Page 62 of The Little Flower Shop By the Sea
I grimace. ‘I bet you smelled better than I do now though,’ I say as we reach the cottage and I open the front door.
‘A bit – I had quite the tang of lemon about me, and very clean with all the disinfectant.’
I have to laugh. ‘Well, thanks…’ I say, dithering about on the doorstep, assuming he will leave.
‘I’ll make you a nice hot cup of tea, shall I?’ Jake offers. ‘That wind is mighty cold today – you must be freezing, walking around with wet hair and clothes. You’re normally pale, Poppy, but you look almost blue right now!’
‘I am a bit chilly – yes,’ I have to admit. ‘But don’t you have to get back to work?’
Jake looks at his watch. ‘Call it my lunch hour. Perk of being your own boss. The guys up at the nursery can look after the place for a while.’
‘In that case, tea would be great, thank you. Proper tea, mind – none of Amber’s herbal nonsense!’
‘As if!’ Jake grins. ‘Tea only comes one way in my book: builder’s strength!’
I leave Jake in the kitchen filling the kettle, while I enjoy a lovely hot shower. My grandmother’s cottage may be old, but the hot-water system is as good as gold when it comes to running hot baths and showers.
I emerge a few minutes later wearing grey jogging bottoms and Amber’s purple NYU hoody; my towel-dried hair is combed but hangs damply down my back.
‘One tea!’ Jake announces, setting a steaming hot mug of tea down on the kitchen table. ‘Two sugars, isn’t it?’
I nod. ‘Yes, that’s right. Thank you.’
Jake glances at me, then looks away.
‘What?’ I ask, self-consciously running my hand over my damp hair. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. You’re wearing colour, that’s all.’ Jake grins. ‘It’s like suddenly going from a black-and-white TV to a colour one.’
I look at him, puzzled.
‘Oh, sorry, you’re probably too young to remember black-and-white TV, eh?’
‘No, I do vaguely remember my grandmother having one here, before my parents bought her a colour one to watch gardening programmes on. Anyway, this is Amber’s sweatshirt. I borrowed it to get warm.’
‘Ah, that figures,’ Jake says, nodding. ‘Shame, that colour really suits you.’
I feel myself blushing, but luckily my cheeks are already flushed from my super-hot shower. ‘Don’t start that again,’ I bluff, ‘about the colour of my clothes – who are you, Cornwall’s answer to Gok Wan?’
Jake laughs.
‘Anyway,’ I continue, always happier when Jake and I are being flippant with each other, ‘you’re almost as bad as me with your uniform of checked shirts, blue jeans and your staple Timberland boots!’
‘Ah, you got me!’ Jake says, looking down at his attire. ‘Touché, Miss Carmichael.’
My full name is actually Poppy Carmichael-Edwards. My mother and father’s names combined. But when Jake calls me Miss Carmichael I get a funny fluttery feeling in my stomach. Like someone has let a kaleidoscope of butterflies loose. So I’ve never wanted to correct him.
‘Shall we take this up to the sitting room?’ I ask, lifting my mug of tea. ‘It’s much nicer on a sunny day than down here in the kitchen.’
‘Sure,’ Jake agrees.
We head upstairs and settle ourselves comfortably on the sofa, while the sun pours in through the French windows, immediately warming my chilled body.
‘Amazing, isn’t it,’ Jake says looking out of the window, ‘how it can look so glorious out there, when in reality it’s freezing cold.’
‘Joys of living by the sea, I guess. The wind is our constant companion.’
‘Isn’t it just. I do love it here, though. I always wanted to live by the sea, and now I do, I’m not going to complain.’
