He gives a shamefaced grin. ‘There’s another sixty in the mud room.’
I’m making it up as I go along, but I might as well state the obvious. ‘Even if we save a dozen for immediate consumption, that still leaves forty-eight more than we can’t eat ourselves, so we may as well use them as testers.’
He’s looking at me through narrowed eyes. ‘Any research will need to be meticulously devised and targeted.’
I can’t believe what he’s missing. ‘You’ve got a beach full of people who’d be very happy to give their opinions. It’s baking not rocket science, why waste the audience?’ I’m not usually a bossy person, but I can’t hold back on this. ‘Miles, this is StAidan, not London. It’s free for the taking. Look, I’ll do the talking. Stop prevaricating and fetch the goods before everyone goes home.’
His jaw drops, but a second later he slides off the stool and three minutes later Miles and I are down on the beach with a platter of his boathouse buns.
16
The beach by Boathouse Cottage, St Aidan
Big guns and belly laughs
Sunday
‘We’re about to launch a new pastry range, would you like to taste some preview samples? There’s no charge.’
Heaven knows what I look like with my hair caught up in a scrunchie and my flowery shirt flapping wildly around my purple satin shorts, but as we approach the first group we come to on the sand, I put on my brightest smile and cross my fingers tightly behind my back.
As Miles steps up with the platter of samples, they help themselves, fill their mouths with bun fragments, and hold their thumbs up in appreciation, before going in again for more.
I’m trying to gather as much information as I can. ‘Any particular favourite?’
There’s a chorus. ‘Apricot!’ ‘Toffee!’ ‘Chocolate every time!’ ‘Raspberry all the way!’
Then someone calls, ‘They’d be amazing with cinnamon, too.’
Another chimes in, ‘Or vanilla custard.’
I grin. ‘I’ll mention that to the baker.’
Miles finally breaks his silence. ‘I hope you don’t mind people you don’t know disturbing your afternoon?’
One girl laughs. ‘With baking this delicious, feel free to disturb us every Sunday.’
As they lick their fingers, one of the women looks up at me. ‘We’ve met already. You’re the one we saw with your pony earlier?’
I smile. ‘I am.’
A guy carrying a surfboard comes to join the group. ‘I saw you and your pony outside the Surf Shack.’ He nods at the platter. ‘If you’re selling those chocolate ones, I’ll take four.’
Selling? I hadn’t actually thought any further than extending the reactions beyond mine, and maybe making an order of flavour preference, but if the chance is there, my instinct is to jump at it.
‘We could do you a special introductory price of three pounds each.’ I’m thinking they must use shedloads of butter. ‘Is that okay with you, Miles?’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘You’re our boss on the beach, Betsy.’
I’m used to fundraising for the animal rescue, so what happens next is like second nature. ‘We can do six for fifteen?’ I laugh. ‘They’re very moreish. I just ate four and they didn’t touch the sides.’
There’s another chorus, of ‘Great!’
‘We’ll have some too.’
‘And us!’
Before Miles has finished collecting the notes, the girls beyond the next windbreak are calling us over. ‘Did you say pastries?’
