“They’re beautiful.” Had she flirted with him? Yes. Sort of. “Thank you.”

“I have my grandmother’s recipe for the lathopita.”

“Oh, that’s great.”

“She gave me orders to deliver it in person.” He took a recipe card out of his pocket, laid it beside the bouquet. “And to bring you the flowers.”

“That’s awfully sweet of her.”

“She liked you.”

“I liked her, too. How about some coffee?”

“No, I’m fine. Her third order was for me to ask you out to dinner—which I’d intended to do anyway, but she likes to take credit.”

“Oh. And that’s sweet of both of you. But I’ve actually started seeing someone recently. Well, the seeing part is recent. Sort of.”

“My grandmother and I are disappointed.”

She smiled a little. “Can I still keep the recipe?”

“On the condition I can tell her you only turned me down because you’re madly in love with someone else.”

“That’s a deal.”

“And ...” He took out a pen, turned the recipe card over, and wrote something down. “My number. You’ll call me if things change.”

“You’ll be the first.” She took a strand of sugar from her rack, offered it. “Have a taste.”

“Nice. As consolation prizes go.”

They grinned at each other as Del walked in.

“Hi. Sorry, I didn’t know you were with a client.”

Awkward, Laurel thought. “Ah, Delaney Brown, Nick—”

“Pelacinos,” Del said. “It took me a minute.”

“Del, sure.” Nick held out a hand for a shake. “It’s been a while. How are you?”

Or not awkward at all, Laurel decided as the two men settled in.

“I talked toTerri and Mike just a couple weeks ago. Are you in the market for a wedding cake?”

“Me? No. I have a cousin getting married here in a few months.”

“Nick’s grandmother’s visiting from Greece,” Laurel put in, in case they’d forgotten she was there. “We had a pre-event event so she could see the setup.”

“Right. I was by that night.”

“You should’ve joined the party. It was a good one.”

“I glanced in for a minute.You got Laurel on the dance floor.” Del glanced at her, deliberately. “Big night.”

She went back to her spun sugar. “I got a recipe from the matriarch out of it,” she said with a smile as sweet as her sugar. “That’s a major night for me.”

“I’d better get going. I’ll let my grandmother know I made the delivery.”

“Tell her how much I appreciate it, and I’ll try to do her proud at the wedding.”

“I will. Good to see you again, Laurel. Del.”

“I’ll walk you out. What’s your handicap now?” Del asked as they left the kitchen.

Laurel frowned after them until she realized Del was talking golf. With a shake of her head, she tossed more sugar. It wasn’t as if she’d wanted the moment to be awkward or tense. Jealousy was weak and self-absorbed and irritating.

But a little hint of it—like beeswax in spun sugar—couldn’t hurt.

Nick had asked her out, after all. He’d even left his number where she’d see it every time she took out the recipe for lathopita. Which had been very clever of him, now that she thought of it.

Of course, Del didn’t know that, but he could infer it, couldn’t he? And so inferring be just a little irked or something instead of all “how’s it going, how’s the golf game?”

Men, she thought—or rather, men like Del—just didn’t get the subtle nuances of a relationship.

He came back in a few moments later. “That’s great,” he said nodding toward the cake as he opened a cupboard. “Want a glass of wine? I want a glass of wine.”

When she shrugged, he opened a bottle of pinot and poured two.

“I didn’t know you were coming by” She ignored the wine for now as she added the dazzle of sugar fireworks to her cake.

“I’m staying over, since we’re all leaving from here tomorrow. Mrs. G’s going with some of her friends, but she’ll see us there. She’s bringing enough food to feed the village.”

“Yes, I know.”

He sipped his wine and watched her. “Flowers, huh?”

She shrugged and kept working.

Casually, and in long-standing habit, Del opened a canister for a cookie. “He’s not your type.”

She stopped long enough to arch her eyebrows. “Really? Attractive, considerate men who work in the food industry and love their grandmothers aren’t my type? I’m glad you let me know.”

Del crunched into the cookie. “He plays golf.”

“Good God! That was a lucky escape.”

“Twice a week. Every week.”

“Stop it. You’re scaring me.”

He pointed with the cookie, then took another bite. “And he likes art films.You know, the kind with subtitles and symbolism.”

She paused to take a sip of her wine. “Did you date him? Bad breakup?”

“Funny. I happen to know someone who did.”

“Is there anyone you don’t know?”

“I’m his cousin Theresa’s lawyer—and her husband’s. Anyway, Nick’s more Parker’s type, except his schedule’s nearly as insane as hers and they’d never manage to get together anyway.”

“Parker doesn’t like art films, especially.”

“No, but she gets them.”

“And I don’t because, what, I didn’t go to Yale?”

“No, because they’d annoy you.”

They did annoy her, but still. “There’s more to types than cinema choices and golf. He’s a good dancer,” she shot out, and hated the defensive tone in her voice. “I like to dance.”

“Okay.” He stepped over, put his arms around her.

“Cut it out. I’m not finished with the cake.”

“It looks good.You look better, and smell really good, too.” He sniffed at her neck. “Sugar and vanilla. I didn’t recognize Nick when you were dancing with him.” He turned her smoothly, right, then left. “It was crowded. And I was looking at you. Really, I was just looking at you.”