Page 30 of The Secret Mistletoe Promise
‘I wonder how many kisses the post people have had to have?’ she said to Artichoke. The dog glanced up at her then went back to sniffing the ground.
Imogen started to count the sprigs, got lost after about thirty, and gave up when she reached Two Scoops. There was an ‘Open’ sign on the door, and she pushed it open and went inside.
‘Is it OK to bring dogs in here?’ she asked.
The dark-haired man behind the counter turned and gave her a warm smile, a glint of mischief in his eyes. ‘That’s not a dog though, is it? Artichoke’s more of a squeaky toy, so no problem having her in here.’
Imogen gasped, mock-outraged. ‘Don’t listen to him, Artichoke!’ Inevitably the dog squeaked instead of barking, and the man behind the counter laughed. ‘Shush.’ Imogen tried very hard to keep a straight face.
‘What can I do for you? Is it “National Dress As a Pea Day”, and you’ve come to tell me off for not complying?’ The man rested his forearms on the glass counter, above the display of all the flavours that were making Imogen’s mouth water. ‘I don’t think that’s a real day, my coat is very warm, thank you, and I would like an ice cream, please.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m not one to turn down business, but you do realize it’s ten in the morning on a cold-in-your-bones day in November?’
‘Just about,’ Imogen said with a grin, because the days had blurred somewhat, without the routine of work to guide her. ‘But you know when you have a craving for something? I just really want an ice cream by the sea today.’
‘Fair enough. What flavours? If you have lime sorbet, it won’t show up when you drop it on your coat.’
Imogen rolled her eyes. ‘I would like cinnamon, and rum and raisin.’
‘Good choices. I’m doing proper Christmas flavours – mince pie and brandy butter – starting next week.’ He got a waffle cone, and took his scoop out of the water it was resting in. ‘Are you the runaway bride?’
‘That’s me. Imogen Rowsell. I’m Birdie’s granddaughter.’
‘I’m Jason. I run this place, and my husband Simon is the mastermind behind Batter Days.’
‘Mastermind?’
‘Have you had fish and chips yet?’
She shook her head.
‘Do that, then tell me he’s not a mastermind. His batter is second to none.’
‘Biased, much?’
‘Always.’ He grinned, and Imogen couldn’t help returning it. ‘Here you go.’ He handed over her ice cream. ‘Good to meet you, Imogen.’
‘You too.’
‘I expect you’re going to go paddling now, aren’t you?’ he called as she stepped outside.
‘What a great idea,’ she said over her shoulder, and Jason laughed.
She sat on the sea wall, Artichoke beside her. The dog’s fur was damp, but she wasn’t shivering, and seemed content to snuggle up to Imogen while she ate her delicious ice cream, the sugar probably not ideal for breakfast, but so worth it, because the flavours were rich and the cinnamon tingledon her tongue. The sea was slate grey with silver accents, its usual blues and greens subdued, though Imogen could see flashes when a wave crested or a bird dived in, disrupting the surface. The sky was flat, the windmills on the horizon hidden behind its cloak of cloud, but it was still one of the most beautiful sights she’d ever seen.
‘OK,’ she said, after she’d finished the final crunch of her cone and sucked her fingertips clean.‘Do you fancy a paddle, Artichoke? We’ll have to go home straight afterwards to get dry, but it sounds good, right?’
Artichoke squeak-yapped, and Imogen took that as assent.
She unlaced her new walking boots, courtesy of Hartley Country Apparel, pulled off her socks, then let her bare feet sink into the soft, freezing sand.
‘Is this really a good idea?’ But Artichoke was already straining at her short lead again, desperate to fight the tiny, lapping waves. Imogen went with her, hissing as the November North Sea met her unprepared toes, but soon they were numb and she was confident enough to follow Artichoke into roughly four inches of water. ‘We’re basically Olympic swimmers,’ she told the little dog. ‘We could swim the Channel if we put our minds to it.’ She squinted at the horizon, where a massive tanker looked roughly the size of an ant. ‘Maybe,’ she amended, but Artichoke was too busy trying to catch waves, and Imogen’s heart ached at the simple pleasure of it, the puppy’s soggy fur.
When she thought they’d both had enough, she led Artichoke back up the beach, then had the uncomfortable task of putting damp, sand-encrusted feet into socks and then boots. The two of them had just made it to thepromenade, Artichoke’s wet fur like bristles, when she saw Sophie.
‘Are you OK?’ Sophie asked, her eyes alight with amusement. ‘You didn’t fall in, did you?’
Imogen followed her gaze to Artichoke. ‘No, all intentional. We were paddling.’
