grand master plan her parents had slotted her into.
The problem was she had bought into the whole family thing from the start and she still wanted it. Only this time the family she wanted was going to be very different from the one she had grown up in. That was not negotiable.
Cold, icy silences at torturous formal mealtimes would be replaced by warm, real interest in what the people around the unpolished practical pine kitchen table were thinking and doing. Helpful and supportive. Wanting the best for her children and being there for them no matter what happened and what choices they made. Working with a man who she could love as a real partner for the long haul.
A man who did not insist that every surface in the house was sanitised and polished daily in silent obedience by the slaves of women who were his token wife and daughter.
So, overall the precise opposite of what she had grown up in and survived.
Yeah. Well, that was the dream.
And her life at that moment was the reality.
No boyfriend. No family. No children of her own. And no prospects for creating that family unless something changed in her life or she made it happen.
When was the last time she had shared a meal cooked by someone else with a man who she could call her boyfriend—or even a lover?
When was the last time she had even gone on a date?
Lottie stood on tiptoe to watch the young executive couple press their heads together, happy and oblivious to how blessed they were, before they turned the corner and moved out of sight.
Drat Dee for showing her just what she was missing in her life.
One day she would find someone who she could trust enough to share her life and dreams with. One day.
When the phone began to ring again, Lottie had to take a moment to blink away stupid tears before picking it up.
‘Lottie’s Cake Shop and Tea Rooms.’
‘Good morning, Miss Rosemount. I trust that you slept well.’
It was Rob!
Her foolish girly heart skipped a beat and her stomach flipped so hard that she had to grab the mixing bowl of icing before it slithered off the worktop.
Sleep? How did he expect her to sleep? It had taken hours to settle a very bouncy and over-stimulated Adele into Dee’s room and persuade her not to munch the entire contents of the biscuit displays. Followed by several hours of tossing and turning as she replayed the scenes with Rob on repeat inside her head.
Breathe. All she had to do was breathe normally. Keep it casual. That was the key. Lottie’s mouth curved up into a smile. He was totally in her control, and that felt disgracefully good.
‘Splendidly, thank you,’ she lied. ‘Good morning to you, too. I hope that the bruises have faded?’
‘Not yet,’ a low rough voice replied. ‘Those packing crates were lethal.’ Then he gave a low cough. ‘I was wondering if my mother was awake yet. We had agreed to catch up about her plans for the day.’
Ah. So that was why he had phoned. He was worried about how his mother was.
Okay. She got that. As long as Rob remembered that she was the person who had invited his mother to stay in Dee’s room overnight, for the simple reason that she liked Adele Forrester and the poor woman was in no fit state to face the press.
And definitely not because her son Rob had looked desperate.
‘As of ten minutes ago your mum was snuggled under Dee’s duvet and snoring lightly. That cold medicine and champagne combination make a very effective knock-out potion. It may be a while before she surfaces.’
‘Fine. See you in an hour. Try and get her up in time. Ciao.’
And then he put the phone down on her. Unbelievable!
Lottie glared at the handset in disbelief for a few seconds before shaking her head and returning it to the wall bracket.
That man had no manners whatsoever.
Lottie sniffed and picked up her spatula and got back to work filling an icing bag with the luscious soft-cheese-and-orange-zest icing for the mini carrot cakes that were already lined up in their cases and waiting for a soft swirl of Lottie’s special recipe topping.
The cheek of the man. Just because he was a celebrity chef with his own TV show and food awards up to his armpits did not mean that he could simply order her about and expect her to say, ‘Yes, chef,’ like one of his kitchen brigade!
Lottie tossed the spatula back into the bowl and squeezed the piping bag down until she had formed a perfect swirl in the bowl.
But at least one good thing had come out of it all. Robert Beresford, international chef and gossip-columnist golden boy, had promised to turn up for the fundraiser at the hotel. And she was going to hold him to that, no matter what happened.
‘Oh, can I lick the bowl out? Please? You know I cannot resist your icing! Mmm, delish.’
Lottie chuckled as her friend and part-time waitress wiped her fingertip around the scrapes of icing left in the glass mixing bowl and popped it into the mouth. ‘Oh, that is so good,’ Gloria moaned. ‘When are you going to give me the recipe, woman? My girls would love me for ever.’
Lottie threw her head back and laughed out loud. ‘What are you talking about, Gloria? Your three girls already think you’re a goddess because you work here and go home loaded with edible swag every afternoon. And what about that handsome husband of yours? How did the chocolate melting-middle brownies go down last night?’
‘Go down? Oh, yes. I am going to need a regular supply, if that boy has the stamina to keep up with me,’ Gloria replied with a waggle of her eyebrows.
Lottie glanced quickly at the tables, then leant across and wiped the icing from Gloria’s cheek. ‘You are terrible! And setting a bad example for the customers.’
Then she flicked her head towards the counter. ‘How are we doing out there? Ready for the carrot cakes?’
‘Girl, we are always ready for that carrot cake. Pass them over and turn the oven on to make the next batch. They’ll be gone in an hour. And before I forget, the gals have been asking me about the Bake and Bitch club meeting next week. What special treat do you have lined up?’
Lottie winked and started washing up. ‘Wait and see, Gloria. You are just going to have to wait and see.’
* * *
Rob stared out of the floor-to-ceiling office window at the overcast sunless skies of central London in June. It was hard to believe that only thirty-six hours earlier he had been eating barbecue in the glorious Californian sunshine with his restaurant brigade.
His eyes felt heavy, gritty, and ready to close, but just as Rob rolled back his shoulders his talent agent, Sally Richards, finished the call on her mobile phone.
‘Good news. The first reviews and photos of the exhibition are all looking brilliant. The only
