His dad grimaced around a chuckle. “Like me, then, huh?”
“Don’t let him fool you,” Avery said to Jo. “He runs circles around all of us.”
The guys returned with nine more boxes just as Charlotte breezed in—a vision in pale blue silk and indigo jeans—carrying a tray of flatware from what Jo thought might be the kitchen. “Oh, look at all the goodies.”
Jo cringed inwardly, wanting to disappear. Instead, she returned Charlotte’s brief hug.
“Should we take them through and plate them?” Melody said, beckoning Avery’s brothers.
Everyone filed into a fantasy kitchen—big and roomy, crisp and clean, shiny new top-of-the-line appliances, including three ovens and a commercial-size refrigerator. Best of all was the massive island topped with marble, a pastry chef’s dream.
Another woman sat with Avery’s mother at a long, rustic table tucked into a bay of windows.
“Thank you, Mary.” Connie rose, her willowy frame every bit the lady of the manor in a taupe mohair sweater set and jeans. Her dark hair was pulled back in an intricately wovenponytail at the base of her neck. She didn’t look old enough to have four grown sons.
Jo braced for Connie’s hug. It was soft and warm and hit Jo with a force she wasn’t prepared for. The kind of embrace that didn’t ask what you’d done to earn it. The kind of hug from a mom—or a grandma—full of unconditional acceptance and, if not love, then care. God, it had been a long time.
I miss you, grandma.
Jo pulled away, feeling both guilty and brittle.
But Connie held onto her hand. “Welcome to our home. I’ve been looking forward to having you here all week.”
“Thank you for inviting me,” Jo said around the lump in her throat. “You have a beautiful home.”
“This one can give you a tour later.” Connie turned to Avery, who gave her a side hug. “Hi, baby.”
“Hey, Mom.” He kissed the top of her head. They were close.
“Mmm, these are delicious,” someone said behind her.
She glanced over her shoulder. A half-eaten macaron in one gloved hand, Charlotte plated petit fours with the other. Melody, along with Mary, were transferring mille-feuille to a tray. All the men had wandered back to the den, except for Marcus, who licked powdered sugar from his thumb, grabbed another choux bun, and stuck the whole thing in his mouth.
“Marcus, you’ll spoil your dinner,” Connie admonished with a laugh that said it wouldn’t do any good. “And where are your manners?”
“Imm-uh-mo,” he said around a macaron.
Guess that means he likes them.
“Excuse me,” Jo said to Connie, then set her bag on the table, dug out her own nitrile gloves, and crossed to the island to check the mille-feuille. In their sealed container, they had survived the trip, but the cream was beginning to sweat. “Is there room in the fridge for these?”
“Sure.” Mary led her to the refrigerator and moved a few things aside to make room.
When Jo turned around the women were huddled together, whispering, Marcus behind them. Was this the moment they told her she didn’t belong?
She swung a glance at Avery. Arms folded over his chest, one boot crossed over the other, he leaned against the table, watching her, his expression blank.
He jutted his chin toward the group of conspirators who’d grown eerily quiet.
“What?” she asked as she began building a pyramid of choux buns, anything to keep her hands from shaking. They were making her nervous. Something was going on. Had they lured her here only to tell her she was reaching beyond her grasp, as Grandma used to say?
With a glance at Marcus, Charlotte stepped forward, obviously the spokesperson for the bunch. She flipped a strand of blonde hair behind her back. “We’ve discussed it, and we’d like you to make the cake for our wedding and to provide the desserts.”
All their heads bobbed in unison.
Pausing mid-stack, Jo stared at them, confused and giddy all at once. Was Charlotte saying what she thought she was? “But you already signed a contract with Giselle.”
“We’d prefer to give you our business.”
