“That felt like sneaking.”
“It was efficient departure.”
“Right.”
I unlock my car. “The bakery is in the square. You can follow me.”
His mouth curves. “That sounds dangerously like a plan.”
“It’s a route.”
“Of course.”
“And don’t make it obvious.”
“Pippa, we’re both getting into separate cars and driving to buy breakfast after a night shift. I’m not sure how seductive you think this looks.”
I let my expression answer that.
He opens his car door, still smiling.
“Right. Very subtle. Understood.”
The Cherry Pie Bakery is already open by the time we reach the square, windows steamed at the edges, light spilling warm across the pavement. The front of the shop is all glass cabinets and abundance: pastries stacked in neat rows, sausage rolls still glossy from the oven, cherry tarts, fat scones, loaves of bread lined up as if they have achieved something.
“This,” I say, “is the best place in Fellside.”
AJ looks through the window with appropriate reverence. “That is a bold claim.”
“It’s an accurate claim.”
“You sound very certain.”
“I am very certain about baked goods.”
“A vital leadership quality.”
“Exactly.”
The bell above the door jingles when we step inside, and warmth wraps around us immediately. Coffee. Fresh bread. Bacon. Butter. Something sweet and cherry-filled cooling on a rack behind the counter.
Martha looks up from arranging croissants in the display.
Her eyes land on me.
Then AJ.
Then me again, with considerably more interest.
Her eyebrows do a very small, very unnecessary thing.
“Morning, Pippa.”
“Martha.”
“Usual?”
“Please.”
