Other than that, I’d buried that part of me.

And I had to admit, when I’d started baking hours ago, no matter how tired I was, I’d lost myself in it.

It was just that now the fatigue had settled deep, I wasn’t enjoying it as much.

Regardless, Mickey was right. The house smelled like a bakery. Sugary and sweet.

And heavenly.

Thus I decided right then I was going to bake again. For me. For the kids.

In fact, the next time they came maybe I’d get them to stay home and in my presence for more than five minutes, bribing them with cupcakes.

“Earth calling Amelia. You there, babe?”

I shook my head sharply and focused on Mickey, who was calling me, laughter in his deep voice, that and his saying my name with that laughter doing things to me I refused to feel.

“Sorry, it’s been a long day.”

“I bet it has,” he murmured, his eye on me dancing (something I refused to see). He hefted the box in his arms an inch. “Junior called, said the big day was tomorrow. You didn’t tell me.”

I didn’t and not because I was avoiding him (which I also was) but because I completely forgot.

“I didn’t, Mickey,” I admitted. “I’m so sorry.”

He kept grinning. “No apologies, babe. Not lost on me your house has been a hub of activity the past week. But the kids and I had a troll through our place and thought we’d pop these by to do our bit.”

“And to get a cupcake.”

This came from one of the beings with him and I finally gave my attention to the boy and girl that were standing on either side of Mickey. Taking them in, I saw that Mickey and his ex-wife had flip-flopped what Conrad and I had created.

This included his daughter clearly being the oldest and looking a lot like her father, except female, shorter and very curvy to the point of being a little plump, still carrying what was probably some pre-adolescent baby fat.

His boy had dark blond hair, but luckily got his father’s blue eyes. He also had a body that had yet to declare its full intentions seeing as, at a guess, Mickey’s daughter was around thirteen or fourteen and his son was maybe ten or eleven.

“My girl, Aisling,” he said, jerking his head to the girl. “Said starting with the Ash, but spelled Irish with an a, i and s.” This came out practiced and I knew he’d given his girl a beautiful name but one many messed up. “Cillian, also spelled Irish,” he stated, jerking his head the other way, to the boy. “Spelled with a c not a k.”

“Got it,” I mumbled. “Ash with an a, i, s and kill. I’ll be certain to get that right on your Christmas card.” This made Mickey smile, Cillian grin and Aisling’s blue eyes twinkle like her dad’s. “How about the three of you come in, drop that and get a cupcake?” I invited.