Bug wagged his tail, and Alyssa smiled. “Goodnight, Evelyn. Sleep well.”
Evelyn watched them drive away, Bug’s face visible in the back window, and felt that strange mix of contentment and longing settle in her chest.
Tonight had been perfect. The party had exceeded every expectation, her employees had genuinely enjoyed themselves, and she’d managed to step out of her grief-induced shell long enough to actually be present.
But more than that, she’d spent the evening with Alyssa. Dancing, laughing, creating something beautiful together.
And somewhere in the midst of all that planning and chaos and last-minute problem-solving, Evelyn had fallen completely, irrevocably for her.
She stood on the pavement long after Alyssa’s car had disappeared around the corner, the December cold seeping through her coat, and smiled.
Her mother would have loved Alyssa. The thought came unbidden but felt right. Roslyn Crawford had always appreciated people who got things done, who cared deeply, who brought out the best in others.
Alyssa was all of those things and more.
Evelyn finally headed inside, riding the elevator up to her penthouse with a lightness she hadn’t felt in months. Maybe years.
As she got ready for bed, she caught sight of herself in the mirror and barely recognised the woman looking back. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed from the cold and the champagne and the dancing. She looked alive in a way she hadn’t in far too long.
17
Butter Ratios and Bum-Shaped Hearts
Alyssa
Alyssa had always been a sucker for holiday traditions. It was the one soft spot she’d allow herself, and only when it could be justified as “enrichment” for the dogs at the shelter. Gingerbread bones. Reindeer-shaped biscuits with carob noses. One year she’d even tried to make little edible Santa hats, but the icing glue had melted into a terrifying blood-red sludge thatstained the entire puppy room. The photo made the rounds every Christmas, much to her eternal mortification.
But this time was different. This time, she was baking with Evelyn.
They’d arranged it at the Christmas party—or rather, after several glasses of champagne and a particularly successful round of dancing, Evelyn had mentioned she’d never baked dog treats before. Alyssa, riding high on the success of the evening and feeling bold, had immediately offered to teach her. Evelyn had agreed with that soft smile that made Alyssa’s stomach flip.
That had been three days ago, and Alyssa had been second-guessing the invitation ever since.
She stared at her phone for a full minute, re-reading the text she’d just sent. “Kitchen’s ready for you. Wear something you don’t mind ruining.” She almost added “xoxo,” then deleted it in a panic. She wasn’t a twelve-year-old. Jesus.
The clock barely hit seven when a knock rattled the mobile home’s thin door. Alyssa opened it to find Evelyn clutching a roll of branded Crawford’s Pet Supplies baking parchment and, inexplicably, a leather-bound portfolio.
“Tell me you’re not here to make a PowerPoint about gingerbread men,” Alyssa said, only half joking.
Evelyn’s lips quirked. “If you’d seen the state of the last staff cookie day, you’d understand why I’ve drawn up an action plan.” She stepped inside, trailing cool air and the faintest hint of sandalwood perfume. “Bug!” Evelyn crooned, spotting him sprawled in his customary patch of sunlight by the kitchen table.
Bug roused with a groan and padded over, eyes gleaming with that weird Cocker Spaniel mix of tragedy and calculation. He gave Alyssa’s calf a perfunctory nudge, then sat at Evelyn’s feet and thumped his tail.
“He’s always been a traitor,” Alyssa said.
“He knows where the best treats are.” Evelyn dropped to her knees, ruffling Bug’s fur. Alyssa’s throat went tight, the way it always did when she saw people with their dogs, but this felt different. Maybe because Evelyn looked so at home, kneeling in her carefully pressed shirt, her hair coming loose already, talking to Bug like he was the only thing that mattered in the world.
“Wow,” Alyssa said, shaking herself. “Okay. You’re here to bake, not seduce my staff.” She nudged Evelyn’s hip with her foot, gently. “Let’s get started.”
The baking supplies were already lined up: flour, butter, sugar, ground ginger, cinnamon, treacle, half a bottle of vanilla because Lil had “liberated” the other half for an experimental eggnog. Alyssa handed Evelyn an apron—a spare from the shelter, emblazoned with cartoon corgis in Santa hats—and took a moment to admire how it looked on her. Ridiculous, is how. Ridiculous and, for reasons Alyssa couldn’t articulate, heart-wrenchingly adorable.
“Have you ever actually baked from scratch?” Alyssa asked as she measured out flour.
“I once made a soufflé for my mother’s birthday. It exploded.”
“Exploded?”
“In the literal sense. Glass and hot egg custard everywhere. Mum found it hilarious. I cried for a week.”
