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As if feeling the weight of the stare, Victoria glanced up. Her gaze locked with Emma’s across the room. The polite smile she had been giving the postman vanished, replaced instantly by something private and warm.

She murmured an excuse, picked up a stack of plates, and navigated the floor toward the counter. She slipped behind the swinging door, stepping into Emma’s space and setting the dishes down by the sink.

"You are staring, Hayes," Victoria murmured, leaning back against the counter. Her voice dropped to a murmur meant for Emma alone. "Shouldn't the owner of the café be working? The queue went out the door twenty minutes before you even flipped the sign."

"I am observing," Emma countered softly, turning to face her. She leaned her hip against the espresso machine, letting the distance between them shrink to a matter of inches. "I have to make sure nobody is trying to steal my recipes."

"Mr. Higgins tried to coax the glaze formula out of me ten minutes ago," Victoria said, her dark eyes roving lazily over Emma’s face. "I told him I had a strict confidentiality clause and threatened to send him packing."

Emma let out a breathy laugh. "Did it work?"

"He offered to trade a sack of potatoes for it," Victoria replied. "I held out for three sacks. I still know how to negotiate."

Emma smiled, a wicked dimple appearing on her cheek. Her hand moved almost on its own, her fingers brushing lightly against Victoria’s waist. It was an instinct now. She needed to touch her, just to ground herself in the reality that Victoria was actually here, standing next to her instead of a Manhattan penthouse.

Victoria caught Emma’s hand, her thumb stroking slowly over Emma’s knuckles. She looked down, her gaze catching on the apron tied around Emma’s waist. Specifically, on the top left corner, where the name of the café was stitched into the canvas.

The Joe's Lemon Tart

Victoria had ordered the apron months ago with the original name—The Lemon Tart, Joe’s absolute favorite pastry, the one Emma had baked for him every single Sunday morning at the inn—stitched in neat, professional script. But when Emma had decided four weeks ago to officially add his name to the shop, ordering a replacement had slipped completely off their priority list.

The solution had come two nights ago, courtesy of Victoria sitting cross-legged on the living room rug with a sewing needle she had no business wielding. She had crossed out The with a blunt, jagged bar of red thread and attempted to stitch Joe's above it in pale beige embroidery floss.

Victoria stared at the result for a quiet moment, her brow furrowing in mild offense at her own handiwork. She reached out, tracing the lopsided curve of the J with her index finger.

"I need to take that away from you and burn it," Victoria murmured. "The J looks like a fishhook and the red line is completely crooked. I can manage an entire renovation budget, but apparently five letters with a needle are beyond my capabilities."

Emma caught Victoria’s wrist, stilling her hand against the heavy canvas. She stepped closer, invading Victoria’s space until she could feel the heat radiating through the knit of her sweater.

"Don't you dare," Emma whispered, holding her gaze. "I'm never taking it off."

Something shifted in Victoria’s expression. The teasing edge melted away, leaving behind that raw devotion that always managed to knock the air straight out of Emma’s lungs. Victoria leaned in, her breath brushing Emma’s mouth, totally indifferent to the crowded café just on the other side of the espresso machine.

"Emma?"

The voice broke the bubble instantly.

Emma blinked, stepping back slightly as Chloe practically materialized at the counter.

Victoria’s sister looked like she had just stepped off a runway, totally out of place among the denim jackets and floral dresses of the locals. She wore an immaculate blouse and a trench coat that probably cost more than the espresso machine, radiating that relentless New York energy that simply refused to be diluted by the English countryside. Yet, her eyes were bright, buzzing with an excitement that seemed surprisingly genuine.

"Have you figured out what you are putting on those walls?" Chloe asked immediately, gesturing vaguely toward the bare brick spaces above the café tables.

Emma blinked, trying to catch up with the sudden shift in momentum. "Actually, I haven't really thought—"

"Because I was looking at the lighting while sitting over there," Chloe interrupted, leaning over the counter, her eyes alight with sudden enthusiasm. "The natural light from the front windows hits that brick across the seating area perfectly. What if we do a monthly rotation? We could dedicate those walls to giving visibility to emerging queer artists from the UK. Every month, a new exhibition. I could curate the pieces, handle the transport, deal with the framing, and you give them the space." Chloe gripped the counter, looking between them. "Tell me that wouldn't elevate the entire café!"

Emma stared at her. She looked at Victoria, who simply raised an eyebrow in silent amusement, clearly recognizing her sister’s inability to turn off her gallery-director brain.

"That is..." Emma started, visualizing the empty brick suddenly coming alive with color and photography. She smiled. "That is a brilliant idea, actually. I would love that, Chloe."

Chloe beamed, a triumphant expression crossing her features. "Perfect. I will start making calls tomorrow. I need to measure the dimensions."

Satisfied with her newly acquired project, Chloe spun around on her expensive heels to head back into the seating area.

She did not look.

Lucy was walking past the counter at that exact second, balancing a wooden tray with three heavy pint glasses of chilled cider meant for the back tables. The collision was inevitable. Chloe slammed directly into Lucy’s shoulder.