Page 46 of The Christmas Fayre on Holly Field

But…

He removed the scones from the fridge and slid the baking tray into the oven, his mind whirling.

There wasPlanet Bto consider. He could make something up as to why he couldn’t report on Harriet’s (or should he say,Dawn’s) progress any longer, but it would be a lie. Besides, she was doing so well that he wanted to see her get to the end of it.

Then there was Harriet herself. She was the real reason he couldn’t leave.

The thought of never seeing her again stabbed him in the gut, and he knew that running away wasn’t an option. He had to see this thing out, to get to know her, to woo her – because he owed it to himself to try. If he didn’t, he suspected he would regret it for a very long time. And if she didn’t feel the same, then so be it. At least he would have tried, and he could go back to the way he’d lived for the past two decades – alone and on the road.

It wouldn’t be the end of the world. He might suffer a bruised heart, but that would be it. He would make sure he ended the relationship long before he fell in love.

‘Ha!’ he grunted. What did he know aboutlove? Apart from knowing that he’d never been in that state before. He wouldn’t know love if it jumped up and bit him on the bum. He would just have to hope that if Harriet didn’t want to get to know him better inthatway, that he’d recognise when it was time to bail before he got hurt.

A knock on the side of the van brought him out of his reverie and he looked over his shoulder to see Harriet standing outside the open door.

‘Something smells nice,’ she said. ‘I could smell garlic frying halfway up the lane.’

‘Come in, take a seat. Hello, Etta.’

Owen crouched down to fondle the dog’s silky ears, but in reality he was attempting to slow his heart rate down to a more acceptable level.

Bloody hell, the effect Harriet had on him was scary.

He had desired women in the past, he had lusted after them, had taken them to bed, and had totally and utterly enjoyed it, but never before had he been as besotted as he was now. He was behaving like a sixteen-year-old with a first crush fuelled by too much testosterone and unbridled emotion.

Straightening up, he smiled at her as she took a seat, and she smiled back. As his heart sang, he turned to the sink and washed his hands.

‘What are we having?’ she asked.

‘Mushroom and spinach penne, with scones for dessert.’

‘Mmm, sounds delicious.’

‘It’s almost ready,’ he said, grabbing some cutlery and putting it on the table. He then got two bowls out of the cupboard and prepared to dish up. But first, he’d better check on those scones. He didn’t want them turning out like rock cakes.

He was aware that Harriet was watching him with interest, and when she said, ‘You didn’t bake those yourself, did you?’, a warm fuzzy glow lit him from within.

‘I did,’ he confessed, shyly. ‘I do most of my own baking.’

‘Wow! Good-looking and a good cook.’ There was a sudden silence, then she said, ‘Oops. I hope I haven’t embarrassed you?’

She had, but only because he was well aware he was an average Joe when it came to looks. He had to admit, though, that as he aged, he appeared to be growing into his skin. The reflection that looked back at him these days was of a man who didn’t put much store in the way he looked, so it was both flattering and unexpected that Harriet thought he was OK to look at. Or was she just saying that?

Um, no, he didn’t think so. It had slipped out without her meaning it to, and her heightened colour gave him the impression that she was mortified at having said such a thing.

‘I’m not embarrassed,’ he fibbed. ‘I could say the same about you.’

‘Huh!’

‘You are,’ he insisted. ‘I think you’re beautiful.’ Oh dear, now it was his turn to be discomforted.

‘Thank you, but I was referring to my cooking skills.’

‘Ah…’ All he’d wanted to do was to reassure her that she was indeed gorgeous, and now he had made an utter fool of himself. ‘You can cook, too,’ he said, heat whooshing into his face. He concentrated on forking out the pasta into the bowls and wished he was anywhere but right there.

‘I don’t consider you having to show me how to make a butternut squash casserole as being a good cook,’ she retorted.

Feeling on safer ground, Owen said, ‘I seem to recall you telling me that you’d made the pumpkin soup in Pen’s Pantry.’

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