Page 35 of The Sugar and Spice Bookshop Bakery

Of course, she’d been right.

‘I think Maddie has to realise for herself that Theo’s not that into her,’ Louise says.

‘Young women in love don’t tend to listen,’ Elizabeth says.

‘Young men are just the same,’ Richard says.

He is, presumably, referring to Jack, and Louise feels a sudden stab of what can only be jealousy, that Jack has been in love. But of course, at his age, he would have had relationships. No Casanova but not a virgin either.

And then Jack himself arrives back at the table. ‘Why don’t we go over to the bakery? Take a look at the space. Discuss what you’d like to do.’

‘You two go,’ Elizabeth says. ‘I was going to suggest a nightcap back at my place with Richard. We’ve a lot to catch up on, haven’t we?’

*

‘I think my mother has the hots for your dad,’ Louise says, as she unlocks the door to the bakery. ‘She had a definite twinkle in her eye.’

‘Yeah,’ Jack says. ‘I think there might be some history there.’

Does he know something she doesn’t? Louise wonders, as the bakery door swings open. She goes in first, fumbling for the light switch. Jack follows, and they stand in silence in the empty room, blinking in the sudden brightness.

‘I was thinking…’ Louise begins, just as Jack says, ‘Louise, there’s something you should…’

They both stop talking.

Silence again.

‘You first,’ says Louise.

‘No, please. Ladies first.’

‘I was going to say that if you’d prefer not to do the project. I mean, it must seem a bit tame after your London jobs. I’d understand if you said no. I don’t want you to feel obliged to take it on.’

‘And I was going to say…’ He pauses, gives his head a little shake. ‘I hope your mother hasn’t strong-armed you into this. You were just so adamant that you didn’t want to run the bakery.’

Louise shakes her head, touched at his concern for her. ‘She hasn’t, I promise. The bookshop bakery was Maddie’s idea and I love it.’

‘And Elizabeth hasn’t pushed you into using me just because she and my father are old friends?’

Louise notices that he paused for a fraction of a second before the word ‘friends’. ‘Not at all. It’d be fun to work together.’

‘Mmm,’ is all he says.

She wonders what he’s thinking. There’s no noise from upstairs. Maddie must be asleep already or have her earbuds in; it was either a short phone call or Theo didn’t answer at all. In the silence, she can hear Jack’s breathing. Her own heart thudding in her chest. Can he hear that too? She feels suddenly self-conscious, suddenly awkward. She’s standing too close to him, she thinks, and moves away, the floorboard creaking under her.

If this were one of the romance novels she used to edit, his fingers would reach out now, would entwine themselves around hers, giving her goosebumps. The first touch of skin on skin would feel like electricity passing between them.

Why do novelists always say that? Louise once had an electric shock from a dodgy hairdryer and it was nothing like the touch of a man she’s falling for.

Goosebumps though. She folds her arms around her, rubbing imaginary goosebumps away.

‘You cold?’ says Jack, and he slips off his jacket, draping it around her shoulders. As he does so, his fingers do brush the bare skin on her collarbone. It definitely doesn’t feel like electricity. To call it that wouldn’t do this feeling justice at all, reducing it to something akin to the mere movement of electrons. It’s the briefest of touches, the lightest of sensations, but it awakens something deep within her, a yearning for him to caress her, for his hands to linger, for his arms to embrace her, to pull her against him.

‘Were you thinking of removing the wall between this part of the bakery and the kitchen?’ Jack steps away from her, and slaps the wall in question. ‘You’d need an RSJ.’

Louise nods, like she knows what he’s talking about, and pulls his jacket tighter around her. The fabric feels smooth and soft against her skin. Italian probably. She can’t help tilting her face towards it, touching the lapel with her chin. It smells of him too; fresh and light and citrussy. The sort of scent that transports you to a lemon grove on a Tuscan hillside – do they even grow lemons in Tuscany? Or is it all olives? Or grapes? – on a late summer’s evening.

‘Yep, you’d definitely need an RSJ,’ he says again, jolting her from her reverie.