Right Number, Wrong Girl

“I know. It always does. All you have to do is think about a piece of bread and you’re hungry.” She got up and walked over to the fridge. “Don’t let Trifle trip you up for this.”

“Oh. Is that a trifle?”

“No, Hugo, it’s a chocolate souffle.”

Sophie hid a smile behind her hand.

“Yes, it’s a bloody trifle.” She set the dish down in front of me. “And don’t expect this every time you come and see me. I just happened to have one.”

She always just happened to have something in the fridge she could give me.

She might have retired from baking, but that didn’t mean she’d stopped.

“You’re the best.” I kissed her cheek. “If you’re done, we’ll leave you to it. I have some stuff to do for Dad.”

“We’re all done. I’ll make sure this is delivered the morning of the party. I’ll be there to calm your mum down anyway.” Kellie chuckled. “Bring that dish back tomorrow when you’re done.”

“How do you know I’ll be done tomorrow?”

She hit me with a look that made Sophie laugh. I glared at her, but she was too busy giggling to notice.

“I’ll bring it back tomorrow,” I muttered, picking up the trifle as I stood.

“Good lad. Enjoy it.” She winked at Sophie and guided us to the front door. “Hugo, do give Camilla my number.”

“Huh?”

“In case she needs to discuss the cake. I don’t have my phone with me right now.”

Camilla.

Sophie.

Right.

Shit, this was confusing.

“Right, of course. Sorry. I’ll make sure she gets it before I leave her.”

“Thank you. Camilla, don’t take any of his crap.” She winked at Sophie and let us step outside.

“Thank you for all your help, and I’m sorry about the mix up,” Sophie said, pausing on the doorstep. “I’m glad we got to the bottom of this.”

“Not quite the bottom,” Kellie said, lips twisting. “But we ended up in the right place.”

“I suppose so.” Sophie hugged the folder to her chest. “Thank you.”

“Let me know if you need anything.” Kellie wrapped her in a hug before releasing her. “Hugo. Be nice to her.”

“I’ll be nice when she’s nice to me,” I called from the front of the truck.

“Then be a gentleman at least,” she shouted back.

I held up my hand in acknowledgment of what she’d said—like I hadn’t already helped Sophie into the truck twice today—and turned to Sophie. “Need a hand again?”

“If you get that shit-eating grin off your stupid face,” she muttered, putting the folder in the footwell.

“Absolutely not. I’m enjoying this, and I’m not going to pretend otherwise.”