Page 8 of Strawberry Kisses

“Are you at work? I thought you were off tonight?”

“I am… technically. I’m just stress baking.” He sighed. “It’s fine, honestly.”

“It doesn’t sound fine, babe.” Patrick only stress baked when things were bad. Really bad. “Did something happen with your family? Did they get upset?”

“No, no, it’s all fine… more than fine, actually. They were great about it, and it was like I thought. They pretty much all knew. They’d just been waiting for me to bring it up.”

“That’s fabulous!”

“Mmm.” Patrick hummed in a non-committal fashion that was highly suspicious. “Yeah, it’s great. It’s all great.”

That was the most obvious lie I’d heard since fourteen-year-old me had tried to convince my mother my new white bedsheets were orange because something had gotten mixed up with them in the wash.

“Do you want me to come down?” I slipped on my trainers and picked up my phone, flicking it off speaker before I tucked it under my ear. I just had to clean the poles and tidy up, but that wouldn’t take me long. Then I’d stick my head in the other studio to tell Levi, who owned Above the Barre, that I was heading off. I could be at The Pear Tree in thirty minutes, and if Patrick was stress baking, he’d be there a while.

“Maybe. Ugh, this is all wrong,” he muttered to himself. I just wasn’t sure if he was talking about the cake or whatever was going on with him. There was definitely something going on, and I wasn’t going home until I’d found out what it was. If Patrick wouldn’t tell me over the phone, I was going to make him tell me in person.

The back door to the kitchen of The Pear Tree was still unlocked, despite the fact that evening service was pretty much finished and Tuesday nights were always quiet. I made my way down the cool corridors towards the pastry kitchen. The restaurant was built in an L-shaped building that had once been a coaching inn. One part was a maze of little corridors and tight rooms that had been converted into the kitchens. There was a separate office, staff toilets, and a teeny tiny break room where people could sit between services if they were doing a double and due a break. At the back of the building was a space with three giant walk-in fridges and a freezer. Behind the dining room, the large main kitchen stood on one side of the corridor, and on the opposite side was a separate pot-wash room and the pastry kitchen, plus a small space for crockery and cutlery storage.

Oli was washing the last of some pots, whistling to himself as he jet-washed a large mixing bowl. It was one of the ones that came from Patrick’s stand mixer—the industrial-sized one that sat on the floor just inside the pastry kitchen.

As I reached Patrick’s domain, I paused to watch him. He hadn’t noticed me as he was too busy laminating pastry—carefully folding rolled out rectangles of butter between layers of pastry dough. Patrick’s puff pastry was to die for, and the desserts he made with it were even better. My mouth watered at the thought.

I glanced at the counter beside him, noting a fresh tray of brownies and another of lemon drizzle tray bake he made for afternoon tea. It was something the restaurant offered on Wednesday through Saturday afternoons, and although it was popular, I knew what a pain in the ass it was to prep for. Especially because they still only had two pastry chefs who had to do the whole thing between them. Patrick never complained though, even though I knew it stressed him out. It just wasn’t in his nature to make a fuss.

“You know, I think you’ve got enough cake here to feed the whole of Nottingham, not just the customers.”

Patrick jumped, his face frozen in shock as he spun on the spot. “Jesus Christ, Connor,” he said, letting out a weak, breathy chuckle. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“I’m sorry, babe.”

“It’s fine. I just hadn’t realised you were coming.” He turned back to the pastry, turning it to make another neat fold. I’d always loved the way Patrick worked with his hands. I’d never thought of myself as a hand person, but Patrick’s were just so beautiful. They were delicate and forceful in equal measure with strong fingers that I would not imagine doing fabulously filthy things to me. That was a place we did not go, brain. Not now. Not ever. Those were the rules. Patrick was stunning in my eyes, both physically and as a person, but I wasn’t going to hit on him, especially as he’d just come out. That was just rude.

“What’s going on?” I leant against the wall and watched him carefully. There was tension in his shoulders I hadn’t seen before. “Please, Patrick. You know you can tell me anything.”

Patrick let out a long breath but didn’t look at me. That was fine. I didn’t care where he looked as long as he finally told me what the ever-loving fuck was going on. “So… when I spoke to my family yesterday, there may have been a bit of a mix-up.”

“Oh? What sort of mix-up?”

“They, um, well… they think you’re my boyfriend, and they want me to bring you to the party this weekend.”

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