His chest was so hard.
Mrs. Radley looked relieved. “Oh, thank God.”
Grabbing Mack’s scissors, I came out from around the desk and stood behind her. “Okay, I think I can manage this with you still in the dress, but try not to move too much. I don’t want to poke you. White or yellow thread? Sorry, no ivory in the kit.”
“White.” She stood still while I threaded the needle. “Is that him?” she asked, gesturing toward a framed photo of Mack with his daughters I’d taken last July at the staff picnic. Winifred was on his shoulders, and the other two were hanging from his thick biceps. All four were smiling and laughing. I recalled how grateful Mack had been that day because I’d organized crafts and games for the kids, showed them all the fun places to hide, let them dip their feet in the creek, taken them into the barns and let them pet the animals. He said he hadn’t seen them so happy in months and had put an arm around my shoulders, giving me a squeeze. (In my fantasies, things progressed rapidly from there, but in reality, I’d simply said, “You’re welcome.”)
“Yeah,” I said, carefully securing the edge of the strap to the dress. “That’s him.”
“Handsome.”
“Yes.” My heart beat a little quicker.
She laughed a little. “That was a very emphatic yes. Are you two a thing?”
Only in my dreams. I cleared my throat. “No.”
“Is he married? I don’t see a wife in any of his photos.”
“He was. Now he’s divorced and a full-time single dad.”
“Are you married?” the bride asked.
I laughed. “No.”
“Boyfriend?”
I shook my head.
She inclined her head toward the photo of Mack and his girls. “I bet this guy could use a Saturday night out sometime. You should ask him.”
“He’s more likely to hire me to babysit on a Saturday night,” I said wryly, knotting the end of the thread.
“Are you that much younger?”
“Ten years. I’m twenty-seven, and he’s thirty-seven.”
She waved a hand in the air. “That’s nothing. James is twelve years older than I am. Age is just a number.”
Maybe, but I was 100 percent certain that Mack looked at me and saw a kid. Not once in the five years he’d worked here had he ever given me any indication otherwise, despite the fact that I could hardly breathe when we were in a room together.
It was a hopeless crush, and I knew it.
I snipped the thread and made sure my handiwork didn’t show. “Speaking of the groom, we’d better get you back there for that first dance.”
“You’re right. Don’t want to let him off the hook. He’s dreading the dancing.” She laughed and faced me. “How do I look?”
“Beautiful. All lit up inside.”
“No lipstick on my teeth? No wine stain on my dress?” She glanced at her shoes. “No toilet paper?”
I laughed and shook my head. “You’re good to go.”
“Thank you so much, Frannie.” She gave me a quick hug. “You’re a doll.”
“You’re welcome. Give me one sec to put this stuff away and I’ll walk you back.”
“I can find my way, no worries.” She headed for the door. “And I’d better hurry—those macarons on the dessert table looked divine. I don’t want them to be gone when I get there.”
“Oh, I made those. I can always get you some extra if they are.”
She turned around, her mouth falling open. “You made those? They’re beautiful! And absolutely delicious! I tasted one when we visited the first time—no joke, they were one of the things that sold me on having the wedding here.”
Blushing, I smiled. “I’m so glad.”
“You’re really talented. Are you a pastry chef? What on earth are you doing at the reception desk?”
I shook my head. “I’m not a pastry chef. But I was taught by one who worked here years ago—Jean-Gaspard. He was kind enough to tolerate my constant presence and endless questions in the kitchen, and I memorized everything he said.”
She laughed. “Well, it paid off. Do you sell in stores?”
“No. Just here.”
“You need to be in business!”
“Maybe someday,” I said, tucking the needle back into the kit.
“What are you waiting for?” she cried, tossing her hands up.
“I don’t know. A lightning bolt?” I suggested, laughing self-consciously. In truth, I’d imagined it a thousand times—just a tiny little storefront with a couple glass cases lined with rows of beautifully-colored macarons. But would it succeed? What if it was too specialized? What if tourists up here just wanted fudge and ice cream? What if I failed and lost tons of money?