Chapter Twenty-Three
Clemmie had excused herself to find the bathroom, needing a moment to gather her thoughts. Five minutes later as she stepped back outside, Oliver was waiting for her. His expression was sheepish, almost guilty, and Clemmie immediately sensed that something was off.
‘Why didn’t you tell me she would be here?’ Clemmie asked. ‘Is that not a bit of information I should have known?’
Oliver straightened, meeting her gaze.
‘You must have known,’ she continued, her voice growing sharper. ‘If she’s Lady Rosalind’s granddaughter, you had to know she’d be here.’
‘This is your day. Don’t let her being here spoil it.’
Clemmie glanced over her shoulder, her gaze landing on Fiona, who was holding a flute of prosecco and wearing a smirk that could only be described as smug. The glint in Fiona’s eyes sent a fresh wave of irritation through Clemmie’s chest.
‘Why is she looking at me like that? It’s like she wants to tell me something, as though she thinks she has some sort of hold over me.’
Oliver followed Clemmie’s gaze. ‘Come on,’ he said softly, taking her hand. ‘Let’s go for a walk. The gardens here are gorgeous. You don’t want to miss them.’
Clemmie hesitated, glancing back towards Fiona, who was still watching them with that infuriatingly self-satisfied expression. ‘Whatever it is she’s dying to tell me,’ Clemmie said, turning back to Oliver with determination in her eyes, ‘it’s not going to ruin my day.’
They began to walk, stepping out onto the vast expanse of manicured lawns and blooming flowerbeds that stretched as far as the eye could see. The air was fragrant with the scent of roses, and a soft breeze rustled the trees, their branches casting dappled shadows on the ground. But even as Clemmie marvelled at the beauty around her, Fiona remained on her mind. After a few minutes of silence, she couldn’t hold back any longer.
‘I can’t picture you with her,’ Clemmie blurted. ‘Not even for a quick fling.’
Oliver glanced at her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘She’s not your type,’ Clemmie said, her tone more frustrated than she intended. ‘She’s so… smug. I can’t picture you with someone like that at all.’
Oliver’s gaze was fixed on the path ahead. ‘I told you, our families have known each other for a long time,’ he began, his voice measured. ‘Lady Rosalind and my grandmother have been friends for decades and I think they both quietly hoped Fiona and I would end up together.’
Clemmie frowned, her steps slowing as she absorbed his words. ‘Like some sort of arranged marriage?’
‘Not quite,’ Oliver replied, ‘It was never formal. Just… an unspoken understanding, I suppose. A wish more than anything else… But there’s something you need to know,’ he shared.
Clemmie’s stomach twisted, her mind racing with possibilities. ‘What is it?’
Oliver hesitated. ‘I invested in her business.’
‘You’re partners with her in her bakery business?’
‘Yes, and if I take my money out, her business would more than likely fold. But between you and me, I want out.’
‘And how do you think that will go down?’
‘I think it’s safe to say she won’t be happy. Fiona doesn’t like losing. She’s always been competitive, which isn’t a bad thing in business, so hopefully she can get another backer. Even if I hadn’t met you, it would have been something I would have thought about doing. Come on… listen to that…’
Just then, a fanfare sounded. They quickly made their way back to the marquee. Clemmie placed her hands over her heart, overwhelmed by the surreal sight of the royal chefs serving slices of her torte on gleaming plates. They hurried closer, and her heart swelled with pride when she saw the bold, elegant sign beside the table:
Winning Royal Baking Competition Recipe by Clemmie Rose, The Café on the Coast, Puffin Island.
‘Go on,’ Oliver insisted. ‘You need a photo withyourtorte.’
Clemmie allowed herself to be ushered closer, and Oliver eagerly pulled out his phone. She posed beside the sign, then held up a plate with a delicate slice of the torte, its chocolate clementine topping glinting in the sunlight. Oliver captured every angle, laughing when she struck a playful pose holding a fork.
‘Perfect,’ he said, snapping a final photo. ‘These are going straight on social media– or maybe the café’s wall of fame? Because after this I bet you have lots of famous people visiting your café.’
Clemmie laughed, her nerves momentarily forgotten as she imagined her little café bustling with customers eager to try the torte that had won royal acclaim. The thought of people flocking to Puffin Island for a slice of her great-great-grandmother’s creation filled her with both pride and disbelief.
Before she could respond to Oliver’s playful teasing about a wall of fame, a familiar voice interrupted.
