A Recipe for Disaster: A deliciously feel-good romance. Belinda Missen

that often got him out of trouble. ‘You got a few minutes? Can I come in? Would that be okay?’

      ‘Sure.’

      We sat across from each other at the dining table, one at which we’d always, always sat next to each other. I placed the orange envelope of destruction on the bench, out of sight, and out of mind, flicked on the kettle, and turned the radio on low.

      ‘Like I said, I’ve been thinking a lot recently. I know that money will help you, or at least I hope it will.’

      ‘It will, thank you.’ Elbows on the table, I leant my chin in the palm of my hand. ‘Help get some stuff fixed.’

      Oliver nodded. ‘There’s something else.’

      ‘Oh?’ Right now, as I sat, I was waiting to be told he had a small army of children or some such coming to stay.

      ‘There’s a job for you at Murray’s. If you’re interested, that is.’

      I cringed, and I think I recoiled involuntarily. ‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’

      Oliver shrugged. ‘It’s certainly not my worst idea.’

      ‘I don’t think we should. I think we should just close this chapter off and move on.’

      He took a deep breath and dropped his chin onto his chest, almost deflated. ‘I’m happy to hold off on the opening date to accommodate your needs.’

      ‘No,’ I said. A final push back to what would be the easy option. ‘I’m going to concentrate on my cakes, and see where that takes me.’

      ‘All right. Okay.’ Oliver wiped his hands on his pants and stood up. ‘You’ll get that paperwork back to me whenever you’re ready?’

      ‘Will do.’

      ‘Goodnight, Lucy.’ He stopped by the front door. ‘Good to see you.’

      ‘You, too.’

      I didn’t move from my seat as he closed the door behind him, offered a brief wave, and slipped into the night. I picked up my phone and fired off a lunch request to Zoe. She’d know what to do.

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      Inverleigh Pub welcomes her patrons into the older part of town as you cruise down a gully, past an inconspicuous police car with reflective writing that stands out like a neon light at midnight. It’s just over a rickety bridge that makes you pray you didn’t get sideswiped by a log truck doing far more than the requisite sixty kilometres per hour speed limit. If you survived the gauntlet, you were due a beer in the heavily renovated watering hole.

      I walked through the bistro door to find Zoe already scribbling on the butcher paper tablecloth with a handful of supplied pencils. She summoned me over with a demand that I tell her everything, which I tried, in one hundred and forty characters or less. Super condensed.

      Even though I’d rejected Oliver’s offer, it was still a ridiculously tempting, generous thing for him to suggest. Since he’d visited, I’d written list after list of why it was a bad idea. And it still seemed like a bad idea as I sat at a wobbly table in the corner of the bistro.

      Zoe rearranged her cutlery. ‘You’re not accepting his job.’

      ‘What?’ I asked.

      ‘At least not yet.’ Her head zinged about, looking for someone to come and serve us. ‘We should eat. I’m hungry – are you hungry? What about a vino?’

      ‘Absolutely.’ I took the menu she’d shoved under my nose. ‘Why not?’

      ‘Because Lucy is a tough, strong, independent woman. Your walking in there now is the same as you saying, “Oliver, it’s completely okay to treat me like dirt, roll back into town like a tumbleweed, and I’ll bend over to forgive you”.’

      ‘Do you think so?’ I asked. Pizza looked great. Then again, so did the savoury tasting plate, full of meats, cheeses, and local spreads.

      She leant in to the table theatrically. ‘I know so.’

      ‘But I just quit my job.’

      ‘Yes, you did. So go make some cakes. You’ve had enquiries, right? Get yourself sorted there. Start with the few you have already and see how you go.’

      ‘If that fails?’ I asked.

      ‘If that fails,’ she said, ‘then you can go back to Oliver and say you’ve had time to think about it. Don’t tell him you’re desperate. Boys can smell desperate; it’s like pheromones.’

      ‘Okay.’

      ‘Running to him now tells him you can’t do it without him. And, if that’s the case, what the hell have the last three years been for?’ She shrugged. ‘Huh?’

      Once again, Zoe came armed with a bag full of truth. Perhaps leaving the school hadn’t been the smartest thing to do, and maybe I could still walk back in there and tell Richard I’d had a brain snap, but I’d committed. Now, I had to see it through.

      ‘Basically, you want him to sweat.’ Zoe waved her hand about. ‘When people really want something, they work for it. You just give it to them, well, more fool you, because they won’t appreciate it. Trust me on this one.’

      * * *

      Getting the cake business back up and running wasn’t as easy as my romantic little brain had imagined. Sure, the Instagram and Facebook went up, and a small smattering of followers appeared, but what good were they when it looked like they were simply other cake shops – more competition than customer? Worse still were the random people trying to sell bust enhancers or male performance pills.

      With the few events I delivered cakes to, I was often invited to join the celebrations. The questions came, but the bookings didn’t. Sure, phone numbers were swapped, and I laughed at jokes about Mates Rates, but that’s where it ended. I’d get in my car and drive home, spying a quickly forming Murray’s on my way through the main street, and return home to plot my next move.