Chapter 12
twelve
LUCY
Winter’s finally loosening its grip as we approach the end of February, the snow retreating one stubborn patch at a time. The air still bites a little, but the glimpses of brown grass hint that spring is coming.
I’m elbow deep in pastry flour when the bell above the door jingles.
Glancing up, I spot Aileen bundled in her signature tartan scarf.
Her silver hair catches the morning light as she makes her way to the counter.
She’s newer to town, but talking to her is like talking to someone you’ve known for ages.
“Lucy, dear,” she calls. “Got a moment for an old woman?”
“For you, Aileen? Always.” I wipe my hands on my apron and slide around the counter. “The usual?”
“Aye, but I’m not just here for your heavenly scones today. I’ve got a special request for someone with your particular talents.”
I pour her tea—Earl Grey, splash of milk, no sugar—and slide it across the counter. “I’m all ears.”
“Do you ever take custom orders? My granddaughter’s birthday is in a couple weeks, and I’d love to have you make her cake. Your stuff is to die for.”
“I’ve made a few custom cakes over the years,” I admit, feeling a flutter of excitement at the thought. “I used to do quite a bit more baking like that before I took over running the café full time.”
The words bring back memories of late nights in my kitchen, experimenting with flavors and decorations, the satisfaction of creating something unique and beautiful. It’s been ages since I’ve had the time to really dive into a project like that.
“Is that so?” Aileen’s eyes twinkle. “Then I’ve come to the right place. Would you have time for something special? Nothing too elaborate, mind you.”
“I’d absolutely love to,” I say. “It would be nice to stretch those muscles again, honestly.”
She beams at me, reaching across the counter to squeeze my hand. “Oh, wonderful! I knew you were the right person to ask.”
“Tell me about your granddaughter,” I say, pulling out my notebook from beneath the counter. “What flavors does she like? Any hobbies or interests?”
“She’s turning five,” Aileen says, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Wee Isla is absolutely obsessed with fairies. Can’t get enough of them. Her father—my son—built her a little fairy house for Christmas last year. It’s quite elaborate, with miniature furniture and everything.”
My heart stops.
“Wait—did you say Isla?” I set my pen down slowly, trying to keep my voice casual even as my pulse picks up. “Dark curly hair?”
“That’s the one. I know Aidan’s brought her here a couple times.”
The pieces snap together in my mind like a puzzle finally making sense. Aileen. Reid. The grumpy, gorgeous man who’s been occupying far too much of my thoughts lately isn’t just some random single dad who wandered into my café—he’s Aileen’s son.
“Isla’s absolutely delightful,” I say, working to keep my voice steady. “She told me all about seeing a fairy in the garden.”
Aileen laughs. “Oh, that girl has quite the imagination! Aidan was just as wild and full of stories when he was her age. Don’t let that tough exterior fool you. He’s got a soft heart.”
I bite my lip, trying not to reveal just how interested I am in learning more about Aidan. “I’ve noticed that already,” I say with a smile, picking up my pen again. “So…fairies, then? I can definitely work with that.”
I’m trying to focus on my notes, but the image of gruff, serious Aidan meticulously painting fairy doors makes admiration bloom in my chest.
I press on. “So, what flavors does she like? Chocolate? Vanilla?”
“Strawberry,” she says decidedly. “She’s mad for anything strawberry.”
I jot that down, my mind already spinning with ideas. “And when would you need it?”
“Her birthday’s March first. It’s a Sunday, but I know you’re off that day so I could come get it a day early?”
I shake my head. “That’s okay. I want it to be fresh. I could drop it off to you that Sunday if you’d like. I know you don’t live too far.”
“Oh, that would be lovely. You don’t mind?”
“It’s no trouble at all.” Aileen studies me as I jot down her address. “I’m excited to do something special for Isla.”
“You’re an angel,” she says. “I’m sure Aidan will appreciate it, too.”
My cheeks flush. “Oh, well, I’m just happy to help.”
We talk pricing and chat for a while longer before a few more customers come in. As she gathers her belongings to leave, I can’t help the swirl of emotions churning inside me. Aidan is Aileen’s son. It makes perfect sense now. They have the same gray eyes. How did I not see it before?
I lean against the counter, my mind racing. This changes things, doesn’t it? Or maybe it doesn’t change anything at all. I’m not even sure what “things” I’m referring to, because there aren’t any “things” between Aidan and me to change in the first place.
I’ve just volunteered to personally deliver a birthday cake to what’s bound to be a full-blown family gathering. What on earth was I thinking?
“You’re overthinking this,” I mutter to myself as I wipe down the counter with perhaps more vigor than necessary. It’s just a cake. For a child.
And an excuse to see her dad again.
No.
I press my palms to my cheeks and blow out a frustrated breath. Focus, Lucy. Cake. Child. Delivery. Not daydreams about Aidan.
Dang it.