He lets out a nervous giggle, and my heart melts at the thought of a guy likethisbeing nervous that it wouldn’t be reciprocated. ‘Not the pie itself, butyou. The way you understood how food can transport someone to a different time. I was a broken man, pretending to be happy and carefree when in reality, I didn’t think I’d ever be loved again, or be capable of loving someone again, and that pie made me feel love. It was like it unlocked something inside of me and made me remember everything I wanted life to be when I last ate a lemon meringue pie exactly like that one. It’s not just the pie that was special – it was the person who made it.’
My heart is hammering against my ribs and I haven’t breathed for so long that I must technically be dead by now.
I am completely, hopelessly, probably foolishly in love with him too, and I’m surprised he hasn’t realised that by now. Surely the crushing grip I’ve got on his fingers where they’re wrapped around mine must give it away.
When he reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear with his free hand, his fingers are trembling, and probably not just from the pain I’m causing to his other hand.
‘I’ve been falling in love with you too,’ I murmur as the tears I’ve been on the verge of for hours finally spill down my face. ‘Since that first night when you had every right to be furious with me, and instead, you were lovely and understanding and somehow made me feel like I’d come home.’
‘Really?’ He sounds so hesitant and unsure and like he’s trying to make a joke that’s not really a joke at all. ‘You don’t need to say it back because you think you owe me something. I didn’t do that today to somehow buy your affection…’
I lean up until I can kiss his cheek and then sit back so I can see his face. ‘You bought my affection months ago, with toast and coffee the morning after I’d run you over. With early-morning showtunes and yellow car paint and mended teapots. With your lively can-do attitude that made me feel like I could do anything too. With understanding what I wanted the Marzipan Campervan Café to be, and with your honesty and trust in letting me see behind the front you show to everyone else. You’ve done nothing but build me up, make me feel capable and strong and worthwhile. You’ve never made me feel bad about myself or like I needed to be different. Even when you found out about the van, you didn’t judge me. You just helped. So yes, I’ve been falling in love with you because you’ve made it impossiblenotto fall in love with you, and?—’
He silences me with a kiss. It starts off gentle but I kneel up to meet him again, one hand tangling in the waves of his brown hair, and his fingers dig into my hip as our mouths crash together. My other hand curls into his shirt, using it to haul him closer with such force that a button pings off and skitters across the van, and we both moan so loudly that if any dogwalkers happen along, there will benodoubt in their minds about what’s going on in the campervan.
It’s a clawing, grasping, fevered kiss that leaves me half-straddled on his lap, clutching the back of the seat so I don’t fall off, and gasping for breath, my forehead resting against his as we both pant at the intensity. I can feel the warmth radiating from his skin and the heat surrounding me, and nothing else matters. Not the money or the van or any of it, because nothing has ever made me happier than the look he’s giving me, like he wants to do things that would make even Wilma blush.
And as he kisses me again, softer and sweeter this time, surrounded by the smell of baking and the golden light filtering through the van’s windows, I think this might be one of the most important moments of my life.
25
‘Where is everyone?’ Reece taps the microphone to make sure it’s working and the sound echoes around the empty car park. ‘Last week, they arrived an hour early because they couldn’t wait for the quiz night to get started.’
I try to ignore the flash of panic. What if word of my revelations yesterday has spread around the village and others aren’t as understanding as Lettie, Wilma and Madge were? What if everyone is boycotting us in protest at the dishonesty?
I’ve been feeling guilty all afternoon as I’ve noticed Reece has got less enthusiasm than usual as he’s carried down chairs and set up tables. There’s a slump to his shoulders and he’s going through the motions without his usual spark. He won’t admit it, but after yesterday, I think he’s slowly realised that restoring the pub has changed from being a difficult goal to being an impossible one, although every time I try to ask about it, he steals a kiss instead of answering.
It’s been a busy day for the Marzipan Campervan, and I’d sold out of every bake by 2p.m., and no one batted an eyelid at my increased prices. Now I’ve been baking again for the quiz night attendees, and I’m slicing up Black Forest gateau, while waiting for butterfly cakes to come out of the oven, and hoping that my fellow teammates will bring reinforcements if we get anywhere near the crowd of last week.
I peer towards the road from the village, but there’s absolute quiet. Have we told them the wrong time or forgotten to put our clocks back or something?
Reece walks out to the path and looks up and down it too, and I’m moments away from confessing everything that happened after he left for the bank yesterday when the sound of a commotion reaches our ears, and Reece looks over at me in confusion.
I jump out of the van and go to the edge of the car park too. Usually the quiz nighters arrive in dribs and drabs – a few people here, a couple there, some coming along individually – but tonight, they areallarriving together.
I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing. Not just a few people, but seemingly the whole village, and others from further afield because Thimblenouth simply isn’t that big.
They’re like an army, marching together, enough feet on the ground to shake the very foundations of the road they’re walking up.
Lettie is at the front of the crowd, directing her husband, who’s carrying a huge wooden box with a slot in it, and looking like he’s struggling with it.
‘Can I help?’ Reece calls, looking baffled, and Lettie’s husband grunts a response that probably means he’s seconds away from dropping it. Reece dashes to assist, and under Lettie’s instructions, they carry it across the car park and put it down to one side of the steps.
‘Whatisthat?’ Reece is breathing heavily from the unexpected effort.
‘It’s a donations box. We don’t expect you to keep hosting these quiz nights for free, you know. It’s a lot of time and effort and expense and probably not what you envisioned doing when you bought the pub, so we’ve all agreed that everyone who comes will contribute a little something, even if they can’t afford much. It’s the principle of the thing. We enjoy it – we pay for it.’
‘Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly accept that—’ Reece looks horrified by the suggestion and then his face shifts as he realises what she said. ‘Wait, whenIbought the pub?’
‘Oh, yes, dear. We know. We’ve always known.’ Lettie waves away his question like it’s not a big deal. ‘When we cornered Dolly about it, she told us you had your reasons, but those are private to you and we respect that. These quiz nights have been so good that every team has agreed we’re happy to pay a small entrance fee – as it should be.’
The timer for the oven in the van chooses that moment to start beeping, and I have to rush back to it before I burn the butterfly cakes, and Madge hurries after me, a tower of cake tins in her arms – the reinforcements I hoped were coming, because I’d need ten more vans to be able to cater to this many people.
Reece is still trying to argue with Lettie about payment when I hear his attention shift. ‘What the heck isthat?’
I look up to see the man who works in the post office lugging a large can of something across the car park.
‘Woodworm treatment.’ He deposits the can at Reece’s feet proudly. ‘You’ll need to spray it on and vacate the premises for a few hours, but it’s strong stuff, it’ll sort the little blighters right out.’
