Christmas at the Cornish Café. Phillipa Ashley
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didn’t mention one.’
‘No girlfriend or boyfriend? Both?’ His espresso-coloured eyes hold a hint of mischief.
‘He did say “everyone calls me Kit” so he must have some friends and family. He definitely didn’t want to talk about his work though, so I think he’s had a stressful time in London.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Cal says, standing on the tiles in his woolly hiking socks with a grimace on his tanned face. Even the sight of those rugged socks are turning me on which must mean I’ve got it very bad. At least he doesn’t know quite how bad. Cal and I have been rubbing along in this relationship for the past few weeks. It’s as rocky and twisty-turny as the coastal path, and as uncertain as the weather in our part of the county. One day there are storms between us, the next clear blue skies – and sometimes four seasons in one day. There’s no formal arrangement between us and I have no intention of moving into Kilhallon House itself, but while Polly is away, we sneak nights together in his bed.
You see, Cal may be more than a boss but he’s also not entirely mine. Not that he’s actually sleeping with anyone else, but only part of him belongs to me. His socks, perhaps … if I’m lucky. You see, I still suspect his heart lies with his ex, even though he said that I’d made a mark on him and he begged me to stay just a few weeks ago.
My stomach clenches at the reminder of how new and fragile our relationship is. I remind myself not to start getting any stupid ideas about Cal that involve hearts and flowers, let alone love and marriage.
‘How were the group who’ve rented the yurts?’ I ask him, refocusing on the business at hand, not his sexy socks or his top-notch arse. ‘I was wondering how you’d got on with them. How horrible for them that they travelled here in this crap weather.’
‘They weren’t quite as easily pacified as your mate “Kit”. In fact, judging by their faces and the fact the kids were crying and begging Mummy to take them “to a proper house with real walls”, I’m not sure they’re entirely happy. I’ve had to leave them to settle in, and at least the weather’s improving, they should cheer up soon.’
He lifts up his foot. ‘Damn it, my socks are soaked. I think my boxers might be wet too.’
The heat from the Aga curls around us and steam rises from Cal’s damp T-shirt.
I can’t hide my giggle. ‘You look like Mitch after he’s jumped in a rock pool. You’d better get changed while I make a hot coffee, then you can tell me all about the yurt people.’
‘And you can tell me more about your mate Kit.’
‘He’s not my mate.’
I can’t see Cal’s face as he heads out of the kitchen but I can picture that self-satisfied grin of pleasure at winding me up. At least he cares that Kit might have chatted me up, even if all Kit was really interested in was getting some alcohol and calories down his neck as fast as possible.
Ten minutes later, the tinny intro to ‘Last Christmas’ tinkles through the kitchen. Cal leans against the door frame, drying his hair on a towel. Thank goodness he decided to put a T-shirt on. He frowns. ‘What are you doing? And why the crappy music?’
‘The crappy music you’re referring to, though that’s open to debate, is my Christmas cafe mix and I’m getting into the festive spirit.’
His gaze travels slowly and deliberately from my toes, past my skinny jeans and Kilhallon Park T-shirt to my face.
‘In an elf apron and a Santa hat?’
I plant my hands on my hips. ‘Are you complaining?’
‘Not at all,’ he says, with the lop-sided smile that never ceases to make my insides tingle. His voice is as rich and delicious as the spices in my mincemeat, though I’d rather die than tell him either of those things, of course.
‘You can give me a hand with these,’ I say, nodding to the cooling rack on top of the Aga and handing him a tray from the oven. While Cal transfers the mince pies from the tin to the rack, I rescue the second and final batch from the oven.
‘Is that the last batch?’ Cal asks, dumping the empty pie tins in the Belfast sink.
‘Yes, thanks.’ While I untie the strings of my apron and hang it on the back of the door that leads into the hallway, I know Cal’s eyes will be fixed on my rear, which is a delicious thought although it makes me self-conscious. By the time I turn back to him, however, he’s holding up a cake net and sniffing the plate of crumble-topped pies that was under it.
‘You’ve been busy. It smells great in here.’
‘I’ve been trying out some recipes for the cafe in between checking in the guests. You know we’re going to do most of our own baking, but we’ll have to buy in some of it from outside. Sheila’s going to provide the pasties and the St Trenyan bakery will help with the bread. There’s a young food blogger near St Just who’s going to help out too, when we’re really busy.’
‘What about this lot? Do I get to try some?’ His hand snakes towards the cooling rack. I bat it away. ‘I’m not complaining, but isn’t it a bit early for mince pies?’
‘That’s what Kit said, but these are for work, not pleasure. I’m going to take some shots for our social media pages. Twitter, Instagram and the blog, you know? Maybe make some promotional memes on Canva and I must upload the pics to Pinterest. Have you forgotten that Demelza’s opens the day after tomorrow? I’ve been trialling some seasonal bakes and we need to get people in the mood for booking festive breaks.’
‘I hear you about the cafe, but Pinterest? Canva memes? I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Yes, you do. You just pretend you don’t so you don’t have to spend hours on the Internet.’
He sneaks a pie and bites into it. ‘Fu … ow! Thasstillverhot.’ He pants and dances the other half of the stolen pie from one palm to the other. Crumbs scatter onto the tiles.
‘Serves you right. You couldn’t wait, could you?’
He winks. ‘You know me so well.’
Correction, I think, I know him better. Since I started working at Kilhallon at Easter, I’ve come to realise that no one knows Cal well, not even the people who’ve grown up with him in the little Cornish village of St Trenyan. I don’t think his own family know him completely. Which makes me a total novice in the ways of Cal Penwith, apart from the ways in which I now know him intimately, of course.
Cal blows on the other half of the pie and finishes it in a couple of bites while I cover the rest of them with a clean tea towel and switch on the kettle. After baking all morning, and checking in Kit, I’m more than happy to take a break with Cal while I have the chance. Once the cafe is open and our other guests start arriving over the next few days, I doubt if we’ll have a moment to breathe, let alone share a mince pie and coffee.
‘Want a coffee and another sample?’
‘Thanks, but I’ll make the coffee.’
He scrapes his chair back and fills the kettle while I clean up the table. The oak surface is dusted with flour and scraps of pastry plus the debris of my baking: a beige pastry bowl, old-fashioned scales, a floury wooden rolling pin and old-fashioned pastry cutters in the shape of stars and hearts. I rescued them all from various corners of the farmhouse kitchen and outbuildings when we cleared out decades of junk while we were refurbishing Kilhallon Park over the summer. Cal’s family hadn’t thrown anything away for fifty years, judging by the junk that was piled high in the old barn and workshop and offices.
I hand Cal a flowery china plate with a crumble-topped tart on it. It just happens to have a heart-shaped crust.
He pushes away the Kilner jar of mincemeat to make room for the plate. ‘My, this is posh.’
‘It was one of your mum’s,