finishing each one off with a sugar-frosted violet.
‘They look great,’ I called, wiggling the warm paper bag in my hand. Jess left the island worktop and moved over to shut the mixer off.
‘Hey, Hol, how’s Dave?’ Jesse took the bag from me as I set the coffees down and hung my things in the far corner.
‘He’s OK; he has a bad tooth. I’ve left him moping in the garden. Mrs Hedley will throw him treats over the fence all day no doubt.’ I wondered if that was part of the problem. She’d been the same with Charlie, making him second lunches when they thought I wasn’t looking.
Jesse came over and started digging into the bagels as I slipped an apron over my head and started the first of a hundred hand-washes. I dried off and went to grab a bagel for myself but he pulled the bag away.
‘You can’t, you have a customer,’ he said, grinning at me.
‘What customer? No one’s booked in are they?’ I said, scanning the counters for the cake diary. We did the occasional wedding consultation in the mornings but they were nearly always booked in for weekends when the mother of the bride was in town and the fiancé had no excuses not to attend.
‘They are now, he’s been here since I flipped the sign over.’
‘Oh no, Jess, have I forgotten an appointment?’ I said, with the first prickles of panic.
‘No. He hasn’t got an appointment,’ Jess said, still grinning.
‘Why are you being weird?’ I asked him, trying not to laugh at his ridiculous expression. ‘Where is he then?’
I followed Jess as he walked from the bakery through the short corridor and out into the area behind the shop counter.
‘He’s over there, waiting for you to show up to work,’ Jesse said, looking out front.
I looked out through one of the windows over to the café across the street, glancing at the bistro tables outside for anyone I recognised. There were a couple of women in coats and shades enjoying the morning, but other than that no one. I was still watching when two business types, a man and woman, left the café together, followed by another sharply dressed guy in suit and shades. As he turned to check the road before crossing, I recognised the strong line of his jaw, passed down from one generation to the next.
‘How was your weekend, Holly?’ Jesse asked as it dawned on me who was heading this way.
I watched Ciaran Argyll draw closer as I tried to figure out what he was doing here.
‘There must have been a problem with the cake,’ I thought aloud, readying myself for what might be. ‘I bet the old bugger wants to make a complaint because I didn’t compliment him on his wedding tackle.’
‘Wedding tackle? What did you get up to this weekend, Hol?’
‘Nothing,’ I answered, still pondering.
The door set the bell tingling and Ciaran Argyll walked assuredly into my shop. Jesse stopped munching on his bagel.
‘Morning. Again,’ Argyll said, nodding at Jess standing over me. I got a gentle nod. ‘Hello.’
‘All right, mate, enjoy your wait with the golden girls?’ Jesse asked.
‘Actually, the coffee was surprisingly good,’ Mr Argyll said, taking his sunglasses off. He didn’t look so melancholy today; his smile was more relaxed than I’d remembered it. ‘But you were right, they did take care of me.’ He laughed, flashing a glimpse of perfect white teeth. I’d bet he was used to being taken care of.
‘Ah, they love a gent over there don’t they, Hol? Hol stopped buying lunch from the café when she realised the old girls give better service to the fellas than the women. It’s sexist isn’t it, Hol?’ It sounded silly when I heard it that way, but yes, I was boycotting the place.
I flashed a full smile of my own at Jess.
‘I’ll just go and finish my brekkie then. See you, mate …’ he said, leaving for the back, ‘nice Vanquish.’
Argyll turned to check the car sat outside the shop and nodded to himself.
‘What can I do for you, Mr Argyll?’ I asked, noting his cologne again. His hand dipped into the inside pocket of his jacket as he approached the counter between us.
‘You left in a hurry Friday, understandably. You forgot this. I thought we at least owed you the courtesy of returning it,’ he said softly, pulling open a folded sheet of paper and handing it to me. I recognised the information immediately.
Two times ten-inch vanilla testicles gored with stiletto, deliver to Fergal Argyll, Hawkeswood Manor Friday 20th September 8.30 p.m. EXACTLY.
‘Can I sign it for you? My father was a touch worse for wear over the weekend or I’d have asked him.’
He’d brought the delivery note all this way?
‘No, that’s OK. It’s not important really,’ I said, realising too late that the delivery note had travelled some thirty miles back to the shop with this man. ‘But thank you for returning it.’
His eyes were an intense brown, narrowing slightly as he tilted his head to watch me. He was a very attractive man, too good looking all for just one person. My attention was snagged by the light flooding into the shop catching on the edges of his choppy hair, sending brown to blond in places. There was a hint of neatly cropped stubble I hadn’t noticed on Friday.
I couldn’t explain it, but I felt the beginnings of warmth creeping over my neck. Was I so out of practice interacting with the opposite sex that I blushed like a naive schoolgirl around them? How excruciatingly embarrassing.
‘Are you sure?’ he pressed, those eyes that didn’t belong with the tones in his hair still watching me closely. ‘My stepmother can be quite the pedant when it comes to paperwork. And my father’s anatomy.’
Oh dear, we were back onto Fergal’s testicles. Yep. Definitely had a pink neck.
‘Um, not really, she didn’t hang around long,’ I said, trying to get off the subject of the vivacious Mr Argyll senior and any conversation that might lead me onto it.
‘I believe Elsa offered you an additional sum for proof of delivery to Fergal in person?’
‘She did. But it wasn’t compulsory,’ I answered
‘Then you’re out of pocket?’ he asked, his eyes narrowing again. ‘Let me take care of that, it’s not your fault my father was misbehaving. You shouldn’t get into any trouble for it.’ He pulled a chequebook from the same inner pocket, laying it alongside his sunglasses on the counter.
‘Would five hundred cover it?’ he asked, clicking the cap of his pen. ‘I understand you were offered double the cost of the cake if you procured the signature? The cake was two-thirty, right? Consider the difference by way of an apology. Fergal can get … excited, sometimes,’ he said as his pen scratched against the chequebook.
‘How do you kn—?’
‘Toby’s
