Caroline Davidson’s eyebrows had shot up almost to her blond hair, pulled back in its usual tidy knot. “Where do you find these guys, Jamie?”

Jamie fingered her necklace, a silver Chinese character that meant happiness, and jutted her bottom lip out. “Come on, y’all, just give it a chance. He knows things, I’m telling you.” She patted Beckwith’s arm as if he was a cute toddler instead of a thirty-year-old hairy male in women’s clothing.

Beckwith didn’t look the least bit offended by Allison and Caroline’s cynicism. He gave Mandy a smile, his hand still making those same smooth, warm glides across her skin.

“Born and raised on the country estate, quite a bit of money, Daddy works in the big city, gone all the time, Mom has horses…and I see women, lots of women, talking, laughing, standing, passing teacups—and you, legs together, back straight, hands in lap.”

Mandy’s throat went dry, and goose bumps rose over her flesh where he was touching her. Beckwith stared at her, a faint smile playing about his mouth, shiny lip gloss hovering over five-o’clock shadow.

What he had said…it was her childhood, summed up in one sentence. Her father always in London, carrying on the Keeling tradition as head of the financial division of a world banking conglomerate. Mother alternating between raising her horses and hosting various charitable and social events. There were always women in their house, The Acres, soft, muted, proper, and Mandy expected to behave properly, sit quietly, or entertain Mother’s guests with her rather dubious piano talents.

“Yes, sweet things ahead for you. Your life will change, but in a good way. Selfless. Enriched. With a man who makes you just melt.”

Ben. Mandy wondered if Beckwith meant Ben, the man she’d been seeing for six months. She didn’t think of him as her boyfriend, because it seemed ridiculous to label a man in his forties that way, but that’s what he was. And she thought maybe he was going to ask her to marry him.

That would make her happy, wouldn’t it? Ben was kind, stable, albeit a little distracted sometimes. He was a fellow Englishman in New York. He was punctual. Respectful. Intelligent. She cared about him a great deal, but she wasn’t sure if she was ready to marry him, or if he could ever make her melt. Soften a little, maybe, but melting seemed a bit beyond Ben’s reach.

“Pastries.”

Mandy blinked. “What?” What did Ben have to do with pastries? When she thought of him, cream puffs and tarts did not come to mind. Ben was a biscuit.

Beckwith closed his eyes. “I see pastries. Baked goods. All lined up in front of you.” He shook his head and met her gaze. “Have you ever thought of opening a shop?”