Page 48 of The Sugar and Spice Bookshop Bakery

‘Of course,’ he says. ‘It’s perfect for me. In London, I design and build summerhouses. Since Covid, I’ve done a lot of home offices too. People can always buy prefabricated things, but a lot of customers want something more bespoke. Something unique.’

‘Unique sounds good,’ she says, thinking of Maddie’s pictures. She glances at the bar, but Maddie has left already. ‘Perhaps when your dad sees what an amazing job you’ve done for the bookshop bakery, he’ll come round.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Jack says. ‘He’s never shown the slightest interest in my actual work.’

‘I think that’s such a shame. He’s really missing out.’

Their eyes meet. Louise looks at the handsome man opposite her and he appears so vulnerable that she wants to reach over and put her arms around him, but there is a giant Yorkshire pudding smothered in gravy in between them, not to mention a half-eaten steak and fries.

‘I won’t tell anyone,’ she says. ‘You can trust me.’

‘I know I can. And I’ll do a good job for you, I promise.’

‘And then afterwards?’

‘Afterwards?’

‘You’ll go back to London, back to your life there?’

‘I’m not sure. We’re still waiting for Babbo’s test results. If he needs me around, I’ll stay, obviously. Though I don’t know how I’d earn a living round here if I can’t be honest about what I actually do. But if the prognosis is good, then I guess I’ll head back to London. I’m doing well there, Louise. And much as I love Yorkshire, it makes sense for me to go back to the city.’

‘Well then, here’s hoping that he’s okay.’

And Louise does want that, of course she does. Even if it means Jack leaving Applethwaite.

Sixteen

It’s a bright morning, the kind where anything feels possible. Even transforming a muddy patch of grass into a book lover’s paradise with the aid of a few garden sheds.

Jack and Louise are standing in the garden, looking at the space and considering the proposed plan of where all these sheds – or book nooks as Louise is now calling them – are going to go.

‘Do we have to decide this now?’ she says. ‘Can’t we just choose a spot for the first one and then work out where the others might go afterwards? I mean, it doesn’t all have to be set in stone already, does it?’

‘Not in stone, no. But it does have to be set in concrete.’

‘Concrete?’

‘Each shed will need a concrete base. We could do the first concrete base and then get the others done later, but it’d be cheaper to get the groundwork done for all of them in one go. So yes, better to work out the layout for the whole place now.’

She wants to wait. To be cautious. To build one shed, kit it out, see if it feels right. ‘I dunno. It’s so hard, deciding. That pressure to get it perfect. What if we put them up then I change my mind?’

‘You’re procrastinating, Louise. You’ve got to commit to the project.’

‘I know, but…’

‘Let’s look at the plan.’

He takes the portfolio from under his arm, and pulls out a folded piece of paper, holding it out so they can both study it together. Louise moves nearer to him, with the pretext of being able to see it properly, but really because she likes being closer to him. And he inches towards her, with the result that their heads are almost touching, as they bend over the plan together. Jack’s intricate little plan, showing an aerial view of where each book nook will be, with a network of little paths weaving between them.

Louise has always known she’s not much of a map reader, but she can’t make head nor tail of what she’s looking at and how it relates to the garden. Probably because she isn’t really thinking about book nooks and garden plans. She can’t concentrate. Jack, for his part, says nothing. Their breath makes misty clouds in the cold autumn air, hers mixing with his, and she realises that she is, subconsciously, breathing in sync with him.

He should turn his head now to find her closer than he expected. She should feel his breath, warm on her cheek. Their eyes should meet. He’d say something low and warm and soft. Her name perhaps. Just her name. But the way he’d say it… it would flip her stomach. Make her knees weak.

Clichés. Clichés.

Ignore the clichés, Louise. You’re not an editor now. Get back to the fantasy.

His hand brushing her face. A fingertip tracing the outline of her lips. The way he’s looking at her. Hungrily. His eyes searching hers. All thoughts of garden plans and book nooks and concrete bases gone.