It didn’t matter that the café’s loyal patrons continued to flock through its doors, praising her bakes and chatting happily over cups of tea. TheChroniclewas influential, with a readership that extended far beyond Puffin Island. For weeks, Clemmie had lived in fear that the review would drive new customers away and that the café’s reputation would be irreparably damaged.
But it hadn’t. Slowly, she had rebuilt her confidence, pouring her heart into her work. She perfected her great-great-grandmother’s recipes and added her own twists to the menu. She worked long hours, sometimes late into the night, determined to prove the reviewer wrong. Over time, the café’s reputation only grew stronger, with customers travelling from all over to sample her famous torte and other bakes.
Still, the sting of the review never fully went away. It had been the only bad press the café had ever received, but its words had left scars. Even now, years later, Clemmie couldn’t help but feel a flicker of self-doubt when she thought about it.
Her eyes returned to the recipe book, and she traced the smudged page of the torte recipe with her fingertip. This book was a reminder of the women who had come before her, who had poured their love and creativity into their cooking, and now it was Clemmie’s turn.
She took a deep breath, folding the review and tucking it under the recipe book. It no longer deserved to take centre stage. She had come a long way since those early days of self-doubt. The café was thriving, her customers were happy and now she was one of ten contestants in The Royal Baking Competition.
As Clemmie sipped her tea her eye was drawn to a notation at the bottom of the torte recipe. A number in brackets: ‘1705’.She stared at it. It was something she hadn’t noticed before. Curious, she browsed carefully through the book, but none of the other recipes had a code like it.
‘Granny!’ she called, her voice echoing through the café.
Betty appeared in the doorway, a dishcloth slung over her shoulder. ‘What is it?’
Clemmie held up the book. ‘What’s this number? Right here at the bottom of the torte recipe. 1705.’
Betty narrowed her eyes, her glasses perched on the tip of her nose. ‘I’ve not noticed that before. It could be anything. Maybe it’s the baking time?’
‘No, it’s not that,’ Clemmie said, turning the book towards her granny. ‘None of the other recipes have a number like it. Why would just this one?’
Betty shrugged. ‘I have no clue,’ she said, heading back into the café to clean the tables.
Clemmie turned back to the book, still staring at the number. Could it be a date? A time? A secret code? Before she could investigate further, she caught a movement outside the window and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Standing just beyond the glass was Oliver, his grin wicked as he peered inside.
‘What on earth…’ she exclaimed, flinging open the window. ‘I nearly knocked my tea all over my great-great-grandmother’s recipe book. What are you doing? Do you normally sneak around peeking through windows? There’s a name for people like you, you know!’
Oliver leaned casually against the window frame, unbothered by her indignation. ‘Good evening to you, too…’
‘Oliver!’ she scolded. ‘You scared me half to death. We do have a front door!’
His eyes twinkled. ‘What are you doing tonight?’
‘What?’ She blinked, caught off guard.
‘You heard me.’
Clemmie narrowed her eyes suspiciously. ‘Why? What do you have in mind?’
‘I can’t tell you just yet,’ he said, his voice now low. ‘But meet me at the harbour at eight. And dress to impress.’ He gave her a lopsided grin before disappearing just as quickly as he had appeared, not waiting for an answer.
Clemmie stood frozen for a moment, staring at the empty space he had just occupied. Had she imagined it? The playful invitation, the flicker of something more in his gaze?
Slowly, she closed the window and sat back at the table. She knew she was supposed to be focusing on the contest, on perfecting her recipe and making sure she had every detail memorised. This was what mattered. Or at least, it should have been.
And yet… She hesitated, chewing her bottom lip.
Their conversation on the yacht had been different… real, vulnerable. It had left her wanting to hear more, to understand him in a way she hadn’t before. But wasn’t that exactly why she shouldn’t go? The more she let him in, the more she risked getting hurt. She’d been down that road before and nothing had changed.
Still, she wasn’t naïve. She knew the pros and cons of saying yes. Walking away would be the safest option. But as much as she tried to convince herself, she already knew her answer.
She was going.
‘Who are you talking to?’ Betty appeared in the doorway.
‘No one,’ Clemmie replied, telling a little white lie.
Betty looked down at the recipe book. ‘Maybe it’s the number of recipes my mother wrote down in total?’ she offered, picking up their earlier conversation.
