Irresistible (Cloverleigh Farms #1)(60)

I grimaced. “That’s not fate, that’s just incompetence.”

“Either way—I was there, but you still had to go after what you wanted.” Her voice quieted. “And I’m really glad you did.”

“Me too,” I said, and it wasn’t a lie. I was glad I’d gone after her. But the more time I spent with her, the more I wanted with her. And not just sneaking-around time, either—real time, where we didn’t have to hide or rush or worry about being caught. That was impossible without telling the kids, and it was too soon to do that. I supposed I could hire another babysitter and spend time with her apart from the kids, but that would take away from time with my girls, which would make me feel selfish and guilty, and it would give their mother even more ammunition.

I couldn’t win.





Frannie





On Tuesday I parked on the street about a block and a half down from Coffee Darling, and walked to the shop with butterflies in my belly, my boots crunching in the snow on the sidewalk. Mack had texted about half an hour ago that he was running late but he’d be here as fast as he could.

The shop had closed earlier in the day—at 2:00 P.M., the hours on the window said—so the glass door was locked when I tried to pull it open at quarter to four.

I peered inside, my pulse racing. The space was narrow and deep, with a counter and a few glass cases over to the left, and tables lining the wall on the right. I knocked on the glass and a few seconds later, I saw a woman come from what I assumed was the kitchen and hurry around the counter toward the door. She unlocked it and pushed it open.

“You must be Frannie,” she said with a warm smile. “Please come in. It’s freezing out there.”

“Thanks.” I entered the shop and she locked the door behind me. She had medium-length dark hair pulled into a ponytail and was clearly pregnant, although she didn’t have that about-to-pop look about her.

“Welcome.” She held out her hand. “I’m Natalie, and …” She shrugged, laughing. “This is the place.”

I laughed too as I shook her hand. “I’m Frannie, and I love the place. I’ve been in here several times and have always thought it was so cute.”

Natalie beamed. “Thank you. It’s been a great location for me. I opened it five years ago and I swear, we’re busier every year, even in the off season.”

“Really? That’s amazing.”

She nodded. “Of course, we get a lot more people in the summer because of tourism, but we’ve got a lot of loyal locals now too. Would you like to see the kitchen? Maxima should be here shortly, but we can go on back.”

“Thanks. I asked a friend to meet me here too.” I tucked my hair behind my ears. “I hope that’s okay.”

“Of course!”

“Actually, he knows you—sort of. He said he went to school with your sister, Jillian?”

“What’s his name?”

“Declan MacAllister, but he goes by Mack.”

“That sounds familiar, actually.”

“You might have known my sister too—she graduated that same year. Sylvia Sawyer?”

She nodded. “That definitely sounds familiar. Small world up here, isn’t it?”

I laughed. “Yes.”

“But I like small town connections.” She smiled at me over her shoulder. “Follow me.”

She showed me the kitchen, which wasn’t huge but was clean, well-organized, and full of shiny new equipment. My eyes popped as I looked everything over—the marble and wood counters, the rolling racks of pots and pans, the mixers lined up like soldiers, the massive stainless appliances. It wasn’t as big as the kitchen at the inn, but it was better suited to baking and seemed neater.

“It’s beautiful,” I said, running my hand along the cool marble.

“Thanks. Let me show you around.”

By the time she was done showing me the kitchen and tiny office, Maxima had arrived. She asked some questions as Natalie finished the tour out front. Mack still hadn’t arrived, and I looked at my phone again. I’d missed a call from him a few minutes ago and he’d left a voicemail. Feeling like it would have been impolite to listen to it now, I tucked my phone back into my bag, hoped everything was okay, and crossed my fingers that he could still make it. I really wanted his opinion.

But he never showed.

Natalie poured us each a cup of coffee and she, Maxima, and I sat down at one of the tables along the wall. From my bag I pulled out a white box of macarons I’d baked last night—pink-hued rosewater cream and violet-colored orange lavender.

Natalie gasped. “They’re beautiful!”

“Wait ’til you taste them,” said Maxima.

“Can I?”

“Of course,” I said, pride warming my insides. “I brought them for you.”

She picked out a lavender macaron and took a bite. “Oh my God,” she mumbled. “It’s exquisite.”

I smiled. “Thank you.”

We sipped coffee and nibbled macarons as we went over the options. Natalie said she’d sell the building if she found the right buyer, but she was emotionally invested in the place and would really prefer to take on a partner. “I know it sounds silly,” she said, her eyes welling as she looked around, “but this shop is like part of me. I opened it when I was just twenty-three and had no idea what I was doing. I got engaged right outside the door. I have more memories in this shop—of family and friends and people in my life—than I do at my own house. I’ve been here longer. Sorry.” She grabbed a napkin and dabbed at her eyes. “I’m always more emotional when I’m pregnant.”