Page 63 of Sweet Somethings

"It wasn't. We just didn't have any sparks."

Susan looked disappointed. "That's a shame. I was thinking you'd make a good mayor's wife."

She laughed at that. "I'd make a terrible politician's wife. I often speak before I think."

"That can be refreshing."

"Or career killing," she said, following Susan to the door. "See you tomorrow." After her assistant left, she locked the door and turned the sign to Closed, then started to unload the display cases, and put some of the items back into the refrigerator.

When that was done, she grabbed a quick bite upstairs, making some soup to go with a salad. Then she headed back downstairs around seven to start prep for the next day. She'd just re-entered the kitchen when she got a text from Roman.

Her heart zinged at just the sight of his name. She really needed to get a grip on her emotions. His text said he had some information for her.

She told him to come to the bakery. She was really curious to see if he'd discovered the identity of the letter writer.

He said he'd be there in about a half hour, so she decided to get some work done before then. Setting down the phone, she put on her apron and turned her attention to her prep work.

She was deep in flour, butter, and cream when her phone buzzed again with a text that Roman was out front. She quickly hurried out to the front door to let him in.

He looked better than dessert, she thought, his hair mussed from the windy evening, his cheeks glowing, his brown eyes sparkling.

"Cold out there, warm in here," he said with a grin, as he unzipped his jacket.

"I'm preheating the ovens. Come in the back."

He followed her into the kitchen, then pulled a big envelope out of his pocket before hanging his jacket on the hook by the door.

"So this is where the magic happens," he said.

"This is it." She waved her hand around the room. "But it doesn't look much like magic right now. I have a huge order due tomorrow by eleven, so it's going to be a long night."

"We don't have to do this now if you're busy."

"Of course we have to do this now. I'm busy but I'm also curious."

"Did anyone ever tell you curiosity killed the cat?"

"My dad used to say that to me a lot, but I'm not a cat, so I'm not worried."

She waved him toward a stool by the island counter. "Have a seat." He sat down and she took the stool next to him. "So what did you find out?"

"I went down to the county courthouse and was able to get the list of recorded deeds on your property."

"That's great."

"I have to warn you that this data doesn’t reflect tenants. So if your letter writer was a renter and not an owner, she won't be in here."

"Got it. Let's start with the owners."

"Okay." He pulled a piece of paper from the envelope. "It's not too long of a list. The house was built in 1917, and there have been seven owners in the last hundred years, four owners before your parents and two afterward, including my grandfather."

"Seven," she muttered. It wasn't a lot for a hundred years, but it reminded her again that her story was just one of the many stories the house would tell.

He arched an eyebrow, giving her a speculative look. "What did I say?"

"Nothing. Who are the owners?"

"Jeremy Bascom built the house and lived there for eighteen years. He moved out in 1933."

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