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This arranged marriage business was a farce, a relic from her ancient family’s pacts. And a blind date? This was a new low.
The aroma of freshly baked croissants, a buttery embrace, clung to the air outside ‘Le Petit Boulanger’ in Woodsburrow. Sam, perched on a wrought-iron chair, tapped a nervous rhythm on the checkered tablecloth. Her violin case, battered and beloved, leaned against her leg. This arranged marriage business was a farce, a relic from her ancient family’s pacts. And a blind date? This was a new low.
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