A Surgeon for the Single Mom

Nell twisted her mouth from side to side as if weighing up the options. ‘Where did you even get that stuff, anyway? I can’t see Dr Lover-man having a ready supply of fairy cake cases and all that.’

‘I went shopping this morning. I also bought popcorn we can throw into the microwave as we gorge on fun chick-flicks on that enormous cinema screen downstairs.’

‘What is going on with you?’ Nell cried. ‘You don’t even like baking.’

‘I do,’ Effie objected. ‘I just like eating what’s at the end of the process far more than the actual process. Now, can you just show me how to crack these eggs into the flour without getting shell in it?’

They were halfway through a mess when Tak walked in.

‘How’s the cake-baking?’

‘Fine!’ Effie declared a touch maniacally.

‘Awful.’ This from Nell.

He advanced into the kitchen with a grin and Effie was suddenly hit by an incredible urge to throw the electric mixer at him. If he was lucky she might actually turn it off first.

‘What seems to be the trouble?’

‘Nothing.’ Effie tried again. ‘No trouble.’

Nell eyed her impatiently. ‘Mum has no idea how many eggs, or how much butter, flour and sugar to use. She also thinks any kind of flavouring is a luxury, rather than a prerequisite—including vanilla.’

‘I see.’

‘I’m fine,’ Effie repeated, in a way that suggested that if she told herself enough times she might actually make it so.

‘You’re really not, Mum.’

‘Effie, come on. Let me help.’ he said. ‘I’ve made a fair few cakes in my time—including birthday cakes.’

Nell, it seemed, had heard all she needed to.

‘Fab. Here.’ She had untied her apron and whipped it off in an instant. ‘You take over. If I spend any more time in here with Mum one of us isn’t going to make it out alive. And I’m afraid it might not actually be me.’

‘Sorted.’ Tak nodded, taking over as though there was nothing else he’d rather be doing on a Saturday evening. ‘Okay, Effie, what do you want me to do?’

He really did look delectably divine, standing there.

‘You can cream the eggs and sugar,’ Effie managed at last, and she knew he’d heard the catch in her voice when a tiny frown creased his forehead.

She reminded herself that he couldn’t read her thoughts. That only she knew the delicious secret she was holding inside at this moment.

* * *

‘You’ve really made cakes?’ Effie asked, after they’d been working together for a while.

‘I have. Growing up, I found that baking cakes with Hetti and Sasha was a good way to get them to talk about any problems that they were having in school.’

‘Is that how you knew the best way I should handle Nell?’ The words tumbled out clumsily, as if she knew that if she didn’t just say it she might lose her nerve. ‘That night at the ball when we were talking about the shoplifting? Do you remember?’

‘I remember.’

He should shut her down. Tell her it was none of his business. He would have done with anyone else. But Effie was different—even if he couldn’t explain what made her so. A part of him wanted to tell her, and therein lay the dilemma. Because if he told her then he knew—just knew—that it would change things.

She would change things.

She would change him.