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But we were teenagers. She was drowning, and I wasn’t old enough—or wise enough—to know how to save her.

“She was my best friend,” I tell Drew softly. “I know things got a little rough between us, but that was a long time ago. Of course I want to see her. Tell me where and when, and I’ll be there.”

“I can’t thank you enough,” Drew says with an audible sigh of relief. “We can come down to Kingsgate on Saturday if you’re free?”

“Yes. It’s my Saturday off, so yes, absolutely, yes. There’s a great little tea shop in the shopping arcade called Mother’s Den. We could meet there.”

“Sounds good. Does two o’clock work for you?”

“Perfect. Oh my goodness.” I grin so hard my cheeks ache. “This has just turned into the best day ever.”

“I’m sure Sydney will be just as happy to see you.”

Something heavy and dull thuds into the pit of my stomach. “Are you sure?”

Drew doesn’t even hesitate. “I’m sure.”

“Okay,” I say slowly.

“She’ll see you Saturday,” he confirms.

Oh. The image of meeting Drew Donovan in Mother’s Den suddenly flashes through my mind.

“Will you be coming with her?”

“I’ll drive down with her, but then I have some shopping to do. I’m sure you two will have a lot to catch up on.”

“Of course. Well… thanks for calling.”

The line goes dead, and I’m left dumbfounded, derailed, and fizzing with nervous adrenaline at the thought of seeing Sydney again after all these years.

“Are you okay, Alice?”

A familiar Irish accent cuts through the staffroom, and I look up to find Owen standing in his ice-white shirt and pressed blue trousers, every inch of him painfully neat, right down to his highly polished shoes and perfectly styled hair. I’d been so wrapped up in the phone call that I hadn’t even heard him come in.

Owen is one of our grumpier kitchen designers. He spends most of his day hidden away in his little office, silently correcting everyone else’s work, and only interacts with us lowly consultants when it’s absolutely necessary.

I must stare too long, as he adds, “You’re clutching your phone like you’ve just had really good news or really bad news.”

“Oh, good news. Absolutely good news,” I say, because it does feel like good news.

“Well, that’s grand, then.”

He saunters over to the kettle before extracting his fancy brand of tea from the communal cupboard. Naturally, he doesn’t ask what the good news actually is. Owen isn’t exactly known for his conversational skills.

In the year he’s worked here, I don’t think I’ve seen him willingly talk to anyone except me, and that’s only because I don’t really give him a choice.

I like Owen. It makes me sad to think about him spending all day at work with nobody talking to him, even if he does radiate do not talk to me vibes. I figured early on he probably hated small talk, so instead I try to ask him important questions, like whether he believes in the five-second rule or if food becomes inedible at exactly five-point-one seconds. Once, I arrived with a giant spot on my chin and informed him that I’d named it Fred.

To be fair, he always answers me.

So I plough on and tell him everything.

“A guy just called me… who is the boyfriend of someone I used to go to school with—my best friend, actually—and he’s arranged for us to meet up.”

“Is that so?” Owen doesn’t look up.

“I haven’t seen her in…” I do the maths. “God, it must be twenty-odd years. It’s going to be weird but exciting.”