Clemmie noticed his smile falter, the easy charm slipping for just a moment. ‘Says you, jetting off all around the world, a different girl in every country, living the time of your?—’
She stopped abruptly, her words catching in her throat as a familiar song began playing softly on the radio.
Oliver looked at the radio then back at her, a playful glint returning to his eyes. ‘It’s our song.’
‘We knew each other for a week. We didn’t have a song,’ said Clemmie, knowing that wasn’t quite the whole truth.
‘Don’t try and deny what we had for that week. Come on,’ he said, holding out a hand.
Clemmie frowned. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Dance with me. Let’s pretend we’re at the royal garden party.’
‘Are you insane? And do they even dance at royal garden parties? It’s notBridgerton, you know.’
He laughed. ‘You didn’t object when we spent most nights dancing around my kitchen.’
‘That was then, this is now.’
His hand was still stretched towards her, his gaze steady as it moved between her face and her hand. His eyes seemed to plead with her. ‘Come on, just like old times.’
Yet again, her heart and head were in a tennis match. There was a small part of her that wanted to say yes, yet she knew she needed to keep her distance from him. But before she knew it, it was game, set and match to Oliver as he made the choice for her and took her hand. Nervous, she could feel herself lightly shaking, her pulse racing.
He spun her in a dramatic circle and she laughed, nearly tripping over the bag of flour still on the floor before Oliver caught her. They twirled around the kitchen, the torte momentarily forgotten as the song played out and he pulled herin close. She could feel him looking at her, and as she gazed upwards, she found their lips were centimetres apart.
There it was… that look. The one he used to give her in London when they’d stayed up late talking, laughing, just before they ripped each other’s clothes off. Every inch of her erupted in goosebumps. Oliver’s hazel eyes stayed locked onto hers, and Clemmie felt it– the sexual chemistry was still fizzing between them. She should step back, say something, break whatever this was. But her feet stayed planted, and she swallowed.
His hand lifted, fingers brushing her cheek then skimming down to her jaw. A barely-there touch, but it sent a shiver through her all the same.
‘We shouldn’t…’ Her voice was barely a whisper.
‘I know,’ he murmured, his thumb grazing the corner of her mouth.
But neither of them moved. His face dipped towards hers, her lips parted… just one more second and?—
The café door slammed open and Betty’s cheerful voice rang out. ‘Morning, sweetheart! Smells like chocolate—oh my stars, what’s happened in here?’
Clemmie practically jumped out of her skin and she pushed Oliver away, smoothing down her pinny.
Betty stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips, surveying the flour-coated kitchen with a look of amused dismay.
‘I… uh…’ Clemmie stammered, glancing at Oliver, who looked entirely too entertained by the whole situation. Betty’s eyes narrowed slightly as she took in the man standing in her café kitchen. ‘You’re the guy with the Ferrari,’ she said, her tone both curious and suspicious.
‘Aston Martin, actually,’ Oliver corrected smoothly, his grin widening as Betty folded her arms across her chest.
Clemmie knew full well that Betty didn’t like anyone in her kitchen who shouldn’t be there, so she jumped in hastily.‘Granny, this is Oliver,’ she said. ‘The presenter of The Royal Baking Competition.’
Betty’s expression didn’t waver, though her gaze flickered between the man and her granddaughter. ‘Yes, I know, and that’s all very well, but what are you doing in my kitchen? We aren’t open yet,’ she said bluntly.
Oliver, unfazed by the stern tone, stepped forward slightly and extended a hand. ‘Betty, it’s an honour to meet you. And I must say, this kitchen is as charming as the café itself. You’ve done a remarkable job creating such an inviting space. It feels like stepping back into a time when people truly cherished good food and good company.’
Betty blinked, clearly caught off guard by the unexpected compliment. Her arms loosened, and a faint pink crept into her cheeks. ‘Well, I’ve always believed that a café should be like a second home for folks,’ she said, her voice softening. ‘Someplace they can come to for a hearty meal or a slice of cake and leave their troubles behind, if only for a short while.’
‘You’ve absolutely nailed it,’ Oliver continued, gesturing around the room. ‘I’ve been to countless cafés and bistros all over the world, in London, Paris, New York… but I can tell you, this place has something special. The charm, the care, the history. It’s like the heart of Puffin Island beats right here in this kitchen.’
Betty’s face brightened at his words, her bashful smile showing through as she tried to suppress her delight. ‘Well, I suppose we do our best. People around here know quality when they taste it.’
‘They certainly do,’ Oliver agreed, his eyes glinting with genuine appreciation. ‘And I imagine that’s why this café has become such a beloved staple in the community. You’ve made it more than just a place to eat… it’s a part of people’s lives.’
