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“Uh-huh. How is it you can remember every minute detail of break times but forget all the work you do?”

Elliott shrugs. “Break times are fun.”

They chatter amongst themselves until we get home. They sprint down the short path to our red front door. Elliott has a key, so he opens the door, letting us in.

They chuck their bags on the floor, shed shoes and jumpers, and head for the stairs.

“Homework first,” I call.

Elliott pauses halfway up the stairs, turns, and gives me a pleading look. “Aww, can’t we have a break first?”

“Fine. Half an hour and then homework.”

He crosses his heart, and they run up the stairs and out of sight. His door slams shut. Which game will they end up playing? I set a timer on my phone for thirty minutes. And then change it to forty-five so I can claim to be the cool big brother who doesn’t stick rigidly to times like an army general.

After tidying up their bags, shoes, and jumpers, I wander into the kitchen and browse Dad’s cooking books. He has books with one-pan meals from around the world, air fryer recipes, healthy slow cooker recipes, and meals for fussy kids, but no baking books. None. Zip. Nada. I guess Dad is as enamoured with baking as I am.

Thinking about it, all our birthday cakes were shop-bought, except on special years—one, ten, sixteen, eighteen, and twenty-one—when he paid someone to bake something special. Not that I can remember my first birthday cake, but I do recall Elliott’s. It was a tall, blue cake with sugar craft zoo animals on and around it. Dad took us to the zoo. Elliott loved the penguins the most and was frightened of the lions when they roared.

Elliott’s tenth birthday cake was decorated to look like it was out of a comic book. The way it was iced made it look two-dimensional. He adored it.

For my twenty-first birthday, Dad had a Pride cake made for me. Not that you could tell at first glance. The top was covered in plain white icing with gold numbers and sprinkles, but when I cut into it, I discovered every layer was one of the colours in the Pride flag, in order. Yeah, that cake was special and made me feel accepted.

I look up a cupcake recipe on my phone and rummage around for everything we’ll need. I come up short. Funnily enough, the house that never bakes does not have cupcake cases, a cupcake tray, or a cooling rack. Nor do we have vanilla essence, icing sugar, food colouring, or caster sugar. We do have eggs, milk, and flour. I always have that combination of ingredients for making cheese sauce. It’s my speciality, which is useful, as lasagne is one of Euan’s favourite foods. I should make it for dinner tonight. Will he have any of the cupcake things I’m missing? Not that he’s agreed to bake them with me. Will he? I cross my fingers and toes.

I make a list of the things I’m missing. I’ll show it to Euan after whirlwinds Peter and Elliott have convinced him to bake cupcakes and, more importantly, to bake them with me on his day off. Knowing my brother and his best friend, theywillconvince him. Look how easy it was for them to twist my arm behind my back. They’re a dangerous tag team. So dangerous I’m positive they’ll convince Euan to spend his day off baking cupcakes.

I find my appointment book and call Monday’s clients. Whatever happens, I will be baking cupcakes. What remains to be seen is whether I’ll be flying solo—or crashing and burning solo, more like—or if I’ll have the help and company of the sexiest drama teacher in England.

ChapterTwo

Euan

Ipull onto the drive, get out of the car, dump my stuff in the house, and jog next door. Cameron opens the front door before I get the chance to ring the doorbell.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” he says.

His kind, cheerful smile reaches his sparkling brown eyes. “No worries. The boys are fed, and they’re just finishing up their homework. Oh, and I made an extra portion for you, so you don’t have to worry about cooking tonight.”

I stare at him. Cameron is truly amazing. He’s stepped up while Lewis, his father, is away on business. I’m starting to wonder what I ever did without Cameron helping out by picking Peter up from school and ensuring he gets his homework done.

“Thank you so much.”

“It’s my pleasure.” He has a dazzling smile. Which I shouldn’t notice.

Not only is Cameron ten years younger than me, but his dad is also the closest friend I have.

He steps aside to let me into the house. The rich scent of meat, tomato, and cheese hits my senses.

“Lasagne?” I guess.

“Yes. I know you like it.”

I do. He makes every layer with a rich, homemade cheese sauce. It’s probably not good for my waistline, but it’s delicious. To be fair, the red sauce is packed full of hidden vegetables. Even the boys love it, and ten-year-olds have a habit of being notoriously fussy. At least, my ten-year-old is.

“Fair warning, the boys got a fundraising letter from school today.”

“Ugh. What do they want us to do this time?” I’m silently hoping for a non-uniform day. They’re the easiest. Unless they add that the kids need to wear a specific colour or a football strip or dress up like someone they admire. Then it gets tricky. Fast.

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