“She already has a store,” Allison said, tucking her feet under her long legs as she sat on the butter-colored easy chair wedged in the corner of their minute living room.

“It’s true,” Mandy told Beckwith, feeling almost guilty. Here he’d been doing so well. “I run a children’s toy shop.” Opened with her parents’ money, and only now breaking even after three years.

“No bakery?” Beckwith bit his lip.

“No bakery. Though when I tossed around ideas for starting the business, I wanted a toy shop or a bakery. But I knew I would have to rely on hired help if I started a bakery. The toy shop didn’t require as much staff.”

But lately she had been bored with the shop, which catered to tourists and upscale customers who wanted higher quality offerings than what was mass marketed at Toys “R” Us. She had been daydreaming about starting something new. A tea shop really, not a bakery, but serving scones and biscuits and sandwiches along with all the dozens of varieties of tea.

If there was one thing she knew, it was high tea, done the proper way.

Maybe Beckwith was onto something. Maybe it was the right time to make a change, to stop being so complacent and to embrace something that she was passionate about.

“That’s odd, because I really see something sticky and sweet, sugary.” Beckwith adjusted the strap on his dress.

“Maybe it’s a fruitcake,” Allison suggested in an innocent tone that didn’t match the wicked gleam in her brown eyes.

“Allison!” Jamie looked horrified.

But Beckwith just blinked, solemnly and mysteriously, a self-proclaimed prophet in Prada shoes. “Wait until it’s your turn, Allison Agnes Parker, and we’ll see if you’re still laughing.”

Allison’s feet fell to the hardwood floor.

Jamie’s jaw quickly followed. “Your middle name is Agnes?”

“No.” Allison tossed back her dark hair. “It’s Elizabeth.”

“Sure, whatever.” Beckwith rolled his eyes and scratched his chin.

Mandy laughed and pulled her hand from his. “You’ve definitely given me something to think about, so thank you, Beckwith. I do believe Jamie is right. You have a gift for pointing people in the right direction.”

“I’ve never been wrong yet.” He peered at her intently from beneath mascara-laden eyelashes. “Trust me, Mandy. Pastries. It means something.”

Chapter 1

Mandy clutched her roiling stomach and pondered the irony of it all.

Beckwith Tripp had been right.

Only no bake shop for her. Beckwith’s pastries had in fact been buns. Or more specifically, a bun. In her oven.

God help her, she was pregnant.

“Are you okay?” Caroline asked as she strode through the lobby, heading to the offices of NY Computing. Mandy inched along behind her, wishing there was a wall she could clutch.

“I’m just lovely, really, other than the fact that I’m being sick every three minutes.”