face.
‘In an elf apron and a Santa hat?’
I plant my hands on my hips. ‘Are you complaining?’
‘Not at all,’ he says, with the lop-sided smile that never ceases to make my insides tingle. His voice is as rich and delicious as the spices in my mincemeat, though I’d rather die than tell him either of those things, of course.
‘You can give me a hand with these,’ I say, nodding to the cooling rack on top of the Aga and handing him a tray from the oven. While Cal transfers the mince pies from the tin to the rack, I rescue the second and final batch from the oven.
‘Is that the last batch?’ Cal asks, dumping the empty pie tins in the Belfast sink.
‘Yes, thanks.’ While I untie the strings of my apron and hang it on the back of the door that leads into the hallway, I know Cal’s eyes will be fixed on my rear, which is a delicious thought although it makes me self-conscious. By the time I turn back to him, however, he’s holding up a cake net and sniffing the plate of crumble-topped pies that was under it.
‘You’ve been busy. It smells great in here.’
‘I’ve been trying out some recipes for the cafe in between checking in the guests. You know we’re going to do most of our own baking, but we’ll have to buy in some of it from outside. Sheila’s going to provide the pasties and the St Trenyan bakery will help with the bread. There’s a young food blogger near St Just who’s going to help out too, when we’re really busy.’
‘What about this lot? Do I get to try some?’ His hand snakes towards the cooling rack. I bat it away. ‘I’m not complaining, but isn’t it a bit early for mince pies?’
‘That’s what Kit said, but these are for work, not pleasure. I’m going to take some shots for our social media pages. Twitter, Instagram and the blog, you know? Maybe make some promotional memes on Canva and I must upload the pics to Pinterest. Have you forgotten that Demelza’s opens the day after tomorrow? I’ve been trialling some seasonal bakes and we need to get people in the mood for booking festive breaks.’
‘I hear you about the cafe, but Pinterest? Canva memes? I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Yes, you do. You just pretend you don’t so you don’t have to spend hours on the Internet.’
He sneaks a pie and bites into it. ‘Fu … ow! Thasstillverhot.’ He pants and dances the other half of the stolen pie from one palm to the other. Crumbs scatter onto the tiles.
‘Serves you right. You couldn’t wait, could you?’
He winks. ‘You know me so well.’
Correction, I think, I know him better. Since I started working at Kilhallon at Easter, I’ve come to realise that no one knows Cal well, not even the people who’ve grown up with him in the little Cornish village of St Trenyan. I don’t think his own family know him completely. Which makes me a total novice in the ways of Cal Penwith, apart from the ways in which I now know him intimately, of course.
Cal blows on the other half of the pie and finishes it in a couple of bites while I cover the rest of them with a clean tea towel and switch on the kettle. After baking all morning, and checking in Kit, I’m more than happy to take a break with Cal while I have the chance. Once the cafe is open and our other guests start arriving over the next few days, I doubt if we’ll have a moment to breathe, let alone share a mince pie and coffee.
‘Want a coffee and another sample?’
‘Thanks, but I’ll make the coffee.’
He scrapes his chair back and fills the kettle while I clean up the table. The oak surface is dusted with flour and scraps of pastry plus the debris of my baking: a beige pastry bowl, old-fashioned scales, a floury wooden rolling pin and old-fashioned pastry cutters in the shape of stars and hearts. I rescued them all from various corners of the farmhouse kitchen and outbuildings when we cleared out decades of junk while we were refurbishing Kilhallon Park over the summer. Cal’s family hadn’t thrown anything away for fifty years, judging by the junk that was piled high in the old barn and workshop and offices.
I hand Cal a flowery china plate with a crumble-topped tart on it. It just happens to have a heart-shaped crust.
He pushes away the Kilner jar of mincemeat to make room for the plate. ‘My, this is posh.’
‘It was one of your mum’s, I think. I found the service in the back of the dresser in the sitting room.’
‘Yes, I remember it … it was a wedding present from Uncle Rory and Auntie Fiona, but Mum never wanted to use it. I think it’s called Old Country Roses. Dad put it away after she died. He said it might get broken, but I think the real reason was because he couldn’t bear to be reminded of her.’ Cal brushes his finger over the gold rim. ‘Probably felt guilty,’ he adds.
Cal’s father died a couple of years ago, and his mum passed away when he was still a teenager. His parents’ marriage was a troubled one. His father worshipped his mum but still had a string of affairs. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why Cal’s own love life has been stormy too. As for losing our mothers when we were young – we have that in common. Mine lost her battle with cancer when I was a teenager and I haven’t seen my dad and brother for ages, but that’s by choice. I ran away from home when I was eighteen. Some people might say that’s why we’re drawn to each other, Cal and I: we share a bond; troubled childhoods, less than ideal family lives.
He pulls me into his arms for a long, warm snog that makes me tingle from head to toe. Phew, it’s not only the Aga that’s making it so hot in here.
‘The pies pass the test then?’ I say when I can finally breathe again. ‘The mincemeat is homemade from my Nana Demelza’s recipe, but I added a local fruit cider for a Cornish twist.’
He licks his lips. ‘Mmm. Cider mincemeat. Nice. They’re delicious, but I may have a burnt tongue.’
I roll my eyes. ‘As if I care.’
‘You know you do.’ With another wicked smile, Cal kisses me again. Tiny flakes of pastry cling to his lips. His mouth is still warm from the pie and tastes sweet and buttery. If I don’t push him away now, we might end up in bed in the middle of the day and I have way too much to do.
With the greatest reluctance, I end the kiss, but Cal keeps his hands around my waist and they feel as if they belong there – have always belonged there – which is a dangerous thought. Cal belongs to no woman or man.
‘Cal, I have so much to do. As well as the cafe stuff, the other guests will be here on Friday afternoon and the other two cottages still aren’t ready. With Polly away, we need to dress the beds and finish hanging the curtains in the bedroom of Warleggan and I still need to do extra shopping for the welcome hamper.’
‘I’ll help you with the curtains and Polly will be back from her daughter’s tomorrow to lend us a hand. So now you have no excuse not to get naked with me.’
‘Naked? What if one of the guests turns up in reception and finds us in bed in the middle of the afternoon?’ I say, picturing Kit Bannen dinging the bell and being answered by creaking floorboards and a When Harry Met Sally re-enactment.
Cal waggles his eyebrows. ‘Who mentioned
