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"Enjoy," she told the customer.

The woman smiled and walked away with her pastries.

Victoria leaned back against her chair, surveying the festival grounds. The garden was packed with locals and tourists browsing the stalls. The air smelled strongly of sugar, bacon, and sunscreen.

She had been standing behind the wooden table for two hours, navigating a steady stream of sticky coins and endless inquiries about almond flour without losing her patience. The chaotic noise of the festival should have grated on her nerves, yet she found a strange rhythm in the simple repetition of sliding pastries into paper boxes. She shifted the remaining lemon tarts across the display just to keep her hands busy, navigating the casual chatter from locals who stopped by to ask after Emma.

Whenever the crowd finally thinned, her gaze drifted toward the open kitchen window of the inn. Emma was moving through the heat in a flour-dusted apron, passing mixing bowls to Chloe over the sink. And every single time Victoria glanced at the glass, Emma seemed to be looking right back, catching her eye with a private smile that made the warm June air feel suddenly much heavier.

Victoria watched Emma drag the back of her wrist across her forehead, pushing damp curls out of her eyes. She looked worn to the bone, yet every motion through the prep space held a steady rhythm that kept Victoria anchored in place.

The guilt clawed at Victoria’s throat, sharp and suffocating.

Monday at two PM.

She had kissed Emma in the dark, she had let her sleep in her bed, twice now, and in less than forty-eight hours, she was going to sit on a video call and negotiate the sale of Emma's home. Victoria dug her fingers into the edge of the wooden table until the grain bit painfully into her palms.

"Delivery."

Victoria snapped her head up. Emma was standing on the other side of the stall, holding a foil-wrapped jacket potato and two forks. She looked flushed from the heat of the kitchen.

"You need a break," Emma said, walking around the table to step into the small space behind the stall.

Victoria moved over to make room, quickly dropping her hands from the edge of the wood. "I am perfectly fine. The rush has slowed down."

"You've been out here for hours," Emma insisted. She set the potato on a napkin between them and handed Victoria a fork. "Eat."

Victoria took the fork. She avoided looking at Emma's face, staring instead at the remaining pastries. "We have enough to last until the evening."

"I know. You sold half the inventory before noon." Emma leaned against the table, bumping her shoulder against Victoria’s arm. "You are surprisingly good at this."

"It is simple," Victoria replied, her voice sounding a little too tight. She took a bite of the potato. "You provide a product people want."

"Sure," Emma teased. "I saw you talking to Mrs. Marble and I know for a fact that that wasn't simple."

Victoria kept her eyes forward. "She asked if the lemons in the tarts were local. I merely confirmed it."

Emma let out a breathless snort. "Local lemons? Oh, absolutely. The famous Sorrento lemon orchards of the Cotswolds! Did you tell her I harvest them from the hedgerow every morning?"

Victoria kept her gaze fixed on the crowded lawn, though the corner of her mouth gave a faint twitch. "She seemed comforted by the lie. I consider it a public service."

Emma laughed softly. She leaned closer, her shoulder pressed firmly against Victoria’s. The physical contact was casual but deeply intimate. They were standing in the middle of a crowded festival, completely visible to everyone, but it felt like they were in their own private bubble.

"You look like you belong here," Emma murmured.

Victoria's fork stopped halfway to her mouth. The words hit her like a physical blow. She had just hit send on the email that would bulldoze this very lawn.

Victoria cleared her throat and set the fork down, stepping half an inch away to break the contact and rebuild her armor. "Don't be ridiculous, Emma. I am simply helping you avoid a disaster."

Emma’s smile faltered slightly at the sudden shift in temperature, but she didn't push. "Whatever you say."

A sharp shriek of audio feedback ripped through the chatter drifting across the grounds, drawing everyone's attention toward the gazebo near the lower rose garden. Lucy was standing on the stone steps by a small portable amplifier, tapping a hand against the microphone while brushing an unruly curl of dark hair out of her face.

"Afternoon, everyone!" Lucy’s voice rang out, bright and effortlessly carrying over the lawn. "The two-handed bouquet race kicks off in fifteen minutes down by the pergola, so if you and your partner want a shot at the summer ribbon, get yourselves over to the registration table before we run out of stems!"

Emma gasped, grabbing Victoria’s arm. "Oh my god! The bouquet competition!"

Victoria looked down at the hand clutching her arm. "What about it?"