Page 47 of The Christmas Fayre on Holly Field

‘So I did.’

‘And as I recall, it was delicious.’

‘It was OK.’

‘I make a lot of soups, and believe me, yours was lovely.’Youare lovely, he wanted to add, but he’d said more than enough for one day.Take it slow, he told himself: he didn’t want to frighten her off.

He placed two steaming bowls of fragrant pasta on the table and sat down. ‘I hope you like it.’

‘I’m sure I will.’

He waited anxiously for her to take a mouthful, and when she closed her eyes in bliss and murmured, ‘This is sooo good,’ he breathed a sigh of relief, despite not thinking that the way to a woman’s heart was through her stomach. It couldn’t hurt to try, though!

For the next few minutes there was very little talking as both of them ate, and as Owen’s appetite was fully restored, he began to relax.

They chatted about the food they liked, and Harriet asked him for the pasta recipe, keen to try it at home, and she also wanted to suggest adding it to the cafe’s vegan menu. Over the past couple of years there had been an increasing demand for vegetarian and vegan dishes, she told him, and they batted around a couple of recipes for a while.

Pasta consumed, Owen cleared away the dirty bowls, waving away Harriet’s offer of help, and when they were stacked neatly on the side, he produced his scones with a flourish.

‘There’s crème fraîche and jam if you want it, or do you prefer yours buttered?’

‘You can’t have scones without jam and cream,’ she said, taking a bite.

Once again, her murmurs of appreciation made him glow, but this time it wasn’t because of the accolade, but because of the noises she made. They sent a tingle straight down his spine and he had a sudden vision of kissing her, his arms holding her close as she melted into him: she would be making those exact same noises…

‘Coffee? Tea?’ he grunted.

‘Tea would be nice,’ she replied around a mouthful of scone. ‘What’s in these? They’re so unusual.’

‘Dried cranberries, cinnamon, almonds and the zest of an orange. They’re kind of Christmassy.’

‘They’re kind of delicious. I can’t believe you made these yourself. You’re a keeper.’

Harriet took another bite, her eyes on her plate, and he wondered what she’d meant by that. A keeper for whom? Her? Or was it just a figure of speech, and she didn’t mean anything by it?

He busied himself making the tea, using a real teapot, complete with loose tea leaves and a tea cosy. Once again, he was conscious of her eyes on him, watching his every move, and he wondered what she was thinking. Actually, he could guess.

‘I bet you think I’m old-fashioned,’ he said.

‘I don’t. Although it does bring back memories of my great-grandma, who never used anything other than loose tea and always made it in a teapot. She used to say that the flavour was better. Mind you, she never drank anything other than Lapsang Souchong, so I’ll take her word for it.’

‘Funnily enough, it does taste better,’ he agreed. ‘But that may be more to do with the ceremony of it. Throwing a bag in a mug isn’t the same, somehow. I also don’t like using bags if I can help it, because most of them contain plastic and take years to decompose, if they ever do.’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as serious about the environment before,’ she said, as he gave the pot a final stir and poured them both a cup.

‘I’ve only got oat milk, I’m afraid.’

‘That’s OK. I’ll give it a go.’

‘The crème fraîche you ate was made from oat milk,’ he told her.

‘Was it?’ she sounded surprised. ‘It was lovely.’

‘Does it bother you that I’m a bit of a nerd when it comes to the planet?’ he asked.

‘Not at all. Someone’s got to be. I wish I could do more.’

‘You’ve made a start, that’s the main thing,’ he said. ‘You can’t be expected to change everything all at once. It takes time, and you’ve got to decide which changes you can live with and which ones you can’t.’

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