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Martha’s eyebrows shot up. "Joe’s granddaughter? The one from America? Good heavens."

"She's here because… she’s… helping with the festival," Emma said, which was technically the truth.

Right on cue, the wooden door creaked open.

Victoria stepped into the room. She was wearing jeans and a black t-shirt, her hair still damp from the shower. She looked disoriented, holding her phone and blinking at the sunlight. Emma checked her watch. It was ten-thirty.

Victoria Sterling, the woman who probably woke up at dawn to conquer the financial markets or to fire incompetent interns, had slept until ten-thirty. Victoria’s eyes found Emma. A look of mortified horror washed over her face as she registered the time. She walked over, posture rigid.

"Emma, I apologize," Victoria said, her voice tight. "My alarm failed to go off. I did not intend to sleep through the morning schedule. It is highly unprofessional."

Harry and Martha were watching the exchange like it was a television drama.

Emma couldn't help the fond smile that broke across her face. She stood up, pulling out a chair. "Victoria, relax. You went to bed after three in the morning. I’m amazed you’re standing upright."

Victoria gripped the back of the chair. "Why didn’t you wake me?"

"Why would I? The B&B didn't catch fire," Emma said gently. "Sit down. I saved you a plate in the kitchen. Eggs, toast, and black coffee, right?"

Victoria stared at her, thrown off balance by the lack of reprimand. The corporate world didn't allow for grace, and Emma could see Victoria struggling to compute the simple act of kindness. "I... yes. Thank you."

"I'll be right back," Emma said. Before she walked away, she gestured to the older couple. "Victoria, these are Harry and Martha Caldwell. Caldwells, this is Victoria Sterling."

"A pleasure, dear," Martha beamed.

Victoria offered a stiff nod. "A pleasure to meet you both."

By eleven, the heat had settled back over the village. Victoria had retreated to the patio, sitting at a wrought-iron table with her laptop. Inside the kitchen, Emma was gearing up for war. The counters were covered in powdered sugar, and eight different pastries were aligned on wooden boards.

There were blackberry-thyme financiers with browned butter, miniature pear frangipane tarts, crisp choux buns piped with salted caramel diplomatic cream, and delicate mille-feuille squares. Beside them sat lemon basil tartelettes with torched meringue, dark chocolate and hazelnut entremets, pistachio and raspberry macarons, and flaky apricot Danish pastries glazed in orange blossom honey.

Emma wiped her hands on her apron, took a breath, and stuck her head out the back door. "Alright! Taste test in five minutes! Everyone to the kitchen!"

Moments later, all six guests crowded into the room. They looked at the spread of desserts like it was Christmas morning.

Emma grabbed a clipboard. "Okay, the rules are simple. You try a piece of everything. You give me an honest rating out of ten. If something is too dry, too sweet, too sour, too anything, you tell me. This is the menu for the festival, and my reputation is on the line. Be ruthless."

The guests laughed and eagerly dove in. The kitchen filled with the sound of happy groans and animated debate over the perfect ratio of butter to flour. Emma was in her element. She moved through the crowd, laughing, taking notes, and pouring iced tea. She felt alive, vibrating with the joyful energy of feeding people she cared about.

When she turned around to grab napkins, she stopped.

Victoria was standing in the doorway leading out to the patio. Her laptop was nowhere to be seen. She was leaning against the frame, arms crossed, watching Emma with an intensity that made the air suddenly feel ten degrees hotter. Victoria wasn’t looking at the food like all the other guests, she was tracking Emma’s every movement, a fascinated expression softening the sharp lines of her face.

A sudden, erratic pulse kicked in Emma’s throat. Needing somewhere to put her hands, she grabbed a small plate, balanced a pear tart and a caramel choux bun on the porcelain, and walked over.

"You don't get to just watch," Emma said, holding the plate out. "You're part of management now. You have to do quality control."

Victoria looked at the plate, then up at Emma’s face. "I am not typically a consumer of sweets."

"Just take a bite, Victoria. I promise it won't kill you."

A reluctant smile played at the corner of Victoria’s mouth. She uncrossed her arms, taking the tart. She took a bite with delicate precision. Emma watched her closely, holding her breath. She didn't know why Victoria’s approval suddenly mattered more than the six people raving about her food, but it mattered a terrifying amount.

Victoria chewed slowly, evaluating the flavors. When she swallowed, her eyebrows lifted in genuine surprise. "The pastry is remarkably light. The acidity of the fruit cuts well through the butter. It is exceptionally good, Emma."

A wave of giddy pride rushed through Emma’s chest. "See? I know what I'm doing," she said, taking a bite of her choux bun to hide the ridiculous smile threatening to take over her face.

"However," Victoria added, her voice dropping in a low tone, "your own presentation leaves something to be desired."