Irresistible (Cloverleigh Farms #1)(10)

“Yes. Do you like it?”

She nodded. “It’s like a doll house.”

I laughed. “It is kind of like a doll house. A little bigger, maybe, but not much. Are you hungry?

“Yes.”

“Me too. Let’s see what we can find.”

In the kitchen, Winnie and I opened my fridge and took out a big container of chicken noodle soup I’d made over the weekend. In my tiny pantry, she found some Ritz crackers, and counted out four for each of us while I rinsed and sliced an apple.

When everything was ready, we sat at the counter next to each other. While we ate, I asked Winnie about school, about her sisters, and as usual, I snuck in a question or two about her dad. That was how I’d learned that he wasn’t a very good cook and they were used to eating a lot of chicken nuggets and fish sticks for dinner, that he never got mad when Winnie wet the bed, and that he was okay at brushing hair but terrible at styling it. Today I learned that over the weekend, he’d accidentally turned everyone’s white socks pink, even his own.

I laughed. “Did something red get in the white load of laundry?”

She slurped her soup. “I don’t know.”

After lunch, I asked Winnie if she’d ever had a macaron.

“What are those?” she asked, wiping her mouth on her sleeve.

I gasped in mock horror as I stood, collecting our bowls. “What are those? You mean you’ve never had a macaron?”

“No.” She smiled and asked hopefully, “Is it a treat?”

“It’s only the most beautiful, most fancy treat ever!” I carried our dishes to the sink and grabbed the bakery box sitting on the counter. Inside were a few macarons I’d set aside Saturday when preparing for the Radley wedding. I had hazelnut, white chocolate malt, and rosewater cream. “Peek into this box.”

I set it in front of her and she leaned over to look inside. “Ooooh! Can I have one?”

“Sure. Which one would you like?”

“The pink,” she said, pointing at the rosewater cream.

“Good choice.” I took one from the box and put it on a plate for her, along with a white chocolate malt for me.

“Did you make them?” Winnie asked.

“I sure did. I can make about twenty different colors and flavors, and I’m always testing out new ones.”

“Really? Can you make a gold one? That’s the Hufflepuff color.” She tucked her legs underneath her on the stool and picked up the pink macaron.

“Yes. It’s lemon chiffon, another one of my favorites.” I took a tiny bite of the white chocolate malt, thinking again about what Mrs. Radley had said to me Saturday night about my own business. Since then, her offer to discuss the possibility had crossed my mind a hundred times. I hoped she’d get in touch.

Winnie gobbled hers up and licked her fingers. “Mmmm. Can you teach me how to make them?”

“Well, they’re a little complicated and take a lot of practice. But we can work on it. Tell you what—if you’re a good girl and take a little rest now that you’re done with your treat, we’ll make some lemon chiffon macarons at your house this afternoon when your sisters get home, okay?”

She nodded eagerly, her mouth full. “Can I watch Sofia the First when I rest?”

“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.