‘Wait, why do you think he’s going to show up tonight? Why on earth would he be here, on Puffin Island?’
‘Because it turns out he’s presenting The Royal Baking Competition.’
Amelia’s eyes widened. ‘No way.’
‘Yes way, and I saw him today, driving his Aston Martin down the cobbles of Lighthouse Lane.’
‘And did he see you?’
‘Oh yes, but he forgot to mention he was presenting the competition and made some quip about how he was just here to see his favourite baker. It’s only taken him three years…’ she grumbled.
‘And how do you feel about that?’
‘I’m not entirely?—’
The door creaked open, cutting her off. A gust of cool air swept through the pub, along with a man who could have stepped straight out of an expensive cologne ad.
Oliver Lockwood.
Amelia’s jaw dropped. ‘That’s him, isn’t it?’
Clemmie froze. He was there, all six feet of irritating perfection, his dark hair slightly tousled and his crisp shirt casually unbuttoned at the collar. And, of course, he wasn’talone. Clemmie sank a little lower in her seat, wishing she had a superpower to disappear from the planet. ‘Don’t say anything or bring any attention to ourselves,’ she whispered.
On his arm was a woman who seemed to embody the very essence of chic. She wore a crisp, tailored tweed coat over a simple yet stylish dress, her silk scarf knotted elegantly at her neck. Her ankle boots were impeccably clean, practical yet stylish, and a leather satchel hung from her shoulder. Her hair was neatly pinned back, framing her face in soft waves, and her delicate pink lipstick added a touch of warmth to her otherwise polished appearance.
Of course he had a woman on his arm. He was Oliver Lockwood, after all… charming, confident and magnetic, with women falling all over him. Clemmie knew this all too well. She had been one of those women once, for a brief but intense week. She cast her mind back to the food market where they’d met. Their conversation began with shortbread but quickly spiralled into discussions of coffee, culinary travels and life. By the end of the night, they were sitting at a nearby café, sharing stories over wine and pastries. Dinner led to Clemmie’s hotel room, where they gave in to an undeniable chemistry. For Clemmie, it was unlike anything she’d experienced… a whirlwind of passion and connection that left her breathless. It was a fleeting romance that ended as quickly as it had begun, leaving her as little more than just another name in his long list of conquests, a fact she tried hard to bury. Yet seeing him again, looking just as handsome as ever, stirred feelings she had long ago pushed aside.
‘Stop staring,’ Clemmie ordered, as she noticed Amelia’s wide-eyed gaze.
‘I can’t help it,’ Amelia admitted, unable to look away. ‘He’s absolutely stunning.’
Clemmie rolled her eyes. ‘You are not helping.’
Amelia nudged her, still watching Oliver with awe. ‘I can’t believe your Oliver Lockwood is in our pub.’
Clemmie’s voice grew sharper. ‘He was only ever mine for a week. He didn’t want me. Never chose me.’
Amelia raised an eyebrow, an unspoken challenge in her gaze. ‘But you can say the same about you, right? You never chose him either. He asked you to travel the world and you turned him down.’
Clemmie glared at her friend, her emotions flickering between frustration and lingering hurt. ‘Whose side are you on? And he’s obviously with someone else now,’ she muttered, her eyes flicking to the woman on Oliver’s arm. ‘Oh, blooming hell. Could my night get any worse?’
‘Has the guy from the cheese counter walked in?’ Amelia teased, looking towards the door.
‘It’s her,’ Clemmie said in a hushed whisper.
‘It’s who?’
‘Fiona Fairweather– the competition! The woman in the article I showed you, who thinks she’s already won The Royal Baking Competition and her cookbook will be flying off the shelves in no time…’
‘Not in my bookshop they won’t.’
Clemmie smiled. ‘And you can just picture her at the garden party swanning about like she herself is royalty.’
‘You don’t feel intimidated, do you?’ Amelia raised an eyebrow.
‘I did until Granny gave me a good talking to.’
‘In my opinion, she’s all tweed and tarts and you… you are the icing on the cake.’
