Page 96 of Christmas at Sturcombe Bay
Mike smiled gently. “Everything’s changing, so it seems like it’s the right time for me to go. You can make a fresh start with a new manager, along with everything else.”
“But . . . Look, we don’t want you to go.” Alex glanced at Paul, who nodded his confirmation. “Youarethis place. You’ve been here so long, you know it inside out.”
“Exactly.” Mike laughed. “I’ve been here so long I feel as if my backside’s permanently rooted to this chair. It’s time for me to try something else. I’m planning — I’m hoping — to stay in Sturcombe, and I’d be more than willing to help you through the transition, and to be around at any time if you need me.”
Alex sat back in his seat, puffing out a sharp breath. “Well, I . . . We don’t want you to go, of course. I hope you don’t feel that we’re putting you out to grass.”
“Of course not. It’s entirely my decision.” Suddenly he felt a lightness inside him, like a seagull soaring in the high blue sky. “I wish you every success. The old place will be starting a new chapter. And so will I.”
“Right . . . Well, okay. We have to agree, of course. Maybe we could meet again later in the week to . . . sort out dates and things. And thank you.” Alex held his hand out over the desk. “I have the feeling that if it hadn’t been for you, the old place wouldn’t have still been here for us to take over.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”
“No, I know you wouldn’t.”
* * *
Later that evening Mike was sitting in the kitchen of Kate’s café, watching her bake. It was barely a quarter of the size of the hotel’s kitchen, but was just as bright and spotless and well-equipped.
She had made two trays of scones and wrapped them in clingfilm, loading them into the large fridge ready to go into the oven in the morning. Now she was kneading a block of pastry.
“Do you do this every night after you’ve closed the café?” he asked.
She smiled. “Most nights. It depends on what we need in the café. Only for about an hour.”
“After you’ve been on your feet all day?”
“It’s not a problem. I like cooking.”
“You should go on one of those bake-off shows on television.”
She laughed, shaking her head firmly. “Oh no. That’s not for me.”
He liked the way she laughed — free and musical. And the way she worked, neatly and efficiently, no wasted movements. He crept round behind her, swiped a corner of pastry, and popped it into his mouth.
“Mmm, scrummy.”
She slapped his hand away playfully. “Hey, hygiene standards. You’ll get me shut down.”
“There’s no one here to see but us.” He wrapped his arms around her waist from behind and nuzzled into her neck. “We can do whatever we like.”
“Not while I’m cooking,” she scolded.
He pulled a disappointed face, making her laugh again.
“Mind you . . .” She gave him a teasing glance, “I’ve nearly finished. I just need to wrap this and put it in the freezer. And do the washing up.”
“The washing up can wait. Why don’t we go upstairs and watch television? Or something . . .”
“Or something?”
“Something a little more interesting than watching television, maybe?”
She felt a little fizz run through her veins. Something interesting — at their age? Well, why the hell not? They were only in their fifties, for heaven’s sake! She turned her head to kiss the side of his neck. “That sounds like a good idea.”
“I thought so.”
It took her very little time to wrap the pastry dough in clingfilm and pop it into her big freezer. Then she splashed her hands under the tap to clean off the flour, wiped them quickly on a towel, and with those soft brown eyes gleaming, she took his hand, led him through the small lobby and up the stairs to her flat.
