Page 4 of Just a Little Crush
Yeah, damn straight she’s too good for me. She’s an angel who deserves the very best. And that is why a monster like me can never, ever, ever make a move on Bec.
3
Bec
Theroadupthroughthe grounds of the Fenwick Estate is one of the most beautiful places you could ever drive. Vast meadows spread out on either side of the tree-lined avenue, full of the most stunning wildflowers. I always feel as if I’m in Downton Abbey or something when I take the meandering route up to the main house.
Sometimes I see deer grazing, or the ears of a hare peeking out above the long grass. Beyond the meadows lie thick oak forests that keep the house and grounds well hidden from the B-road that leads you here. If you didn’t know it existed, you’d never be any the wiser, and I love that it feels like a hidden gem.
The house itself was built in the early 1800s, on the site of the previous house, which was apparently more than 700 years old. During the week, the gardens and the house are open to the public, but at weekends weddings are the order of the day, and they charge a small fortune for exclusive hire.
The couples who marry here are gorgeous, rich, and classy as hell, but in my experience as a supplier, they’re often genuinely nice too. I host after hours tastings once a month, so they can sample the cheeses I recommend. In turn, they regale me with stories of how they met, their perfect proposals, their plans for the big day. The women attempt to blind me with the sparkling rocks on their fingers, and I bury any pangs of jealousy deep, deep down.
I’ll probably never get married, but I’m not opposed to the idea of it. If I ever did, I’d definitely want to get married here. Mainly because I have a very specific, highly detailed fantasy that involves me being chased through the grounds of this grand house by my new husband, my dress billowing out behind me, my feet slipping in the dewy grass as I make for the woods. I’ll hide, but he’ll find me and catch me and I’ll be railed against a tree, my bridal gown bunched up around my waist.
A girl can dream.
A wheel of sharp cheddar forms the base before I add a tall round of Colston Bassett Stilton, which surprises even the most staunch blue-cheese haters when paired with their slice of traditional wedding cake. Next is a whole wild garlic yarg, a much more vibrant green than the more common nettle version. I pause to admire the pattern the layers of leaves make, and take a close up photo to share to our Instagram. This couple have opted for a smoked cheese next, and the final layer is a heart-shaped brie, with several more spread out on the table below. It’s a great choice. Give me a box of crackers and a knife, and I can take one of these beauties down in under ten minutes.
Ripe figs, plump grapes and springs of rosemary are nestled amongst each layer, enveloping the tower in an upward spiral. Next, I set up grazing boards of crackers in various shapes, flavours and sizes interspersed with jars of chutney, honey, and homemade pickles.
I stand back and view my masterpiece. No matter how many of these I make, I never get bored of imagining the guests’ faces when they see it as a finished display.
I also never get bored of standing in the ballroom, imagining the thousands of couples who’ve danced here over the years. I picture the Elizabeths and the Darcys, the Bridgerton brood, and it wouldn’t surprise me if a few of the older royals have been here at some point too. I wonder how many matches have been made, how many scandals have begun, and how many illicit snogs have been had in hidden alcoves down winding corridors. I’ve clocked several spots for a cheeky fumble in my time working here, and you’d best believe that I’ve gone straight home and imagined Rennie doing the fumbling.
When I’ve cleared all my supplies away, I take a few photos for our social media and give Alyssa a call to check in.
“How’s it going at the Sutton’s?”
“I’m just finishing up.”
“The marquee still holding?” The wind has picked up in the time I’ve been here, and though the storm we’re expecting hasn’t hit yet, we’re right in the path of it. That’s one great benefit of a venue like this. Nobody wants to be outside when they can be in a stunning ballroom eyeing up their prince.
“Yup, the tent company had an event cancel due to the storms, so they ended up giving them a more sturdy one instead.”
“Oh, fantastic. I have to admit, I didn’t think it would be too bad, but it’s getting wild up here.”
“I mean, it’s holding strong, but the wind is noisy as hell.” I can hear it in the background through the phone. “As long as they love their cheese, that’s all that matters to me,” she says. I know they will, she’s got a great eye for food styling. I’m damn lucky to have her working with me.
“I’m about to leave Fenwick’s so I’ll see you back at the shop. Drive safe.”
“You too.”
My phone buzzes just as I hang up. It’s a text from Rennie telling me to be safe on the roads today. That is so like him. The busiest man in Thatch Cross, and he still finds time to look out for locals. I’m surprised he even remembers I’m up here today.
It’s a thirty-minute drive back into town, and I’m in no rush. With my woodland fuck fantasy still on my mind, I load up my audiobook app, and select one I recall has a similar scene. There’s no better company on my deliveries than the husky tones of a sex god book boyfriend.
That’ll get me right in the mood for my quiet evening plans; a deep bath, gooey brie, a jar of pickled onions, and my freshly charged wand. Probably not all at the same time, but never say never.
Exiting the estate grounds, I turn back onto the country lane just as the rain begins to lash down. The road is already scattered with leaves and branches that definitely weren’t here when I arrived, and I can feel the wind buffeting the car when I speed through open stretches. Shit, this is way sketchier than I expected, but I know my lovely little car will get me home in one piece.
As soon as the thought forms, I see a tree up ahead, jutting out at an angle not like any of the others on this stretch of road. It’s too late to stop by the time I realise it’s coming down.
Instinct takes over. I hit the accelerator and swerve to avoid its path, but it’s hopeless. My baby spins in the road, tyres screeching, until she comes to a sudden stop in the hedgerow. I slam my eyes shut when the worst noise I’ve ever heard in my life fills my ears. Cracking, creaking, roaring, and crunching. The window next to me smashes into pieces all over my lap and my hands fly to my head, bracing for whatever comes next.
I don’t know how long I stay like that, but when I open my eyes, I want to cry. My car. My baby. Fuck, this is bad. My head hurts. My ears are ringing. I try to sit up straight, but the roof of the car is caved in, the windscreen completely smashed by the canopy of a fallen Oak. There’s glass everywhere and when I reach up to my head, I feel pieces of it caught in my bun.
Someone is shouting at me. A man, no, a woman. She’s screaming, moaning, but wait... those aren’t screams of pain or terror.
