The first time Eleanor Whitmore met Julian Ashford, he was standing in the rain outside a railway station with a birthday cake balanced on his forearm.

It was a thoroughly impractical cake, tall enough to require a cardboard box with its lid propped open, and the rain had already begun to dissolve the pink lettering across the top.

Eleanor would later remember this as the sort of detail that should have told her something important about him. At the time, it merely made him look ridiculous.

She had missed the last convenient train to Bath, her phone was nearly dead, and a broken wheel on her suitcase had forced her to drag it at an angle. She was thirty-one, had recently accepted a job that required an uncomfortable move from London, and was beginning to regret everything about the day.

Julian stood near the taxi rank, arguing politely with a driver who refused to transport the cake unless the box was closed.

“It’ll touch the icing,” Julian explained.

“Then it’ll touch the icing,” the driver replied.

“It’s for my niece.”

“Congratulations.”

“She’s six.”

“Good for her.”

Eleanor stopped beside them, despite having no intention of becoming involved.

“Perhaps if you remove the cake from the box and put the lid underneath it?”

Both men turned.

Julian looked at the cake, then at the lid.

“That’s rather clever.”

“It’s also rather obvious.”

He laughed.

The driver did not.

Two minutes later, Eleanor found herself sitting in the back of a taxi with a stranger and a large pink cake between them.

Julian had offered to split the fare after realising they were heading the same way. She accepted because the rain had grown heavier and her suitcase was threatening to disintegrate.

He was thirty-four, with dark chestnut hair, grey eyes, and a face made more attractive by the fact that he seemed entirely unaware of how often people looked at it. His coat was expensive but badly buttoned, and a small streak of pink icing had found its way onto his sleeve.

He introduced himself as an architect.

Eleanor told him she was a conservator specialising in historic interiors.

“That sounds much more interesting than architecture,” he said.

“Only if you enjoy explaining to wealthy people why they can’t replace eighteenth-century plasterwork with something from a catalogue.”

“That’s half my job.”

“Then we may be natural enemies.”

“Or very useful allies.”

He said it without any particular intention of charming her.

That was what made it effective.

By the time the taxi reached the Georgian terrace where Eleanor had rented a small apartment, they had discussed old buildings, difficult clients, the absurdity of railway ticket prices, and the unfortunate tendency of people to describe anything expensive as timeless.

He helped her carry her damaged suitcase to the front door.

The cake remained in the taxi, watched suspiciously by the driver.

“Would you like to have coffee sometime?” Julian asked.

Eleanor looked toward the waiting car.

“Shouldn’t you deliver your niece’s birthday cake before it becomes an archaeological discovery?”

He smiled.

“Tomorrow, then?”

She considered him.

He seemed warm, faintly disorganised, and perfectly willing to look foolish in public for someone he loved.

“Coffee,” she agreed. “Not dinner.”

“Of course.”

“And no cakes.”

“I can’t promise that.”

He called the following afternoon.