I start again and change the subject. ‘As for the kids and their dating quest?—’
Lando cuts in. ‘Unless you want to update the whole of St Aidan, you’d better come inside.’
It’s the last thing I intended, but he’s right about avoiding the local gossip grapevine. I hand him some brownie wrapped in foil as I pass him, then go on into the living room and lean against the kitchen island.
He holds up the cake. ‘If this is Mars bar brownie, I’ll do anything you ask.’ There’s a smile lingering around his lips. ‘If you’ve come to withdraw from dating under duress, I’ll be devastated to miss the homemade scones, but I’ll understand.’
His willingness to write it off so easily take me by surprise.
I spread my hands along the slate worktop to steady myself. ‘The kids’ concerns are real. When they’ve put in so much thought, I have to join in, even if I know their scheme is a no-hoper.’
‘But is it?’ His eyes are dancing.
I open my eyes wide. ‘Lando, seriously, I’ve never had a relationship. I could maybe fit another dog into my life, but I’d rather eat my own head than get married.’
The corners of his mouth are twitching. ‘So you’d like me to play along for the rose garden cream tea, on that understanding?’
I nod. ‘If you don’t mind.’ That went so well, I’m thinking further down the line. ‘If you came along for a couple more dates that would save me having to find anyone else.’
‘Of course.’
As I watch him rub his thumb along the stubble of his jawline, I ignore the tiny electric shocks that are running up and down my spine, and the even bigger inexplicable urge to throw myself at him and snog his face off.
I nod. ‘It’ll give you a chance to see more of Nemmie too.’ I grin. ‘She’s alarmingly formidable.’
Lando’s eyes narrow. ‘I’d like that.’ He bites his lip. ‘She’s even more scary than you, if that’s possible.’
As Lando has zero experience of children, I need to explain how this is going to go. ‘Kids are funny. They’ve picked this up and they’ll throw themselves into it, but then they’ll move on to something new, and this will be forgotten.’
He’s tilting his head on one side. ‘And when that happens, my fake boyfriend services will end as quietly as they began.’ He gives a shrug. ‘If we add in that every non-date must include home baking, I’d call that a workable arrangement.’
It’s so easy I’m wondering where the catch is. ‘Cherry, plain, date, cheese or sultana? For your scones.’
He blinks at me. ‘Sultana. With jam.’
Then his mouth slides into the start of a smile, and as my insides turn to syrup, I know I have to run.
I clap my hands. ‘Great! I’ll leave you and Martha to your brownie, and see you at the next wedding’—I do a mental calculation—‘the day after tomorrow.’
As he waves me off across the harbourside and I dodge the evening holidaymakers milling round his doorstep, I can see why he’d be up for somewhere quieter. But for my own sanity, considering the way my body tingles every time I see him, that can’t be anywhere near me.
He calls after me, ‘Our competition was won by the first women we saw. They’re having a double vow renewal and topping up for a whole afternoon at the beach. If they splash out on dresses from the shop, that’ll be a win-win-win-win-win-win-win.’
The wins are still echoing in my ears as I wind my way along the narrow, cobbled footpaths back to Climbing Rose Cottage. It’s not lost on me: for the last few months parading round with a fake husband has taken every bit of my patience and persistence. If I add a fake boyfriend into the mix too, my head might just explode.
38
Climbing Rose Cottage, St Aidan, Cornwall
Backwards in high heels
Sunday
When I told the kids that I was too busy for dates, it was a fast excuse to avoid being pushed into a husband search. In fact, there are a mass of shop appointments, and another four wedding photos to add to our pin board before we find a spare hour when the kids are home too for my afternoon tea with Lando. But sure enough, on Sunday afternoon the next weekend, Lando appears at the garden gate dead on four o’clock to be greeted by six shrieking children, because whenever the older ones scream, the three little ones dash across and join in.
Lando presents them with bags of fun-sized sweets, which buys him time to say hello to my mum, and when I reach the courtyard I can tell he’s made an effort to get rid of his usual creases. He also smells delectable.
‘Nice kit, Lando. Is that Mont Blanc Explorer again?’
