‘Iknowso,’ Betty replied.
‘I’ve decided to go with the torte.’
‘I think you’ve made an excellent choice.’ Betty gave Clemmie a hug. ‘Now drink your coffee, and let’s get to work. You’ve got a torte to perfect and I need to get these deliveries out before we open.’
Clemmie smiled, the panic beginning to loosen its grip. She still had doubts, but her granny’s words settled her. She needed to focus on what mattered most: honouring her great-great-grandmother’s legacy and putting The Café on the Coast on the map.
An hour later Clemmie heard the roar of an engine. Mid-whisk, her hand hovering over a bowl of rich chocolate ganache,she stared and narrowed her eyes at the deep blue sports car that had parked just outside the café. It was the kind of car that made you think of glossy magazine covers or the hero of a spy film, not a sleepy little island town that had more puffins than people.
Wiping her hands on her pinny, Clemmie hurried outside. ‘I’m sorry, you can’t park there. There are numerous carparks on the…’ The words died on her lips as she stared, her mouth slightly agape. She now wasn’t sure what was more surprising: the sleek, ridiculously impractical sports car gleaming in the sunlight, or the man stepping out of it.
Oliver Lockwood.
For a moment, time seemed to stop. He stood there, a vision of gorgeousness and easy confidence, his dark hair slightly tousled as though styled by a careless breeze. He wore a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up just enough to make her stomach flutter, exuding a casual elegance that looked effortless and yet infuriatingly deliberate. His eyes, that familiar shade of hazel, locked onto hers, and she saw his smile widen.
‘Well,’ he said, leaning one arm casually on the car door. ‘If it isn’t Clementine Rose. And this must be the reason you turned me down, The Café on the Coast.’ He glanced over the pink cottage that had been transformed into the café at the bottom of Lighthouse Lane. The corners of his mouth lifted into that grin, the one that used to make her feel like she’d swallowed a whole tray of espresso shots. Now, it made her feel… well, exactly the same, even though she wanted to be annoyed. Definitely annoyed. He hadn’t fought for her. It was all his way or no way.
Clemmie folded her arms, hoping it would disguise the fact that her heart was pounding. ‘Like I said, you can’t park there,’ she shot back.
His grin widened. All she could think about was the last time she saw him, three years ago, slipping into a black cab outsideher hotel room after their last argument that still echoed in her mind.
‘You’d give up the chance to see the world for… what? Puffin Island? A little café on the coast?’ Oliver’s frustration had flared, his voice uncharacteristically sharp.
‘It’s not just a café’, Clemmie had countered, her tone equally fiery. ‘It’s my life. My home, and there’s no other place I’d rather be.’
Oliver, most probably used to getting his own way, had been stunned. For all his sophistication, he couldn’t seem to understand why Clemmie would choose a small island over the vast, thrilling adventure he was offering her. She, meanwhile, couldn’t understand why he couldn’t see the value in staying rooted in the place she loved.
She’d stood at the window watching him go, the cab disappearing at the bottom of the road into the London night. Her heart ached, the pain sharp and immediate, because she knew the best week of her life had just ended. She wished she had thought about it more, about him, about them, before falling headlong into a whirlwind week of passion.
But what haunted her more than the loss was the memory of how he had made her feel, as though she were the only woman in the world. That magic was shattered weeks later when a glossy tabloid photo surfaced showing Oliver, dashing as ever, arm-in-arm with a stunning model at a glamorous event. The sight of his familiar smile aimed at someone else had gutted her, leaving her with a bitter truth… she had been unforgettable to him for just one fleeting moment, while he had become unforgettable to her for ever.
‘And how are you?’
‘What are you doing here?’ Clemmie avoided his question.
‘I was passing through and I thought to myself: why don’t I call in on my favourite baker?’
‘Three years after you left without a backward glance?’
‘It does seem like only yesterday, doesn’t it?’
Her cheeks flushed as she remembered the raw passion and chemistry between them before he’d smashed her heart into smithereens.
‘Is that a Ferrari?’
Clemmie spun around to see her granny standing a few feet away. Apparently, she’d finished the deliveries.
‘It’s an Aston Martin,’ Oliver said smoothly, flashing her a polite smile.
‘It’s very shiny,’ she replied. ‘And very impractical for these roads.’
Clemmie couldn’t help but smirk at that. Oliver, however, looked entirely unfazed.
‘Where can I park it, then?’ he asked, turning back to Clemmie.
‘Down the lane, near the harbour,’ she replied, gesturing vaguely.
‘Perfect,’ he said, climbing back into the car. The engine purred to life, and with a wave, he drove off, leaving Clemmie standing there wondering if she was actually dreaming.
