"You're staring again," she said softly.
"I'm observing your amusement."
"Why?"
"Scientific interest."
"In my amusement?"
"In the correlation between pastry disasters and laughter frequency."
"That's the worst excuse for staring I've ever heard."
"I'm new at making excuses."
"You're new at a lot of things, apparently."
"Such as?"
"Baking, obviously. Also subtlety."
"I'm subtle."
"You were pressed against my window like a child."
"That was reconnaissance."
The bell above the door chimed, and Thomas Ironwell came in, already covered in snow despite the early hour.
"Morning, Mrs. Whitby! Morning, Mr. Fletcher! Is it true you were wrestling in the street?"
"We weren't wrestling," Marianne said firmly.
"Mrs. Morrison says you were."
"Mrs. Morrison has an active imagination."
"She says Mr. Fletcher swept you off your feet."
"Gravity swept me off my feet. Mr. Fletcher was just the landing pad."
"That's less romantic."
"Everything's less romantic than Mrs. Morrison's version."
"She's already planning the wedding."
"Of course she is," Marianne muttered. "Thomas, what are you doing up so early?"
"Came for the committee breakfast pies. Mum says to tell you she needs extra because the land steward is bringing his cousin from Nottingham."
"Tell your mother she's getting whatever I manage to salvage from this morning's disasters."
Thomas looked at the pies cooling on the rack. "What's wrong with them?"
"Mr. Fletcher helped make them."
"Ah." Thomas nodded sagely. "That explains the unique shapes."
