Chapter 15
Molly
The women of Sorrel Farm would be lapping up everything Paul Lancaster did if they were on this date with us.
I’m trying to stay in the moment, trying to focus on this man and the effort he’s making, but my fingers are itching to get on our WhatsApp group and give them a blow-by-blow account (pun definitely not intended) of our date.
He smells amazing!
The interior of his car is so nice. I could never let the kids in here.
He keeps looking over at me and smiling. He’s seriously sweet.
And seriously gorgeous.
He glances over again as he steers his extremely fancy car into the field that serves as an overflow carpark for the duration of the festivities at Sorrel Farm.
‘You look really beautiful, Molly,’ he says. His smile is sincere. Appreciative, but not slimy. It’s exactly right. Just like everything else about him. ‘I thought you looked good in chef’s whites, but—wow.’
‘Thank you.’ My cheeks are heating in the dark car, so I do what I always do and deflect the compliment. ‘It’s just, you know. Casual. I thought dressing for warmth was probably the way to go.’
He laughs. ‘Exactly right.’
‘You look very nice too,’ I say, my voice a little more stilted than I’d like.
Crap, I’m out of practice at this stuff.
But it’s true. He really does look lovely.
He’s definitely a snappier dresser than Max, who’s more of an ancient-jeans-and-form-fitting-t-shirt kind of guy (and boy, does that work for him), while being less formal than Felix, who favours the whole Savile Row look.
You know, to ram home to his international clients that he’s a bona fide part of the British establishment.
Paul is the goldilocks of the men’s sartorial scale, I decide.
Everything about him says luxury, but in an understated way.
I haven’t clocked any Gucci loafers or Hermes belt, but the wool of his thick jacket is plush, and the sky-blue cotton of his shirt is a lustrous weave.
In the minute or two before I bundled him out of the house and got him the hell away from Max, I established that his blue shirt is a highly effective offset for the startling azure of his eyes.
Very effective indeed.
I’d definitely tell the girls that, if I could.
In the few minutes it’s taken us to drive here, Paul’s already put me at ease with good-natured conversation about his daughters and a few questions about Toby and Daisy.
My pre-date googling informed me he’s divorced, his ex-wife is exceedingly pretty, his net worth is high enough to make me sweat with nerves, he’s a highly respected businessman in the field of real estate, and he does a lot of charity work.
I mean, basically, the guy seems perfect. On paper, anyway. And just as perfect in close proximity, too. I can confirm this as I glance over at his perfectly stubbled jaw. He even has dimples. Dimples!
As I step out of the car, I will myself to get out of my own way and enjoy a fun evening with a spectacularly handsome man. I’m seriously flattered that he’s taken the trouble to pursue me. A divorcé like Paul Lancaster must get mobbed by women. I can’t even imagine.
Ten months of being separated and then divorced have shown me how cut-throat the world of divorced women in this part of the world is.
It’s bloody terrifying out there. And I haven’t even had to go through the pain of dating apps and dick pics and God knows what other nightmares.
Paul has wooed me and persuaded me to let him take me out for an evening.
It’s going to be fabulous.
And good for me.
I just wish my feelings towards him were a bit more obviously… carnal.
I know what’s going on. I haven’t had sex with anyone since Felix left, so it’s deeply weird, and pretty horrifying, to imagine putting out in any way with someone I barely know.
Especially since I’ve tried hard not to ignore those needs over the past few months.
I slide my gloved hand through the crook of Paul’s arm as he extends it to me in invitation and sneak another glimpse at his profile.
I mean, he’s ridiculously hot. Of course I look at him and think he’s gorgeous.
His looks are not the Marmite kind. They’re of the universal lady-pleasing variety.
His mouth is firm and shapely, his lips just the right amount of plump.
I bet they’d be soft to kiss. Michelangelo would approve of his nose. It’s straighter than Max’s nose.
So, yeah. He’s a catch. Or, as Sadie so eloquently put it the other night, he’s highly fuckable. Not that I’ve seen much of his body. But from what I have seen in the Oast House, he’s in good shape. Great forearms. Excellent posture. Flat stomach.
In other words, he’s the real deal.
He’s just not quite giving me the shivers that Max gives me.
My lady parts don’t shout sex, please! when I look at him.
But that’s understandable, right? I’ve had sex with Max.
Lots and lots of it, in every conceivable position.
So when I see him, my body has a Pavlovian response.
Whereas my body wouldn’t know what to expect from Paul.
It hasn’t been primed. I have no idea how big he is.
How dirty. How kinky, even. He looks squeaky clean, but you never know.
So, even if Sadie swears he’d be amazing in bed (based on God knows what instincts), I don’t yet know what I’m missing.
With Max, I know exactly what I’m missing.
I know how he’d pin me down by the wrists.
Tug my legs over his shoulders.
I know how turned on he’d get going down on me.
How much dirty talk he’s capable of while he’s doing it (that tongue can multi-task like no one’s business).
I know how he’d flip me over.
How fucking perfect the weight of his body would feel against my back as he consumed me.
Pulled me under.
‘Hot chocolate?’ Paul asks. ‘Or something stronger?’
Whew. I shake myself clear of memories that have no business rearing their dangerous heads during this delightful soiree with a gorgeous man. ‘Something stronger, definitely.’
‘Excellent.’ He smiles at me. ‘You okay?’
‘Yes. Of course. I’m fine.’ I steer him towards the drinks stall. ‘I happen to know they go heavy on the Cointreau in the vin chaud here. Consider yourself warned.’
‘You have a designated driver tonight.’ He grins. ‘So enjoy.’
I’ve wandered around the Christmas market a couple of times in the past week or two, but this is the first time I’ve experienced it at night, and it’s magical. I’ll have to bring the kids here one evening. They’d love it.
There are wooden Alpine kiosks selling all kinds of Christmas trinkets as well as the kinds of food and drink you’d expect from a Christmas market.
But, given this is Sorrel Farm, there’s no processed crap here.
Instead, Zoe’s team has personally signed off on only the highest quality, most authentic vendors.
There’s the aforementioned vin chaud stand, a hot chocolate booth, a sizeable bar doing a roaring trade in steins of beer, and enough food to warm up the coldest visitor.
Tartiflette and pulled pork baps and rare-breed wurst. Venison burgers and a sit-down fondue bar.
Yule logs and Kaiserschmarrn. As the pastry chef, I was involved in signing up the Kaiserschmarrn vendor, and let me tell you, ‘scrambled pancakes’ with rum-soaked fruit should be the eighth wonder of the world.
Paul must clock my ravenous glances. ‘You hungry?’ he says, handing me a cup of vin chaud. The steam wafting off it is deliciously scented with all manner of spices, and yes, Cointreau.
‘I didn’t realise I was until I got here,’ I say, and he laughs.
‘Yeah. It smells bloody amazing. Let’s go grab some bits, shall we?’
Some bits end up being a pulled-pork bap each, laden with apple sauce, and an enormous cardboard tray of tartiflette to share.
We take a pew at one of the picnic tables in the centre of the market, Paul sitting himself across from me.
Given we’re in a country that rarely, if ever, sees snow this side of Christmas, the market feels very festive indeed.
Carols are jingling through the sound system, and potted firs are everywhere, withstanding their pretty burden of artificial snow.
The wooden buildings housing the gift stalls and food vendors are utterly enchanting.
The farm’s visual merchandising team has done an incredible job.
Every structure is unique. They’ve all been built with a quaint, lopsided appearance.
Lights burn in fake upstairs windows, and all are dusted with Sorrel Farm’s eco version of fake snow.
Accents of red and green dominate via candy canes and holly and velvet ribbons.
It feels authentic. Restorative. Not tacky or commercial.
Even as an adult, I can’t help but be transfixed.
I also can’t help but notice that while I’m taking it all in, the attention of the handsome man opposite barely wavers from me. He’s watching me, not creepily, but softly. Attentively. As if I’m more interesting than any of the wonderful sights around us.
If there was a report card for dates, he’d already get an A+.
‘You don’t mind coming back to your place of work in the evenings?’ he asks.
‘Oh, no. I don’t think of Sorrel Farm like that at all. It’s the opposite, actually. It’s lovely to get a chance to see it as a visitor when I’m usually confined to the kitchen.’
‘My favourite days are the days I work from here,’ he confesses. ‘I get so much done. It’s not just that none of my colleagues are around to bother me. It’s more that I find it—I don’t know. Restorative. I like the energy; it’s conducive to deep work and good ideas.’
I smile at him. ‘I really like the way you put that, and I have to agree.’
‘Is this time of year crazy for you?’ he asks, spearing a piece of cheesy potato with his wooden fork.