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Taylor’s love for afternoon tea borders on ritual. Each day, when the clock strikes three, she transforms her sunlit kitchen into a sanctuary of sugar and spice—a sacred hour where crustless sandwiches, pillowy scones, and jewel-toned jams take center stage. Today, though, the routine feels different. Jessica’s imminent arrival has sparked a new thrill. By noon, Taylor is elbow-deep in flour, whisking clouds of vanilla batter for cupcakes, layering tiers of her grandmother’s bone china with lemon-curd tarts and raspberry macarons. She fusses over clotted cream (homemade, never store-bought), arranges cucumber ribbons into rose shapes, and debates the merits of Earl Grey versus Darjeeling. By the time the doorbell chimes, the air hums with the scent of freshly baked shortbread and anticipation. Jessica’s laughter spills into the foyer, and Taylor grins, wiping powdered sugar from her cheek. For the next two hours, time melts like butter on a warm scone—a perfect, sticky-sweet pause in the chaos of the world.
