Christmas at the Cornish Café. Phillipa Ashley

Roses. Dad put it away after she died. He said it might get broken, but I think the real reason was because he couldn’t bear to be reminded of her.’ Cal brushes his finger over the gold rim. ‘Probably felt guilty,’ he adds.

      Cal’s father died a couple of years ago, and his mum passed away when he was still a teenager. His parents’ marriage was a troubled one. His father worshipped his mum but still had a string of affairs. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why Cal’s own love life has been stormy too. As for losing our mothers when we were young – we have that in common. Mine lost her battle with cancer when I was a teenager and I haven’t seen my dad and brother for ages, but that’s by choice. I ran away from home when I was eighteen. Some people might say that’s why we’re drawn to each other, Cal and I: we share a bond; troubled childhoods, less than ideal family lives.

      He pulls me into his arms for a long, warm snog that makes me tingle from head to toe. Phew, it’s not only the Aga that’s making it so hot in here.

      ‘The pies pass the test then?’ I say when I can finally breathe again. ‘The mincemeat is homemade from my Nana Demelza’s recipe, but I added a local fruit cider for a Cornish twist.’

      He licks his lips. ‘Mmm. Cider mincemeat. Nice. They’re delicious, but I may have a burnt tongue.’

      I roll my eyes. ‘As if I care.’

      ‘You know you do.’ With another wicked smile, Cal kisses me again. Tiny flakes of pastry cling to his lips. His mouth is still warm from the pie and tastes sweet and buttery. If I don’t push him away now, we might end up in bed in the middle of the day and I have way too much to do.

      With the greatest reluctance, I end the kiss, but Cal keeps his hands around my waist and they feel as if they belong there – have always belonged there – which is a dangerous thought. Cal belongs to no woman or man.

      ‘Cal, I have so much to do. As well as the cafe stuff, the other guests will be here on Friday afternoon and the other two cottages still aren’t ready. With Polly away, we need to dress the beds and finish hanging the curtains in the bedroom of Warleggan and I still need to do extra shopping for the welcome hamper.’

      ‘I’ll help you with the curtains and Polly will be back from her daughter’s tomorrow to lend us a hand. So now you have no excuse not to get naked with me.’

      ‘Naked? What if one of the guests turns up in reception and finds us in bed in the middle of the afternoon?’ I say, picturing Kit Bannen dinging the bell and being answered by creaking floorboards and a When Harry Met Sally re-enactment.

      Cal waggles his eyebrows. ‘Who mentioned bed? I was thinking of taking you in the kitchen.’

      ‘You can’t!’ But even the mention of bed and taking me in the kitchen is driving me insane. My body zings with a peppery lust that’s both sharp and delicious. He blows softly in the v-neck of my T-shirt, cooling the hot skin of my cleavage, but heating up every other part of me.

      ‘I have to face the yurt family as soon as we’re finished. Come on, this may be our last chance for a while …’ Cal says.

      Now, this, I cannot deny.

      ‘Not for long, then …’

      He runs his palm over my bare thigh. ‘Oh, don’t worry, the way you’re making me feel, it won’t take long … but would you mind very much if we do it without the Santa hat?’

       CHAPTER THREE

      On Wednesday morning I skip down the farmhouse stairs after taking a shower in the bathroom of Kilhallon House. Polly arrives later today so I stayed over at the farmhouse last night while I had the chance. Cal lives in the main house, but, of course, I have my own little cottage across the yard. It’s tiny and the décor’s straight from the seventies: a crazy mix of clashing florals, but I love having my independence.

      My place is one of a row of old farm buildings that was converted for the staff that used to work at the original caravan site in the seventies. We’re converting two of the others into low-cost guest accommodation because Cal wanted to offer something at Kilhallon to suit all budgets, not only catering for people with more cash to spend on their holidays. For those who can afford luxury, there are also four larger ‘premium’ cottages on the estate that have been renovated over the summer ready for our first guests – one of which is occupied by Kit.

      When I walk into the kitchen, Cal is scrolling through his phone. His hair is still damp from the shower and he’s pulled on a crumpled but clean blue long-sleeved T-shirt and cargo pants. Bare footed, he pads over the tiles and pours a glass of water from the tap. Mitch wanders into the kitchen from the yard too and also heads straight for his water bowl, slurping noisily and splashing droplets over the tiles.

      The morning sun streams in through the open door. It’s warmer in here than yesterday, or perhaps I’m glowing after my night-time ‘exercise’. Cal puts down his glass of water and kisses me. The scent of his woody body spray fills my senses, but Cal pulls a regretful face. ‘Sorry I have to leave you, but I need to go down to the yurt field to make sure our guests haven’t decided to leave after the overnight showers. How about dinner here at the house tonight? There’s a nice bottle of Cornish fizz in the fridge.’

      ‘That’s a free sample from the vineyard that I was going to put in one of the welcome hampers for the guests. Sorry, but I’ll be way too busy to stop for dinner. The cafe’s opening tomorrow and there’s still stuff to do.’

      ‘What stuff?’

      ‘I need to clean the floor because the tiler only finished yesterday and it’s still dusty. Then there’s the blackboard to chalk up with the specials because I won’t have time tomorrow, and there’s still a drinks delivery to put away and I need to email everyone to make sure they’re still going to turn up and that no one’s had cold feet about working for us.’

      Cal opens his mouth. ‘Why would—’

      ‘And the courier dropped off the new cafe uniforms here yesterday and they all need ironing. And I still haven’t written a blog post about opening day or scheduled my tweets and I’ll have to upload some photos to Instagram and I need to email the ad department at Cornish Lifestyle to say we do want to be in their pre-Christmas dining feature because the copy deadline was last night and I’m already late.’

      Cal holds up both hands. ‘Whoa.’

      ‘So I can’t have dinner with you this evening no matter how much I’d love to.’

      He puts his hands on my shoulders. ‘I’ve worked that much out for myself. Tell you what, why don’t we take a picnic down to the cafe and I’ll help you get ready.’

      ‘You’ll write the ad copy and upload my photos?’

      ‘No, but I’ll clean the floor, put away the drinks order and iron the aprons.’

      ‘You do ironing?’

      He tuts. ‘That’s sexist, Ms Jones. I can iron. I did work in a warzone for several years, you know.’

      ‘Yes, but I don’t expect there was much call for ironing in the desert, was there?’

      He smiles. ‘Not often, no. Either way, we’re in this together. I’ll deal with the yurt people and clean the washroom block.’

      I pull a face, glad this isn’t my job.

      ‘And then I’ll meet you at the cafe.’

      By late afternoon, the sun is sinking and the horizon is tinged with orange and pink. The lights are on in Demelza’s, highlighting the sparkling clean floor as Cal hangs the last of the freshly pressed Demelza’s aprons on a peg in the staff room.

      All our perishables and groceries are stored in the correct places and the new steel kitchen gleams so brightly you can see