Not that he minds. Not that he minds anything at all. He was even bold enough to tell the board he was reverting Patrick’s contract back to the full-time variety, so there’s been no need for any more late-night shifts in Dunham Gravey or any other place that takes him away from me and our weekend dates all over the Cotswolds.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man so transformed as Leo. He’s even wearing aSully’s Bakeryapron to match the new proprietor’s who thought ‘Scrimengor and Grandson’s’ didn’t quite cut it any more, not now we’ve all been through our big transformation, and Wheaton village is thriving on community spirit and confectionery.
Patrick arrives by my side at the back of the crowd just as they cut the ribbon and the whole place erupts in a happy cheer. He’s been walking Cinnamon, our rescue pup. She’s a Spanish sort-of sausage dog, possibly with hints of beach-stray-beagle in her. Mum didn’t know for sure. When she showed her to us over FaceTime in the spring, all matted and skinny, we knew she was ours and started the paperwork immediately.
It turns out we are excellent puppy parents, Patrick and I. He dotes on her almost as much as I do. I scratch at Cinnamon’s smooth head and she immediately flops onto the pavement for a tummy tickle. Patrick crouches to oblige her.
‘Silly pup,’ I tell her as her tongue lolls out of her mouth and her tail whips in a frenzy of puppy joy.
‘Free gingerbread men for everyone!’ Sully cries, and the customers flood into the now baby-blue bakery with its new fixtures and fittings. And I see his grandfather shaking his hand warmly and attempting something like a grandfatherly embrace, even if it is a bit awkward because he’s still getting used to showing his feelings, before trying the same thing with Leo who pulls him in close for a proper hug and makes the old man gasp in surprise.
‘Are we hanging around for our free gingerbread man?’ Patrick asks me, and we stop fussing Cinnamon and stand to watch the crush to get inside Wheaton’s newest success story.
‘Still not a fan of the gingerbread?’ I ask him.
He scrunches his nose. ‘I can take it or leave it.’
I laugh and let him lower a kiss to my lips.
‘They look busy,’ I say, glancing again at the hustle and bustle. Sully’s popping corks and handing out Prosecco now.
‘We could pop back later when it’s quietened down?’ he says, and I know exactly what he’s thinking. He confirms it with another kiss, this one even softer than the last.
‘Let’s go,’ I whisper, slipping my hand in his, and we sneak away, out along the road to the little cottage we share, once my mum and dad’s and now ours, where we’ve had a proper clear-out and a bit of a paint, and there’s an airy freshness through the whole place and a new sense of beginning.
We walk all the faster as the gate comes in sight, Cinnamon running her little legs off, and we laugh at how we still can’t seem to stop doing this, not being able to keep our hands off each other, and we push through the gate, past the new sign that Patrick hung in the spring that readsGingerbread Cottage, a new name for a new start, and we kiss our way up the path, thinking of our soft white bed below the oak beams.
Patrick makes sure to bolt the door behind us, and we escape into our own little world once more, where life is guaranteed to be as sweet as Christmas gingerbread and where no matter the time of year, we let love happen.
