style="font-size:15px;"> ‘You are right though, Jess … he is one hell of a handsome sucka.’ I was only playing, but it was nice to remind Jesse that even I could appreciate the finer looking things in life. Just because I wasn’t hungry didn’t mean I’d forgotten how good food tasted.
Manoeuvring wide trays of cupcakes through the narrow doorway into the shop could be tricky, but that wasn’t the reason I nearly dropped the entire batch.
‘I forgot my sunglasses,’ Ciaran Argyll said, standing there watching me. The flush was back with a vengeance, raging up my neck and instantly taking up residence in my cheeks.
Why is he standing here? The door didn’t go!
‘Er …’ I stammered, realising to my horror that I hadn’t actually seen him leave. Panic started rising as I ran through the conversation he might have just heard. The harder I tried, the less I could think of anything to say, so I settled for trying to cover my shell-shock with something resembling a smile. I thought I’d already experienced the embarrassment of blushing in Ciaran Argyll’s presence, but this was an excruciating new level.
He carefully avoided looking at me; I was sure he was fighting a smile. ‘Actually, I have an event coming up. I was wondering what your thoughts might be on providing a cake?’ Please don’t let him have heard, please don’t let him have heard!
‘Umm, yes. We can do that.’ I swallowed. ‘When for?’ I asked, trying to salvage some sort of composure.
‘October twenty-sixth,’ he said. ‘It’s a Saturday.’
As I slid the tray of cupcakes under the adjacent serving counter I could feel the beginnings of perspiration over the back of my neck. I didn’t sweat. Clammy hands said I did.
The diary I’d been looking for was sat by the phone, on the side next to the till. In its place, for a change. I flicked through to the following month, hoping to find a week too full to take on another Argyll job.
‘I know it’s short notice,’ he said, also looking at the open diary as I checked over the bookings we had for that week. They were more than thin on the ground. Friday the twenty-fifth had been encircled in bright green biro though, Martha’s due date! scrawled inside. Other than that, it would mostly be a week of passing trade. He surveyed the days, largely blank on the page and watched me carefully.
‘Sure. What were you looking for?’ I asked, admitting defeat.
‘Well, the event is themed, so would that be a good place to start?’ he asked, cocking his head slightly again. He cut a relaxed figure, but I wasn’t there yet. I could still feel the burn in my cheeks.
‘Sure, what’s the theme?’ I asked, concentrating on my pen and the sketch pad I’d reached for.
‘Hollywood heroes and villains,’ he replied with the beginnings of a playful grin. Well, of course it was. ‘It’s a friend’s thirtieth, so the cake should be fun, unique. Delicious.’
I held off looking at him, as that seemed to trigger the blush response.
‘Hollywood heroes and villains? As in Jaws and Brody?’ I stole a look then, the smile had widened.
‘If you like. Maybe mix it up though, I don’t think there will be many there dressed as great white sharks.’ He checked the watch on his wrist. ‘Look, I have to get to work, I’m not sure how these things are arranged?’
Thank goodness for that, he’d be out of here in minutes. He hadn’t heard us larking around, it was all good. I just needed to wind things up.
‘Well, you’ve given me a theme to run with, I just need an idea of flavours, how many people you’d like the cake to feed. An idea of budget, if you have one. Then we can sketch something up for you and take it from there.’ Jesse was so going to be handling this order.
‘OK,’ he said, tapping the arm of his sunglasses to his lip. ‘Make it to feed three hundred, budget … whatever you think is fine. Don’t worry with the sketch, I know I’m in safe hands.’ He smiled and it softened the seriousness of his eyes, just as his father’s face had been affected the same way.
‘OK. And will you need it delivered?’
‘Yes, definitely,’ he said. ‘I’ll get someone to call you with the details, payment et cetera. Or I can pay you now?’
‘No, no, I need to price it all up for you first. So … I just need flavours.’
He tapped his lip a few more times before locking richly brown eyes firmly back on mine.
‘The ginger and whisky sounded perfect.’
CHAPTER 6
A heavy haze of mist had been hanging over the reservoir when I left for work the following morning, but I knew that freezing though it was in a tin van spluttering against the sharp air, such mornings deceitfully heralded what would inevitably turn out to be a glorious day. It was only six-thirty, plenty of time for things to warm up and justify the aqua ballerina pumps now proving pitifully inadequate against the temperature in the footwell.
This was one of the summer’s dying breaths, there wouldn’t be many more of them, a last and valiant stand against the unstoppable autumn, advancing once more to mark another year without Charlie.
But today at least, things would get sunnier and sunny days were good for business. The golden girls in the café across the street would be enjoying a surge in al-fresco diners, who’d all gaze over longingly at the goodies they knew we had waiting for them once they’d finished lunch. Grandmothers would pop in for iced cookies to take back to the kids, career girls would take advantage of their last chances to justify nibbling on something seasonally pretty and the odd eager male co-worker would follow them in.
The pick ‘n’ mix girls, Jess called them. Because they always got a couple of boxes of cupcakes between them, so they could all try a taste of everything.
Thanks to the wonders of dreamless sleep, I felt refreshed as I made my way into Hunterstone. It wasn’t until I saw the shop that I found myself thinking of him again.
It was still cold as I opened up and let myself in. I collected a few scraps of mail then headed straight through for the kettle. Charlie couldn’t abide junk mail, and had the irritating habit of giving out the shop address instead of home, he said because the businesses here had bigger recycling bins out back and I guess he had a point.
I flicked through the mail in my hand as the kettle bubbled to life: something from the electricity provider, two fliers for a local takeaway, and ah—a thank you card. That’s nice. I slipped the card from its envelope and walked back over to the far end of the bakery where a battered plum sofa sat within the brick alcove. This was where we power-napped on those crazy days at the height of the busy season. I plonked down onto the sofa and read the note inside the card.
Dear Holly and Jesse,
Thanks so much for our brilliant cake! It was absolutely stunning, everything we were hoping for. Even Ben’s mum couldn’t find a fault.
