Page 18 of The Custard Tart Cafe by the Sea
A smirk spreads fully across his irritatingly luscious lips. Hand still clutched to the peak of his headgear, he raises an eyebrow as if to say ‘seriously?’
“Don’t flatter yourself.” His smile fades. “And I’d prefer that you kept my niece’s birthday present out of your unnecessary self-defence tactics.” He gestures at the stuffed toy in its iconic mackintosh and hat. “I’m after a bottle of the Calvin Klein that’s right behind you, but if you insist on blocking my way, I guess Paddington and I will just take the scenic route.”
TOG loops around the perfume gondola. Sure enough, he grabs a bottle of CK One Shock aftershave (and now there’s no way he isn’t the guy Lauren has been fixated on, if her olfactory skills are anything to go by) before turning to make his way to the till.
Oh, no you don’t!
My mouth twists as I relive the recent anguish he’s put me and my team through. Self-righteous prat. The very anguish I’m going away to try to forget. Life, it seems, has slightly different plans.
But I’m damned if I’m going to pass up the opportunity to challenge them now that it’s here.
“Tell me you are not going to Portugal,” I demand and he turns slowly to face me. I’m still pointing the spray at him and I realise I’m getting odd looks from the employee handing out thimble samples of Bombay Sapphire gin in the distance. I put the Angel back on the shelf.
It’s like I’m looking at a whole different person, there’s no trace of amusement on TOG’s face anymore.
“Okay, so let me get this straight,” he says. “Not only does she think she has the right to completely slaughter the Portuguesepastel de nata.” My mouth forms the letter O at his awful choice of words. He makes me sound like a butcher. “She also thinks she has the right to decide who gets to set foot inmycountry.” He removes his cap and fluffs up his hair in a wholly unnecessary move, because (of course) it looks salon-perfect, unlike most humans’ mops, which would be pancake-flat after wearing that thing for so long.
I screw up my features, hardly caring what that must look like. How dare he! I clear my throat.
“The only reason I am standing in this airport right now is to take a well-deserved break from the stress that you, and you alone, have dumped so spectacularly on the doorstep of my café! So, yes, I do have a right to know your whereabouts, as it happens, because the last thing I want to do is end up bumping into you on a beach in the Algarve when I am trying to forget about the way you are seeking to destroy my livelihood!”
He bites down on his lip in a way which I refuse to view as sexy.
“You already saw me in the easyJet queue when, excuse me for pointing it out, you looked far more ravishing minus the metallic mermaid makeup.” I wince internally but I am not prepared to show him that his disapproval of my new look has registered. “And if, like most people, you have glanced at the departure boards, you will have noticed they are going to two places: guaranteed sunshine… and not-so-guaranteed sunshine. I wonder…” He humours me and brings his hand to his chin as if deep in thought. “Which would I choose to jet away to, especially given the fact my family lives there?”
My heart thuds. I already know this to be true. But now there’s no longer that 0.01% chance that he has a thing for cold northern cities. All I can do is look askance at him.
“What are you, a spy? Of all the weeks in the year, why did you have to go and choose the same one that my friends cajoled me to join them on?”
“I’m stunned you’d jump to that conclusion. I can assure you I have far more important and interesting things to do with my time.”
“Oh, really? Didn’t stop you prying into my company’s activities and showing up there uninvited.”
I attempt to arch a brow, then remember the vast swathe of iridescent shimmer coating each of my eye sockets, and cringe again at his earlier critique.
“Okay.” He holds a hand up in surrender, while the other grips Paddington protectively. It takes me right back to his stance with his poodle in the café and a nervous giggle threatens to erupt. Does he always get into arguments when he’s out and about with a furry prop? “I’ll make a deal with you, seeing as fate seems to have thrown us together, whether we like it or not. Meet me mid-week– no need for all the theatrics though.” He stops to wave his free hand in front of his face. “I might take you—” He stops again as if to weigh up his next words. “I’d like to take you out, that is to, er… to show you a properpasteleriaso you can have a truepastel de nataexperience.”
“You call that a chat-up line?”
Now I can’t stop my brows from hitting the ceiling. I’m furious with myself for jumping to that conclusion– and the helix of pleasure whirling south from my stomach at the thought of some alone time with TOG. His smouldering eyes are doing wicked things to me, despite us being at loggerheads. But it doesn’t half sound like he’s hitting on me in some weird and warped way. I have never been so flummoxed by a male. He’s contradictory, he’s rude, he’s pompous. He’s gorgeous.
Stop. STOP!
Enough of the latter. I will not be swayed by good looks. I am not that woman, and I am not that easily won over. Nothing can excuse TOG’s hideous actions up to this point and I will not roll over just because he’s invited me out for apastel de nata. Even if I do love the things.
I discovered them alone, quite independently from any egotistical male, fourteen years ago. Iknowwhat they taste like. They were the seed of my inspiration, for goodness sake. I do not need to be spoon fed. And now I hastily bat away the image of Bridgerton’s Duke of Hastings and his spoon-licking scene from my traitor of a brain. Iwill notbe Daphne, infatuated with a dashingly good-looking man!
“Of course it wasn’t a chat-up line. Neither was it proposed as a date. Like I said before, don’t flatter yourself.” He eyerolls me and waves his cap about as if to indicate that I’ve totally misconstrued his words, to distract all and sundry from his invitation. “Whatever gave you that idea? That would be ridiculous.”
Okay. No need to protest so much. I get the message loud and clear.
“I meant,’ he continues. “So I can set you straight… so you can have a serious think about the way you’ve decimated the perfection that is a Portuguese custard tart. I assume you’re heading to one of the tourist traps not far from Faro, having watched your poor friend display her overfull suitcase of bikinis and flip flops for everyone’s delight. Then you can fly home when the week’s up and change your menu immediately.”
I blink rapidly, trying to process his spiel.
“You are unbelievable. Who rattled your cage?” He visibly flinches at my words. For a split second, time seems to freeze between us, like the individual frames in a movie. Although he tries to hide it with bitterness, he’s not quick enough; I see the sorrow, I see the pain that is etched across his face. Half of me is glad, but the kinder, softer side of me– my aching heart– wants to take back my retort, however justified it seemed. I’ve hit him where it hurts. I may not know what that hurt is, but he’s undeniably wounded.
“Fine. Don’t say I didn’t give you the opportunity to make amends.” He clears his throat and my heart shrinks, my head taking over and brooking no more nonsense. “It seems to me that you’d rather see your business being forced to close.”
