Chapter 7
Tom
Seven in the morning is not a civilised time to be upright.
The kitchen is cold in that early-hour way that feels faintly personal, grey light leaking through the window like it’s disappointed in all of us. I’m halfway into my jacket, keys in hand, mind already two steps ahead of itself, when Rupert pads in barefoot and ruins my semi-calm.
He’s wearing shorts doubling as pj bottoms and holding a mug of tea with both hands, as if it’s a grounding exercise. He takes one look at me, then stops. Not dramatically. Just… stops.
“Well,” he says eventually. “This is unusual.”
“I’m heading out,” I reply, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near evasive.
“At seven,” Rupert says. “On a weekday.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t leave this house before ten unless something has gone catastrophically wrong,” he continues mildly. “Either at the restaurant or within your own body.”
“Nothing is wrong,” I say. “I just need to pick something up.”
Rupert hums. A thoughtful, dangerous sound. “From where?”
“The restaurant.”
I reach for the door. He shifts slightly, not blocking it, but making it clear I will not be passing unchallenged.
“What,” he asks, “are you collecting?”
I hesitate. Just long enough.
“Tiramisu,” I say.
He blinks. Once. Slowly. “You are leaving the house at seven in the morning to retrieve dessert.”
“Yes. I layered it yesterday but I need to finish it off first. And then I need to deliver it and then head back to the restaurant. That all takes time.”
“Who are you delivering the deliciousness to?”
I exhale. “The newspaper.”
That gets a reaction. His eyebrows lift, just a fraction.
“The newspaper,” he repeats. “As in, the Carlisle Gazette.”
“Yes.”
“As in, the one that nearly destroyed your will to live last week.”
“That one.”
Rupert takes a sip of tea, eyes never leaving my face. “And why,” he asks gently, “does the newspaper require pudding delivered personally by you?”
“She… I mean Chloe, didn’t get a proper chance to try it yesterday,” I say, the explanation tumbling out now that I’ve started. “I’d only just assembled it. It needs time to settle. It’s better the next day.”
“So you’re being conscientious,” Rupert says.
“Yes.”
“And thorough.”
“Yes.”
“You’re dressed nicely,” he adds. “For someone collecting dessert.”
“This is a clean jacket.”
“You showered,” he says. “I can smell it.”
“That’s kitchen standard.”
“That,” Rupert replies calmly, “is courting.”
I scoff. “I am not courting anyone.”
“You are bringing homemade tiramisu to a woman’s workplace,” he says. “Uninvited. At dawn.”
“It’s contextual,” I insist. “She’s writing a feature. I want it to be accurate.”
“And you believe carbohydrates will assist journalistic integrity?”
“I believe tasting the finished product matters.”
Rupert watches me for a long moment, then sets his mug down with deliberate care.
“Tom,” he says, gently now, which is worse, “did something happen last night?” He knows me far too well.
“No,” I say too quickly.
He raises an eyebrow.
I sigh. “Fine. Things… escalated.”
“Escalated,” he repeats. “In what sense?”
I hesitate again. Longer this time.
“We crossed a line,” I say.
Rupert goes very still. “Define crossed.”
I glare at the floor. “Oh my god. Do I need to spell it out? We. Slept. Together.”
There it is.
The kitchen seems to absorb the information before Rupert does. He exhales slowly, then nods once, as if ticking something off an internal list.
“Oh,” he says. “That explains the tiramisu.”
“It was a mistake,” I add immediately.
“Of course it was,” Rupert agrees. “Hence the dessert.”
“This is not about last night.”
“It is entirely about last night,” he says. “You are bringing pudding as penance.”
“I am bringing pudding as context.”
“You are bringing pudding because you are panicking,” Rupert replies. “And because you do not know how to sit with unresolved things.”
I bristle. “That’s not true.”
“You are incapable of casual,” he says serenely. “When you care, you overcorrect.”
I open my mouth to argue, then stop. Because annoyingly, he is not wrong.
Rupert considers this. “So you fancy her?”
“I don’t have feelings.”
“I didn’t ask that but if we are on that subject—"
I groan. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely,” he replies. “But that’s not the point.”
“And what is the point?” I ask.
“It’s okay to develop a crush… or more. Even if your crush is the woman you can’t stop arguing with.”
“I’m leaving.” I don’t wait for his answer just head outside.
I am absolutely not delivering the Tiramisu just so I can see Chloe again. Absolutely not.
By the time I finish the Tiramisu, it has acquired a frankly indulgent layer of cocoa powder. Thick enough to be intentional. Thick enough to suggest conviction rather than panic. I stare at it for a moment, then add a little more, because this is clearly not the morning for moderation.
I lid the container, wipe the edges, and grab my keys.
At the corner shop, I buy paper plates and disposable cutlery. The man behind the till rings them through without comment. The lack of commentary feels pointed.
I park across the road from the Carlisle Gazette and sit there for a moment, hands on the wheel, engine idling, watching people go in and out with purposeful expressions and coffee cups before starting the motor again.
I drive past the building once, telling myself I’m checking parking restrictions.
I loop back again, convincing myself I’ve missed the turning.
By the third pass, even I am no longer pretending.
Right. Drop and go. No hovering. No explanations.
I pick up the container, tuck the plates under my arm, and head inside.
Reception is bright, functional, and staffed by a woman with a headset and the expression of someone who has already dealt with nonsense today. I set the Tiramisu on the counter carefully.
“Morning,” I say. “I was hoping to leave this for Chloe Ingram from the Gazette.”
She glances at the container. “We don’t accept deliveries at reception.”
“It’s not a delivery,” I say. “It’s personal.”
She doesn’t engage with that. “Anything for staff has to go to the department.”
Relief hits faster than it should. “That’s fine.”
“You’ll need to be escorted,” she adds, already touching her headset.
“Oh, I don’t—”
“Oscar,” she says calmly.
A moment later, a security guard appears. Solid. Polite. Entirely uninterested in desserts.
“This way,” he says.
I pick up the container and follow him, paper plates tucked under my arm. The lift ride is excruciating. Too quiet. Too reflective. My face in the mirrored wall looks like someone who should have stayed in bed.
The doors open onto a newsroom already in full swing. Phones ringing. Voices overlapping. Mugs everywhere. The guard steps out with me, pauses, then scans the room as if deciding who this problem belongs to next.
A man walks past carrying two cups and a notebook. He slows, takes in the sight of me standing there with a sealed container and disposable plates, then looks at the guard.
“Everything all right,” he asks.
“I’ve got someone here looking for Chloe,” the guard replies.
The man looks at me now. Properly. Curious, not alarmed.
“I’m AJ,” he says. “Local news. What’s going on.”
“Tom,” I reply. “I’m the chef at La Cucina di Rosa. Chloe’s doing the feature on us. I was trying to leave something for her.”
AJ nods slowly, taking that in. His gaze flicks briefly to what I’m holding, then back to my face.
“Right,” he says. “I know where she is.”
He turns to the guard. “I can take it from here, if that’s all right.”
The guard smiles. “Fine by me.”
“Thanks,” I say, genuinely.
AJ waits until the security guard is out of earshot, then looks at the container again. Slowly. Thoughtfully. Like a man filing something away for later amusement.
“She’s just over there.” AJ carefully points to my right with the hand holding both mugs.
“Thanks,” I say. “I can just leave it with you and you could—”
“Nah, I’m sure Chloe wants to thank you,” he replies with a look that can only be described as mischievous.
We walk between the desks. The newsroom hums around us, busy and unapologetic. Phones ringing. Someone swearing quietly at a screen. Mugs everywhere. I am acutely aware of how much I stand out, container in hand, plates tucked under my arm like I’ve made a series of questionable life choices.
AJ keeps pace beside me without comment for a few seconds. Then he glances ahead, then back at me.
“She’s having a morning,” he says.
I don’t answer.
He smiles faintly. “You can usually tell when someone’s running on caffeine and willpower.”
I focus very hard on not reacting.
We slow as Chloe comes into view, standing with the editor… Marie-Louise, I think was her name. Chloe’s arms are folded. Spine straight. Expression controlled with ease. She looks capable and self-assured, and I like that about her.
Then she looks up.
Her gaze lands on me.
The shift is immediate.
“What,” she says carefully, “are you doing here?”
“I’m sorry,” I say immediately. “I tried to leave something at reception. They sent me upstairs.”
Marie Louis’s eyebrow lift, just slightly. “And what is it you’re trying to leave?”
“It’s Tiramisu,” I say. “Chloe didn’t get a proper chance to try it last night. I’d only just assembled it. I thought it might help for context.”
Chloe closes her eyes briefly.
“This,” she says evenly, “was not discussed.”
“No,” I agree. “It wasn’t.”
AJ lets out a quiet sound that might be a laugh and might be a cough.
Marie-Louise looks from him to the container again, then back to me. Her expression shifts, not to suspicion, but to something more measured.
“That’s very thoughtful,” she says. “Thank you.”
Chloe’s eyes snap open.
“There should be enough for everyone,” I add quickly. “Please tell me you’ve got a fridge, because this needs to stay cool.”
“Of course,” Marie-Louise says. “No sense letting it sit out until the lunch break.”