Chapter 8 #2
‘With you, I felt it, Clemmie. After things ended between us… The food tasted flat without you. The stories fell short without you. I just kept thinking, Maybe next time.’
He glanced up, searching her eyes, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘I wanted you to be a part of it. To be a part of me.’
Clemmie swallowed, the reality of his words sinking in. ‘I hear you.’ She took hold of his hands. ‘But for me, right this second, I need to stay focused. Winning this competition could change everything for me.’
Oliver’s expression softened, but his gaze didn’t waver. ‘What about after the competition?’
Her stomach clenched at his question. She forced herself to smile, a hollow attempt to deflect.
‘Nothing will have changed. You’ll still be travelling the world, and me?
I’ll be pouring my heart into my café. My cookbook will be selling all over the world, and hopefully that will mean that tourists will flock to Puffin Island to try the recipes I’ve made famous.
’ She hesitated, the words catching in her throat as she added, ‘My dream is to pass the business down to the next generation … to my children. I need to secure the best possible future for the café for them.’
Oliver’s smile returned, playful but tinged with something deeper. ‘For that, you’ll need a husband … unless you’re telling me you’ve got married since we last met. That would be a stab to the heart.’
‘No marriage,’ she said softly.
‘Phew,’ Oliver said with an exaggerated sigh of relief, placing a hand over his heart. ‘I’m glad to hear that.’
His teasing tone broke through her defences, and she found herself laughing despite the tension between them. ‘And why would you care?’ she asked, curiosity getting the better of her.
Oliver’s grin faded, replaced by a sincerity that took her off guard. ‘Because you matter, Clemmie,’ he said simply. ‘You always have.’
The air between them shifted, charged and electric, as if the weight of everything unsaid in the past three years hung in the space separating them.
Clemmie opened her mouth to respond but found herself at a loss for words.
She wanted to believe him, to let herself get swept up in the moment, but the practical part of her, the one that had built her life brick by brick on Puffin Island, held her back.
‘You don’t make this easy,’ she whispered, her voice barely audible.
‘I’m not trying to make it easy,’ he replied, his eyes darkening as he took a small step closer. ‘I’m trying to make it real.’
For a moment, she thought he might kiss her, and she didn’t trust herself to resist if he did. But instead he reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face, his fingers lingering just a moment too long.
‘This conversation isn’t over,’ he said, his voice low and filled with promise.
Clemmie nodded, her heart hammering in her chest as she tried to regain her composure. ‘It’s not,’ she agreed, though she wasn’t sure whether the words were meant as a challenge or an invitation.
She’d always thought she had everything figured out, but hearing Oliver open up like this made her second-guess so much of what she’d believed.
She exhaled slowly, her thoughts tangled in a mess of confusion.
She wasn’t sure how she’d ended up here, stuck between her past and her future, but one thing was clear, he had made her see things differently.
She found herself questioning whether she’d misread the situation back then.
‘But in the meantime,’ Oliver said, pausing to glance at his watch before shooting her a mischievous grin, ‘let’s have some fun before anyone notices we’re missing. Come on.’ His voice was low, conspiratorial, and it lit a spark of excitement deep inside her.
‘Oliver!’ she started, though even she wasn’t sure whether she was protesting or encouraging him.
‘Trust me,’ he said, his eyes gleaming with a boyish daring that she found impossible to resist.
Clemmie’s heart pounded as she followed him down the corridor, his hand firm around hers.
She could still hear the hum of the contestant’s voices in the distance.
Her pulse quickened at the thrill of sneaking away, and the way Oliver’s fingers laced with hers sent a ripple of something electric through her.
He led her swiftly down the corridor to a door marked ‘Private’. Without hesitation, he pushed it open, revealing a room that seemed untouched by time. Clemmie stepped inside and gave a tiny gasp.
The walls were adorned with framed photographs, mostly black and white, that told the story of the yacht’s history.
Images of elegantly dressed queens and kings and princes and princesses, sipping champagne at banquets, lined one wall, while another featured candid snapshots of famous actors lounging on deckchairs, their laughter frozen in time.
There were also shots of dignitaries, heads bowed or in the midst of solemn handshakes beneath glittering chandeliers.
‘Wow,’ Clemmie murmured. Her eyes darted from frame to frame, soaking in the glamour and history of it all. ‘The stories these walls could tell…’
As she moved further into the room, one particular photograph caught her attention and made her pause. It was smaller than the others, tucked in a quiet corner, but something about it pulled her in to take a closer look.
It showed two men, one in pristine chef’s whites, his focus completely on the mixing bowl he cradled in one arm, the other figure tall and commanding, dressed in full military uniform.
The second man’s posture was formal, but he leaned slightly forward, peering into the mixing bowl with what looked like genuine interest. His hat was tilted at just the right angle to reveal a sharp, clean-cut profile.
His jawline was strong; he had a neatly trimmed moustache and an expression of quiet authority mixed with curiosity.
He looked young, possibly in his very early twenties.
Clemmie stared, the image somehow familiar to her though she was sure she’d never seen it before. She felt like she knew him, which of course was impossible.
‘Who’s he?’ she asked softly, gesturing to the uniformed figure without tearing her gaze away.
Oliver came to stand behind her, leaning in as he studied the photograph, his proximity sending a flush across her skin. ‘Let’s see,’ he murmured, reading the engraving beneath the frame. ‘“Henry, Earl of Aberford.” If I remember correctly, there was some sort of scandal involving him.’
‘Scandal? What sort of scandal?’
Oliver was thoughtful as he studied the photograph.
‘From what I remember, he dated the Queen’s daughter, Princess Alexandra, and they were just about to announce their engagement when he did something unthinkable …
he walked away. Gave up his title, his privileges, all of it.
Rumours about him have circled through the decades, but it’s believed he wanted a life out of the public eye. ’
Clemmie looked back towards the photograph. ‘Why would someone give all that up? The wealth, the status. Who would walk away from such a privileged life?’
Oliver gave her a knowing look. ‘Someone who valued something more. Someone who wanted to find love on their own terms, without the weight of tradition or expectation.’
He took a step closer to her. ‘I think love … real love … has the power to turn a person’s whole world upside down. It’s not about titles or appearances. It’s about finding that one person who makes everything else fade away.’
‘Do you think he found someone else?’
‘We’ll never know for sure, but my guess is he did.’
Clemmie turned to face him, her heart skittering at the intensity in his gaze.
‘If I was a royal, I would give up everything for love. I think when it’s real, it’s the most magical thing in the world.’
She swallowed, the weight of his words settling over her.
She knew what he was doing, subtly reminding her of what they’d had in London.
If she was being truthful, she hadn’t come close to feeling that way with anyone else since.
Not even once. But was love enough? They couldn’t work it out then and there was nothing different about their circumstances now.
Clemmie turned back to the photograph, her voice quiet but firm. ‘What Henry had … the courage to walk away for love … it’s admirable.’
After a moment Oliver moved towards a polished mahogany sideboard at the far end of the room.
‘And here’s the crown jewels,’ he said, gesturing to an elaborate display of whisky bottles.
Each was nestled in a velvet-lined compartment, labelled in gilded lettering.
‘Apparently these are all from royal reserves.’
Clemmie arched an eyebrow, folding her arms. ‘You’re not seriously suggesting—’
‘Oh, but I am,’ he interrupted, his grin wicked. He picked up a crystal tumbler, holding it to the light. The intricate cuts in the glass refracted the glow of the overhead chandelier, scattering prisms across the walls. ‘Come on. One sip. Who’s going to know?’
She glanced nervously at the door, her pulse quickening. ‘What if we get caught?’
Oliver leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. ‘You never asked that when we joined the mile-high club.’
Clemmie supressed a smile, the memory of that impulsive, thrilling night flooding back. He’d whisked her away to Paris in a private jet, the ultimate romantic gesture. She could still picture his teasing smirk as they boarded the sleek plane, champagne already waiting on ice.
The city had been everything she’d dreamed of and more.
They’d started the evening with a stroll along the Seine, her heels clicking against cobblestones as the Eiffel Tower shimmered in the distance.
Then there was the shopping spree, a whirlwind tour of Parisian boutiques where Oliver had insisted she choose an outfit for that evening.
She’d tried to protest, but he’d silenced her objections with a kiss that made her forget everything.