Mr. Park Lane (The Mister)

There wasn’t much to tell. I didn’t know anything about Jacob other than we both worked in pediatrics and he was gorgeous. “We’re meeting on Saturday at eight.”

“This is perfect,” Stella said. “Much less pressure because you’re colleagues, so if there’s no spark, the dinner is just an opportunity to get to know each other better.”

That was true. We could always talk about our medical backgrounds and where we went to university. “Any advice? Dos and don’ts?”

“Just be yourself.” She slid me a carton of eggs. “Add one egg then whisk. Repeat four times. Never add all the eggs at once, or the batter will get uneven and gummy.”

I followed her instructions. Soon, the batter took on the rich, creamy texture I recognized from my failed attempt with Joshua. So far, then, it seemed we hadn’t come to the part of this process I’d screwed up so royally. “Is it okay to focus on work as a topic of conversation?”

“Of course,” Hollie said. “What do you talk about when you’re with Joshua?”

Luckily, the baking overtook the need to answer Hollie’s question.

“Now measure out two hundred and twenty-five grams of self-raising flour and sieve it into the bowl,” Stella said. “Self-raising has the baking powder mixed in already, but sometimes you need extra. Always check the recipe.”

“Jacob’s coming right from the hospital. He’s not picking me up, so I’m assuming I wear something casual?” I paused to make the note about flour and then did as instructed.

“Yes,” Autumn said. “Some nice jeans will be fine.”

What counted as nice jeans? I had no clue.

Under Stella’s guidance, I added the vanilla and lemon zest, poured the mixture into the pre-greased pans, and put them in the oven. It looked just the same as when Joshua and I had made it, but hopefully this time, the cake would rise.

“Great job.” Stella raised her glass. “Here’s to cake, dating, and waking Joshua up to what he’s missing.”

I raised my glass despite the ludicrous toast. This afternoon might produce a good cake, but it had been scant on dating advice. Their obsession with Joshua was a little weird. Their obsession with Joshua and me was borderline uncomfortable. Couldn’t they see that Joshua and I weren’t couple material? For a start, we couldn’t be more opposite if we tried. He always looked like he’d just stepped out of a photo shoot and I always looked like I’d just stepped out of a hospital. He could charm the birds from the trees, while I needed help to get through a drinks party with a room full of my professional peers. He lived in a hotel in Mayfair, while I was googling Rightmove for studios in Borehamwood. We weren’t compatible. Not in any way. The only thing we had in common was neither of us could bake, and given how the sponges were rising in the oven, even that common ground wouldn’t last long.

Ten

Joshua

As I waited for the lift to the penthouse, I typed out a message to my PA, instructing her to go ahead and submit paperwork so that Luca Brands took a corporate box at the Royal Opera House. When I’d told Hartford we already had a box, I might have been exaggerating a little. Or it might have been a complete lie depending on how you looked at it. But the box would be useful for client entertaining and I hoped Hartford would use it. I’d remembered she liked ballet but not understood that she had to give it up after her accident. From the way she’d acted when I brought up taking some classes, she was obviously still sad about it. Hopefully having access to the box would encourage her to go. If nothing else, it would give her something to tell Gerry.

I stepped out of the lift onto the penthouse floor and found Hartford slumped against the front door. She wasn’t wearing scrubs. Something must be up.

“Joshua!” She bounced to her feet like she was a puppy who’d been left alone all day. Her enthusiasm tugged in my stomach. It was surprisingly good to see her. We’d not caught up since our baking disaster. And she looked good. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen her in jeans. Her hair was down again, like it had been for the dinner with Gerry and Margo.

“Should I ask why you’re sitting on the floor outside your flat?”

She shrugged. “Somewhere between here and Liliana’s, I lost my key.”

“The cocktail bar? You meet up with one of the girls?” I opened my door and invited her in with a nod. As she followed me inside, I messaged the concierge, asking them to bring up a new key.

“No, I had a date.”

The tug in my stomach pulled a little tighter. “A date?” I tried not to sound shocked. Why had I gotten the feeling that Hartford’s world was small, consisting of little more than the hospital, her family and . . . me? I’d obviously been wrong.