for her. And whatever I felt for Theo was X-rated and confusing.
Bottom line, those two worlds shouldn’t have crossed. Since they had, I had to come up with a reason for handing over a small fortune worth of macarons to a cute guy.
I tapped my pen on the counter. “Theo’s an accountant who used to be in marketing. We talked about promotional ideas on the flight and—”
“And you bribed him with macarons for a bit of magical marketing sorcery. Brilliant!” She waggled her brows and gestured toward my laptop before I could set her straight. “How’d we do today?”
“Not great.”
Becca sighed dramatically and skirted the counter as she buttoned her red coat. “I don’t understand. The shop was bloody well mobbed this afternoon.”
“Yeah, well…that helped, but I’m worried that this pop-up idea only works if you’re in it for the long haul.”
“Then it really isn’t a pop-up, is it?”
“Nope. That’s the problem.” I scratched my nape and shrugged.
They say you had to spend money to make money, and I’d done that in spades. The pop-ups were doing fine, but they’d cost a ton of money to get off the ground. Prime real estate was very pricey to let in this section of town, even for a short-term stint. The shop was small but in great condition, and it came with a fully functional kitchen, so…cha-ching.
According to the marketing expert I’d hired, I had to make it my own via aggressive branding. A paint job, awning, logo, refurbished flooring, new counters, artwork, and a fancy fucking chandelier later, I was in the red. That was before I paid said expert’s fee and wages for the employee I’d hired. The one who was out sick.
Was I stressed? Uh…you could say that. My regular orders in London paid the bills, and the temporary Oxford location held its own. But I might have bitten off more than I could chew with this one.
“Can Theo help?” Becca asked, breaking my reverie.
I wrinkled my brow as if considering her question.
Help wasn’t what I had in mind. I wanted to listen to Theo’s steady stream of sunny banter, feel his fingers on my arm, his shoulder pressed against mine, and sniff his peppermint-scented hair. I wanted to calm him when he felt nervous and kiss him…hello and good-bye.
And I really wanted to put my hands all over his body.
Did I actually think that would happen over or after lunch? It probably shouldn’t. I was too old for him and he was too…good for me. Too sweet, too nice, too innocent. Okay, maybe not so innocent. That hand job was his idea.
And I loved it. I wanted to do it again.
I cleared my throat. “I’m seeing him tomorrow for lunch.”
“That’s brilliant!” she enthused. And yeah, according to Becca and most of my British friends, all good things were “brilliant.”