The Little Bakery of Hopes and Dreams. Kellie Hailes

You’d have thought they’d have rushed in at the sound of a potential customer.

      ‘Hello?’ Josie called out, keeping her tone light, happy. Hoping the desperation that had her stomach stitched up with nerves didn’t come through. She waited for the tip-tap of footsteps. None came. ‘Hello?’ Maybe something had happened to the shop’s owner? Perhaps they’d had a fall and couldn’t move. Or hit their head and were passed-out cold.

      She eyed the door that presumably led to the kitchen. She was going to have to go back there. She couldn’t leave without making sure whoever was supposed to be manning the store was okay. It might not be the politest thing to invade someone’s work area unannounced, but it was the right thing to do, given the potential circumstances.

      Josie summoned up her courage, prepared to deal with the worst, and charged round the counter into the room beyond and smacked into, then rebounded off, something hard, warm and really nice-smelling.

      Musky, sweet, with a hint of pine and soap.

      ‘I’m so sorry. Are you all right?’ The good smell came with a nice voice. Deep. Strong. But kind. ‘Although, I have to ask, what are you doing heading back here?’

      Josie scrambled to gather her wits as she looked up into a face that deserved to be on the cover of a high-end men’s magazine – certainly not in a small cake shop in the little Cotswolds village of Sunnycombe. Eyes the colour of chocolate icing stared at her with a mix of concern, curiosity and a hint of suspicion. A wrinkle between his brows led to a straight and manly nose.

      A nose could be manly? Who knew? But then she had no idea full lips could be masculine on a man either.

      He laid his hand on her forearm and crouched a little – okay, a lot – so he was at her height. All five feet four of it. ‘Are you okay? Are you lost? Should I call someone?’

      Oh great, so now he thought she was in some sort of state. This was not how the interview was meant to go.

      Walk in. Appear confident. Ask about the job working front of house. Mention she had experience baking. Charm the owner into saying yes. Tick ‘job’ off the long list of things she had to do.

      Pull yourself together, Josie, she growled.

      ‘I’m here …’ The words came out with a waver. Not good. She swallowed, breathed in, breathed out and tried again. ‘I’m here to talk to the owner about the job that’s advertised in your window. Is she in?’

      For a split-second his eyes darkened to the colour of cocoa, a frown line appeared between his brows, disappearing as quickly as it had arrived. He bobbed back up and a slow smile spread across his face, lifting his cheekbones. ‘Oh, so you want to see the lady of the house?’

      ‘Yes, please.’ Josie nodded, taking a step backwards. Another. Then another. Until she was back in the front of the shop and away from the man who, from the golden band gleaming on his wedding finger, was clearly the husband of the lady of the house, which made him completely out of bounds.

      He turned around, cupped his hand to his mouth and called, ‘Sweetpea? Can you come down here? There’s someone to see you.’

      Quick steps crossed the room from the floor above, then clip-clopped down the stairs. Josie sucked in another breath, attempted to smooth the ever-present auburn halo of frizz that refused to be tamed, and returned her customer-ready smile to her face.

      ‘I haven’t done anything, I promise. I’ve been good. I didn’t put dolly’s head in the toilet again.’

      The voice was sweet and soft, and sounded far too young to be the owner of a cake shop.

      ‘Mia, this lady is here to see the lady of the house. And that would be you.’

      Mr Out of Bounds leaned down and swooped up the owner of the voice into his arms. She automatically hooked her legs either side of his waist, anchored herself to him and with the same chocolatey-brown almond-shaped eyes that belonged to the man holding her – her father, Josie gathered – stared at Josie with undisguised curiosity.

      ‘I don’t know her. Does that make her a stranger? Is she stranger danger? Shall I yell at her to go away?’ Blonde curls, a few shades lighter than her father’s, bobbed around her heart-shaped face.

      ‘No, she’s here for the job. So I don’t think yelling at her is going to be the best idea. Besides, we don’t yell in this house. Remember?’ He tickled Mia’s waist, his grin widening as she burst into giggles. ‘Giggles only.’

      ‘Giggles only.’ Mia nodded. ‘And presents. And carols. And more presents.’ Mia turned to Josie. ‘Christmas is coming and Santa is coming and Daddy’s going to get me a teddy bear and a ballerina jewellery box and a unicorn and a pony and a …’

      ‘One present from Santa. One present from me. You know the rules.’

      One present from me. Not us, Josie noted. Was the wedding ring for show? Was the owner of the cake shop away for Christmas, and he was just filling in? But then who was doing the baking if not the person whose name was swinging from the sign outside? The man before her didn’t look the baking type in his perfectly pressed fawn-coloured chinos and olive cable-knit jumper. He looked more like … a businessman who was having a day off from the office. So maybe that meant he co–owned the shop with the business partner whose name was on the sign.

      ‘Who does the baking here?’ Josie blurted, tired of standing around and trying to piece together what was going on in front of her. Wondering and pondering wasn’t going to get her answers any faster. Nor help her acquire the job. ‘Is it Abigail? Is it her shop? Her name’s on the sign outside. Do I need to speak to her about the job?’

      ‘Mummy isn’t here anymore.’ Mia’s eyes were wide. Serious. Her tone too matter of fact to have come from such a petite person. ‘She’s gone to a better place. Daddy says it doesn’t have unicorns, but I think it does. And clouds made of marshmallows and you can eat them any time you want. Even at breakfast.’ She nodded again, sure in her beliefs.

      Josie folded her arms across herself, wishing the act could soothe the pain twisting her heart. She knew something of having a mother not be there. The difference was hers had chosen to leave and never come back. Mia, the poor poppet, had had her mother taken from her.

      ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered, hating how the words sounded so empty. Useless. Unable to soothe, to comfort. To help bring Mia’s mother back.

      ‘Thank you. And now that you have an idea of what you’re potentially getting yourself into, I should introduce myself. I’m Callan. Callan Stewart. I do the baking. Or at least I try to. I’m an accountant by trade, but Abigail taught me a few things. I’m not a patch on her, I’m afraid. In fact, I’ve yet to meet anyone who can bake as well as she does. I mean … did.’ The crease between Callan’s brows was back, and it didn’t look to be disappearing anytime soon.

      Josie’s heart twisted further. She’d seen that look before. On her father’s face, after her mother had left. Bereft. Desolate. The look of a man whose hopes and dreams had been whisked away. Or in Callan’s case, stolen.

      ‘And I’m Josie. Short for Josephine. But only my father calls me that. Josie Donnelly.’ She thrust her hand out, then realised Callan had his hands full with his daughter. And with life in general. She dropped her hand and offered up a smile. ‘It’s good to meet you. Now, shall we talk about the job? Is it still available?’

      ‘It is.’ Callan grimaced as Mia blew a wet raspberry on his cheek. ‘Would you like to take a seat?’ Callan jerked his head towards the table setting for two in front of the window. ‘I’m not sure conducting an interview standing up is the most comfortable way to do things.’ He jiggled Mia on his hip. ‘And this one isn’t getting any lighter. I swear she eats concrete when I’m not looking.’

      Josie nodded and grinned as Mia swatted Callan playfully. She settled herself onto the wooden chair, then smoothed out a wrinkle in the blue-and-white checked tablecloth.

      Callan