“Sure,” I said. “I’ll find it on my TV for you. And I have this really fluffy blanket you can use. It’s so soft, it feels like a cloud.”

Her face lit up. “Okay.”

A few minutes later, she was snuggled up in my white faux fur blanket, her eyes drifting shut almost immediately. I sat at the other end of the couch with my phone and posted a few things on Cloverleigh’s social media—a graphic on Facebook advertising an upcoming wine dinner that Chloe and Henry DeSantis had organized, a photo on Instagram I’d snapped of the macarons on the dessert table at the weekend’s wedding, and a tweet congratulating Mr. and Mrs. Radley along with a picture from their ceremony.

Finally, I returned direct messages from a few brides, answering their questions if I could, and forwarding April’s information if they’d requested specifics on availability or pricing. I was just finishing up when I got a text from Mack.

How’s it going?

Great. She’s sound asleep on my couch.

I snapped a quick picture of her and sent it to him.

Awesome. I’m jealous.

I smiled, imagining him all wrapped up in that fluffy white blanket stretched out on my couch. Then my stomach whooshed—what would it be like to lie with him like that on a cold winter afternoon, his arms around me, snow falling softly outside the windows, the heat between our bodies keeping us warm …

Omigod. Stop it.

I forced myself to calm down and type something more acceptable.

Did you get some lunch?

Not yet.

I’ve got homemade chicken soup if you want some. Come on up.

The three dots appeared, and as they faded in and out, I held my breath. I was always offering to make dinner on Thursdays and Fridays when I watched the kids, but he never took me up on the offer, so I figured he’d turn down lunch, too.

That sounds really good, but I’m swamped.

I’ll heat some up in a container.

You can take it with you.

You are tempting me …

LOL ask my mom how to get up here. I’ll heat the soup!

It took him a minute to reply, but when he did, he said okay.

I almost squealed. He was coming up to my apartment! He’d never done that before! Setting my phone aside, I hurried into the kitchen, ladled some soup into a plastic container, and stuck it in the microwave. Then I ran into the bathroom and looked in the mirror over the sink. I was still wearing my work clothes, a dark green Cloverleigh collared shirt and black pants. Nothing I could do about that now, but I fussed with my hair and put on another coat of mascara. At the last second, I gave one wrist a spritz of perfume and rubbed it against the other.

You are tempting me …

If only! God, what I wouldn’t give to be the kind of woman who could really tempt him.

The microwave beeped and I went back to the kitchen, took the soup out, stirred it up, then pressed the lid into place. In a second little container, I placed some crackers and a couple macarons, then tucked everything into a brown paper bag with a spoon and a couple napkins.

A minute later, there were three soft knocks at my door, echoed by three hard ones in my chest. Inhaling and exhaling slowly, I put my hand on the knob and pulled.

“Hi,” he said quietly, a sheepish half-grin on his face. “I heard you’re feeding the hungry today.”

I smiled, positive he could hear my heart thwacking against my ribs. “Come on in.”

He entered my suite and glanced around, sticking his hands in his pockets. “This is nice.”

“Thanks. It’s small, but it suits me. Winnie’s on the couch if you want to peek at her.” I nodded over my shoulder.

“Okay.” While he wandered toward the couch, I took the brown bag with his lunch in it off the kitchen counter. After a quick look at her, he turned around smiling. “If only they were always so sweet, right?”

“Your girls are pretty sweet all the time.” I handed him the bag, one hand on the bottom, one holding the handles. “Here you go. Careful.”

“Thanks.” He took it from me, and both our hands touched. “I appreciate this.”

“No problem. If you like it, I can give you the recipe. It’s easy.”

He shook his head. “You don’t know who you’re talking to. Ask my kids what a terrible cook I am.”

I couldn’t hide a smile. “They’ve already volunteered that info.”

“Did they?” He chuckled. “Little shits.”

“Don’t feel bad. If I were as busy as you, I probably wouldn’t know how to cook either.”

“I keep thinking I’ll learn, but I suppose I should actually make an effort at it,” he said with a sigh. “Thanks again for everything. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I mean that.”

“No problem.” I followed him to the door. I felt like skipping. “I’ll head over to your house when she wakes up.”

“Perfect. God, this smells good.” He sniffed the bag. “You better be careful not to spoil me, or I’ll be hanging around your door like a stray dog all the time.”

I laughed. “I wouldn’t mind.”

He gave me a rueful, boyish grin that made my insides melt and disappeared down the hall.

Twenty minutes later, my heart was still pounding.

“What’s got you so smiley?” my mother asked when Winnie and I came downstairs to say goodbye.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said airily, watching the little girl dart down the hall toward her dad’s office.

“Frannie Sawyer, you’re a terrible liar.” She crossed her arms. “What’s in that head of yours?”

I could hardly tell her how happy it had made me to pack a lunch for Mack, so I decided to confide in her about Mrs. Radley’s suggestion.

“You know the bride from last weekend? She had an idea for me.” Thirty seconds into the story, I was sorry.

“I don’t know, Frannie,” my mother fretted, shaking her head. Then she hurled a million questions at me without giving me a chance to answer them. “A bakery? Where would it be? Who would run it?”

“I would.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Running a business would be much too hard and stressful for you. You don’t know anything about it.”

“I could learn,” I bristled.

“But why would you need to? You already have a job here. And your macarons are so popular for weddings.”

“It would be nice to have my own thing for once, Mom,” I said testily. “Do you have to shoot this down before we even talk it over? Just like you shoot down everything I’ve asked to do on my own?”

She looked offended. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s the same old thing. I don’t know why I even bothered to think you’d be excited for me.”

“Frannie!”

“It’s the truth, Mom. I wanted to do all the things my sisters did, but the answer was always no. Play sports. Go away to college. Backpack through Europe. I’ve never even been out of the country!”

She looked around to make sure no guests heard me shout, then lifted her chin. “You can’t compare yourself to your sisters. You were different, Frannie. Special. There were limits to what your heart could handle.”