On this thought, my doorbell rang and for once, I didn’t exult in the beautiful chimes.

No, I fought the urge to throttle whatever late-arriving mom of a budding boxer who was going to dump a load of crap that I had to tag and arrange after eight o’clock the night prior to the big day that we’d advertised I was opening my doors at seven in the morning.

I dropped the spoon in the bowl and made my way to the door, seeing through the shadowed panes there was more than one body out there and one of them was not a mom of a budding boxer, but the dad of one.

That figured and I should have known.

Men didn’t know any better.

I flipped the locks, opening the door arranging my features so they were pleasant, not murderous, and then completely arrested.

“Hey,” Mickey Donovan greeted, standing at my door looking unfairly attractive in a pair of faded jeans, a beat up chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up his sinewy forearms, another five o’clock shadow adorning his strong jaw.

He had two other beings with him, two beings I didn’t take in because first, Mickey was grinning, second, he looked unfairly attractive in his casual clothing, and third, he was holding a huge box filled with stuff I knew I would need to tag and arrange, which meant wine and shower were out. It was going to be tag, arrange and bed.

“Jesus, did heaven crash into your living room?”

I moved but only to blink.

“I’m sorry?” I asked.

“Amelia, darlin’, whatever you’re doin’ in there smells like it could only come from the hand of God.”

Wow.

That felt good. So good. Unusually good.

Abnormally good.

And it felt good because I loved to bake. I’d fallen in love with it all the way back in junior high school home economics class.

However, when I’d taken over my parents’ vast kitchen in order to enjoy my newfound hobby, my mother moved immediately to curtail these activities.

“We have staff to do that kind of thing, Amelia,” she’d rebuked. “Not to mention, a lady should do all in her power to shy away from sweets.”

Unfortunately, years later, when these tethers were severed and I might have been freed to bake at my leisure, more were tied because Conrad had felt the same.

“You’re gonna give me a gut, little bird,” he’d told me after the second time I’d baked him cookies. He’d then given me a meaningful look. “And you want to avoid getting one too.”

I thought, when the kids came, I could indulge, kids being kids and liking cookies and glossy, frosting-topped cupcakes with sprinkles.

But I’d been wrong. Conrad had acted like any sugar they consumed was akin to feeding our children poison.

In fact, he told me it was poison, “And should be avoided at all costs, pookie.”

Thus I’d been reduced to sneaking them cupcakes, cookies, pies and cakes when their dad was away at conferences.