Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 47254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 158(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 158(@300wpm)
I hoped so. ’Cause the alternative explanation was that I’d just walked away from someone special.
3
Theo
Jet lag was real. It took me three days to acclimate to Greenwich Mean Time. I fought the urge to nod off during dinner but had a hard time getting to sleep in the wee hours of the morning. I thought about using my remaining Ambien, but they hadn’t worked on the plane and I didn’t want to lean on pharmaceuticals anyway. So I reverted to my usual habit of scrolling social media and playing word games on my cell at two a.m.
And yes…I researched Scott O’Brien.
Ugh, that sounded a tad pathetic, but I couldn’t help it. I thought of him constantly. I wondered where he lived and what his shop had been like in London. I’d love to try his “famous” red velvet cake, but I wasn’t sure where to find his baked goods and his online presence was lackluster.
Don’t get me wrong, it was professional, visually stimulating, and easy to navigate. I liked his logo and general branding, but his site didn’t have much personality. My former marketing self couldn’t help thinking it was a lot of flash for a bakery, and yet it was missing something.
Then I remembered his pop-ups in Oxford and Bath.
I wasn’t familiar with my English geography, which led to more research. I pulled up a map on my iPad and zoomed in on my current location in Bradford-on-Avon, furrowing my brow when I realized that Bath was very close—as in one train stop away.
I could visit the town, which actually looked pretty interesting with its Roman ruins and pristine Georgian architecture. And…I could visit Scott’s Bakery. He’d said he lived in London, so I wasn’t likely to run into him, and that was okay. In fact, it was better if I didn’t see him again. I didn’t want to come across as stalkerish. I was simply…curious.
And low-key obsessed with the sexiest sex encounter I’d ever had in my life.
Who could blame me?
The memory of Scott’s big hands, talented tongue, and his X-rated sweet nothings would fuel the right-handed bandit for months, if not years to come.
However, after a few days and nights of replaying conversations on the plane with Scott while distractedly engaging with Mom and Alistair, I realized something had to give. I couldn’t spend the next four and a half weeks preoccupied with a man I’d never see again. And I had a notion that seeing his pop-up bakery would give me closure. I could satisfy my curiosity and close this chapter once and for all.
So there. I was officially ready to venture to Bath.
Mom had some ambitious sightseeing excursions planned, but we stuck close to home initially. She showed off her quaint village, introduced me to her book club friends, and took me on a couple of hikes with her dogs in the hillside around Bradford-on-Avon.
There was talk of going to London soon and taking day trips to Salisbury and Stonehenge. And yes…Bath.
“Want to go today?”
“Oh, honey, we’d need a boat to navigate the streets. Look at that rain.” Mom crossed her arms as she peered out of her kitchen window.
I leaned against the counter, mirroring her pose. “Don’t you think we’d be fine with a sturdy umbrella?”
“Sure, but part of the charm is walking the old cobblestone streets. It’s not exactly fun to run like mad around town with umbrellas and still get wet.” She set her hand on my elbow and smiled sweetly. “Don’t worry. It’s close. I have my knitting group coming on Saturday, but Sunday is free.”
I nodded absently. “I was thinking I might go on my own.”
Mom cocked her head curiously and pivoted to face me. “Are you sure?”
“Of course. I don’t want you to feel like you have to entertain me for a month, and I’d like to do a little solo exploring anyway.”
“Hmm. I have another suggestion. Take Giles.”
I groaned on cue. “Mom.”
“I betcha he could be persuaded to play tour guide.” She fluttered her eyelashes and bumped my hip in what I think was supposed to be a “don’t I come up with the best ideas?” maneuver.
“No, thank you,” I replied quickly.
Mom frowned. “Why not? He’s roughly your age, handsome, gay, and…he’s moving to San Francisco in the spring.”
“Yes, you’ve mentioned that. Thrice.”
“Well, the stars rarely align quite that beautifully, Theo. You have to meet him properly and tell him all about the Bay Area. I’ve shared my old stories, but it’s better for him to sit down with someone closer to his own age.”
“I’d be happy to talk to Giles, but I’m not dating him, for crying out loud,” I huffed, striding to the opposite end of the long wood table in the middle of her kitchen.
A word about my mother: Shawna Belden Lewis-Burton was a pixie-small woman with short blond hair, blue eyes, and an affinity for all things British. Of course, when she was married to my dad, she had a thing for all things wine-country related.