Page 9 of The Sugar and Spice Bookshop Bakery

‘Well, that explains it!’

That explains everything. The sexy accent. The dark eyes. The smooth, olive skin.

‘Jack isn’t a very Italian name,’ she says.

‘My real name is Giacomo, but everyone calls me Jack. Well, everyone except my dad who insists on calling me Giacomo. You know, I’ve just realised that I don’t know your name.’

‘Louise,’ she says, taking his hand. The skin on his fingers is a little rough, she notices. A man who works with his hands, perhaps? A shiver runs down her spine. She admires people who are practical. There’s nothing better than a man whose toolbox isn’t just for show.

No double entendre intended.

‘So, you’re Italian but you speak English with a Yorkshire accent?’

‘I grew up in Italy and my mum was Italian, but my dad is from Applethwaite. I learned English from him.’

‘I see.’

When the coffee is made, she gestures to the table in the window, and they sit down together.

He takes a sip. ‘Best coffee outside Italy,’ he proclaims.

She looks at his hands clasped around the mug.

And then she imagines that one of those hands slides across the table and that one of those fingers entwines itself around one of hers. She wonders what it would be like if he turned her hand over so her palm faces upwards. If he stroked that palm gently with one finger in a circular motion. Just lightly. Barely touching. Tickling. Teasing. She shudders.

‘Are you cold?’ he says.

‘Maybe a little.’ She pulls the dressing gown around her, feeling suddenly conscious of how shabby she must look.

Not that it matters, she reminds herself. Because romance is not on the cards.

‘Are you baking?’ He sniffs.

‘Yes. Ginger cake. My late grandmother’s recipe.’ She glances at the time on her phone and stands up. ‘It should be just about ready.’

He follows her into the kitchen. She dons the oven gloves, opens the oven door and lifts the cake onto the worktop. Then, slipping off the gloves, she touches the top of the cake with her fingers to check it’s done.

It has risen perfectly, the top forming a crust that she knows will be satisfyingly crisp. Underneath, the cake will be soft and moist; not quite gooey but almost.

‘Shall we have a slice? We should really wait till it’s cooled down, but I like it when it’s still warm from the oven.’

He nods. ‘Thank you. I’d love to try it.’

Louise opens a cupboard, takes out a mug and puts the cake on top of it. A couple of taps, and she slides the cake tin down, leaving the cake standing on its base. Then she eases it off the base and onto a plate, before cutting two generous wedges.

‘Fork or fingers?’ she says.

‘Fingers, definitely.’

Fingers. She immediately imagines his fingers taking a chunk of ginger cake and bringing it to his lips. And then she can’t help herself – she pictures him feeding her. What would it be like to feel his fingers brush against her lips? To feel one of them slip inside her mouth?

She shakes her head a little, pushing the image away. This has always been the trouble with spending most of her adult life editing romance fiction: she sees the possibility for romance everywhere. But it so seldom actually happens – in Louise’s experience at least – and when it does, it’s never as good as she imagined.

They move back into the main part of the bakery and sit down at the table again. Louise watches Jack bite into the cake.

‘Hmmm, delicious,’ he says.

They eat in companiable silence. When she’s finished her slice, Louise licks her fingers, then notices Jack watching her again and feels suddenly self-conscious.