Prologue

Christmas Eve morning

Rosie Kilbride had just put her chocolate roulade into the oven when her mobile phone rang. She frowned. Who on Earth would be calling her this early? She fished the device from her rear jeans pocket and peered at the screen. Her frown deepened as she saw the name on the display, and she pressed the button to answer.

“Mum? What are you doing up at this time of the morning on a day off work? Is everything all right?”

“Hello, love.” Victoria Kilbride’s voice didn’t sound quite right. It was croaky, almost strangled. “No, I’m afraid everything’s not all right. Not at all. Your father and I have been up half the night with sore throats, runny noses, raging temperatures, coughing and spluttering. It’s not a pretty sight. We’re bloody miserable.”

Rosie’s heart sunk. It was obvious where this conversation was going. “Oh, Mum. I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do? Anything I can bring? I can go to the shop, or the chemist, if you need me to.”

“Thank you, sweetheart, but given the time of year, the cupboards are packed to the gills with the usual remedies. And tissues. Thank God. At least my red nose is timely—I only hope I don’t get called upon to head up the big man’s sleigh tonight. I haven’t got it in me.”

Rosie couldn’t help the smile that crept over her face. As well as her top-notch sense of humour—the presence of which showed there was nothing seriously wrong—her mother always did have a well-stocked medicine cabinet. There was no catching her out. “Okay, but what about food? I can whip up a few bits and pieces and bring them over to you to reheat. Save you cooking while you feel crap.”

“Aww, that’s a lovely offer, but I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

“Don’t be daft—it’s no trouble. I’m already in the kitchen. I just put the roulade in the oven, ready for tomorrow. I’m guessing our plans have changed now, though.”

There was a pause as her mother exploded into a coughing fit, by the sounds of it having moved the phone away from her face as she did so. After a moment, an even croakier-sounding Victoria came back on the line. “S…sorry, love. Bl…oody cough. It’s awful.” She cleared her throat, then drew in a sharp breath of discomfort. “And I feel like I’ve swallowed a packet of razor blades. Your dad’s worse. His voice has all but disappeared.”

“Well, you did say you wanted a quiet Christmas,” Rosie quipped, hoping her silly joke might lift her mother’s mood.

The response was a breathy laugh. “You’re right, I did. But this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy, much less your dad. Or you, sweetheart. Maybe we can have a belated Christmas Day once the pair of us have cleared whatever this bug is? I’m so sorry. We were really looking forward to spending the day with you.” She groaned. “Oh, and all that lovely food you’ve bought! Can any of it be salvaged, frozen or whatever?”

Pushing her disappointment down in the hopes it wouldn’t come through in her voice, since she didn’t want her mother to feel any guiltier than she clearly already did, Rosie replied, “Don’t be silly, Mum, you’ve got nothing to apologise for. You didn’t ask to get ill. I’ll sort the food. Nothing will go to waste, I promise. How about I drop your presents off in the morning, along with a nice casserole? Something nice and tender, easy to eat, given your sore throats. And maybe some homemade soup.”

“Just at the doorstep, love. We really don’t want to pass this nasty virus or whatever it is on to you.” She sighed. “I’m so pissed off and disappointed. Not only can we not spend the day with you, and enjoy your delicious cooking, you’re now stuck spending the day on your own. I bet it’s too late to make other arrangements, isn’t it?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, Mum. A day by myself isn’t going to kill me. I’ll take advantage of the peace and quiet, after a mad few weeks at work. Have a rest.”

“But it’s Christmas.”

As if she could forget, given her kitchen worktops and the fridge were packed full of festive accoutrements. Purely to appease her mother, with no actual intention of doing so, she crossed her fingers to negate the lie and said, “I’ll send a few WhatsApps out, see if anyone’s got room for a little one. You never know, someone might take pity on me. Especially if I offer to bring food.”

“Yes, yes, good idea,” Victoria replied, sounding brighter. “I’m sure someone can squeeze you in.”

“I’m sure they can.” Rosie rolled her eyes at the fibs tripping effortlessly off her tongue. They were only white lies, though, told to spare her mother’s feelings, rather than being due to any malice. “Right, well, I’d better let you go. Put your feet up, Mum. Dad, too. I’ll crack on with making a couple of meals for you and drop them round in the morning with your presents, okay?”

“J—”

“Just at the doorstep, Mum, I know. I won’t come in, I promise. I’ll ring the bell, put the stuff down and step away from the plague-infested house, okay?” She was teasing, of course, but if she was honest, she didn’t want to pick up whatever bug her parents were suffering with. It sounded awful—and she was due back to work on Boxing Day. The shop she owned and ran would be closed, but she planned to use the time to prepare the post-Christmas sale and return the shop to its pre-Christmas state. She couldn’t afford any time off.

“Okay, sweetheart. Thank you. See you tomorrow.”

“Bye. Love you. Feel better.”

“Love you too. And sorry again. We’re so disappointed.”

“Don’t give it another thought, Mum. I’m gutted, too, but these things happen.”

“I know, but the timing couldn’t be worse.”

“Go and rest, Mum!”

“I’m going. Bye, love.”

“Bye.” Rosie hung up before her mother could continue lamenting their rotten luck, and stuffed her phone into her pocket. It was awful, and she was gutted, but spending ages on the phone grumbling about it wasn’t going to change anything. Plus, despite her casual, placating words, most of the food she’d bought really needed to be cooked and eaten within a couple of days. And, since she had no intention of inserting herself, particularly so last minute, into any of her friends’ festive plans, she needed an alternative. Her brother, James, was probably already enjoying his first Christmas in Australia with his wife and children, which was the reason hers and their parents’ Christmas was going to be a quiet one. Before the move, they’d had several years of chaotic, child-centric festive periods. Thanks to their absence, this year was already going to be weird, without illness being thrown into the mix.

As she went to the fridge, wondering what else she could make for her parents, the much-needed alternative sprang to mind. She retrieved her phone once more, found the number she needed and tapped the button to dial.

“Hey, Ingrid. It’s me. Do you still need volunteers for tomorrow?”

━━━━༻❁༺━━━━

Chapter One

Christmas Day morning

Rosie forced a smile so wide at her parents through her car window she thought her face was going to crack. With a final wave, she pulled away from their house, where they stood huddled by the front door in their pyjamas, slippers and dressing gowns, feeling sorry for themselves, and headed for Ingrid’s café. She felt terrible leaving them when they were so poorly—and on Christmas Day, too—but they’d insisted they’d be just fine, particularly thanks to the meals she’d brought with her, and had promised the three of them would have a re-do when they were feeling better. They had their presents to open, too, which would hopefully cheer them up a bit. Her own from them, now stashed safely in the boot of her car, would have to wait until she got home from the café later on that day. At least it gave her something to look forward to.

Satisfied she’d done everything she could to help her parents, she turned her attention to what lay in her immediate future. Rather than throwing herself on someone’s mercy and blagging an invite to their place, or spending the day by herself, she was doing something way better.

Local café owner Ingrid, whom Rosie had got to know well and become very friendly with after attending the café both for the usual reason—food and drink—and some of the craft workshops hosted there, was a truly good egg. She’d been running a scheme for the past few years where she’d hosted a free Christmas meal for those who found themselves alone on the big day, or were unable to cook a Christmas dinner for themselves, whether for physical or financial reasons. It was funded by local donations, run by Ingrid herself, and staffed by fellow good eggs.

While Rosie had happily donated money to the cause before—and had even had a collection box in her own shop to help raise funds for it—she’d never been in a position to physically help out, since she’d always spent Christmas with her family. But, thanks to her cancelled plans, now she could. What a great way to make the best of a bad situation. Not only did she get to be useful, she wasn’t spending the day by herself, and none of the food she’d bought would go to waste—she was bringing what she hadn’t made into food parcels for her parents with her. Including what remained of the chocolate roulade—having left a generous portion each for her mum and dad, along with some mince pies and jam tarts. They certainly wouldn’t starve.

She’d managed to bury her disappointment after speaking to her mother the previous morning by continuing to cook up a storm in her kitchen—both before and after work. As well as the roulade and the meals for her parents, she’d made more than enough mince pies and jam tarts for the patrons of the charity meal to eat one at lunch and take one home to have with their supper. She’d never wanted to do it on a professional basis, but baking had always been her go-to activity for stress relief and relaxation. The fact she’d see people enjoying the fruits of her labours—hopefully—was the icing on the cake.

As was usual for their part of middle England, there was no white Christmas. Just a sky full of gloomy grey clouds, which were letting loose a weak, persistent drizzle. Preferable to pissing it down, I suppose. She made her way into town, her mood lifting at the sight of the festive lights strung on the homes and businesses, the cheery decorations and Santa Stop Here signs stuck into people’s front lawns and flowerbeds. Excitement would no doubt be reigning in those homes, as young children pounced on their piles of presents and began an unwrapping frenzy, while exhausted, bemused parents clutched mugs of strong coffee and watched on from the sidelines.

Of course, not everyone was so fortunate, which was why Ingrid’s scheme was such a good one. A desperately needed one, in some cases. People ended up by themselves on Christmas Day for a multitude of reasons—she was a testament to that fact. Some might even prefer it. But for those who didn’t, those who would cherish—possibly even be desperate for—the company as much as the food, today’s event might well be the highlight of their festive season. The only bright spot in an otherwise dull, lonely few days.

She smiled. Her own Christmas plans might have gone tits up, but being even a tiny cog in a machine that would make a collection of deserving people happy was something to feel good about. She’d also been able to answer her mother’s anxious question about where she was going truthfully: “To Ingrid’s. She’s already got a big group in, so one more wasn’t a problem. Should be a damn good spread.”

She’d scurried off then, hoping if her mother’s virus-addled brain allowed her to actually remember what Ingrid had been doing on Christmas Day for the last few years—and she definitely knew, as she’d donated money each time—it’d be too late to pass comment.

Granted, she’d be helping to serve forty people their meals before getting so much as a crumb of a roast potato herself, but that was a small price to pay.

Conscious she was already a little behind schedule, thanks to her mother’s wittering, she put her right foot down a smidgen harder. Soon, she pulled up outside the front door of the café. The town, unsurprisingly, was completely deserted, so she didn’t worry about anyone complaining about her parking. It was only temporary, while she unloaded all her goodies. She gave a couple of light bips on her car horn before killing the engine, taking off her seatbelt and getting out of the vehicle. She closed the door, then zipped her coat and pulled up the hood against the cold and wet. By the time she was around at the boot, opening it to reveal tinfoil-covered trays and plastic containers galore, Ingrid appeared beside her, looking every inch the festive host, in her sparkling boots, glittery leggings, snowman-festooned knitted jumper, reindeer earrings, and headband with a sprig of mistletoe hanging off it.

“Morning,” Ingrid said with a warm smile, before wrapping her in a hug. “Merry Christmas. I’m really sorry about your mum and dad not being well, but I’m definitely not sorry you’re here. We were already stretched, and now one of my waitresses has phoned, saying she’s poorly and can’t come. So your extra pair of hands is very much needed—and appreciated.”

She returned her friend’s embrace, then let go and stepped back. “Merry Christmas, Ingrid. I’m glad to be here. Sorry I’m a bit late. I’ve just dropped some food parcels off at Mum and Dad’s, along with their presents, so they’re all set for a couple of days. Poor things are still feeling rough as anything. Food wise, whatever was left that I couldn’t safely freeze, or was way too much for me to eat alone over the next few days, I brought. So there’s a lovely joint of beef, potatoes, vegetables, a chocolate roulade, and a bunch of mince pies and jam tarts. The last three are homemade—not shop bought.”

Ingrid narrowed her eyes. “You made chocolate roulade, mince pies and jam tarts? You surely didn’t need all that just for the three of you? I know folks like to stuff their faces at Christmas, but come on…”

“All right, all right,” Rosie said with a laugh, holding her hands up. “You got me. I’d already started on the roulade when I got the call from my parents to say they were ill, and was going to make a batch of mince pies, since they’re my dad’s favourite. But in the disappointment of having my plans derailed, I drowned my sorrows in baking. Happy now?”

Ingrid responded by reaching into the car boot and scooping up two big containers. She licked her lips exaggeratedly and wiggled her eyebrows. “Bloody ecstatic. I love mince pies.” With that, she turned neatly on her heel and hurried inside.

Chuckling to herself, Rosie followed suit. The warm, cosy café was already a hive of activity with the tables being set, Christmas crackers added to each place setting, and people whizzing here, there and everywhere. The place had been decorated for the festive season to within an inch of its life since early December, but Rosie spotted at least a handful more decorations she didn’t recognise from when she’d popped in a couple of weeks earlier to drop off hers and her customers’ donations for the very meal she was now helping with—as well as treating herself to coffee and a slice of cake. She was normally a more regular patron, even if it was just a takeaway, but the run up to Christmas had been hectic in the shop, so she hadn’t had the chance to pop in.

“Leave them there, hon,” Ingrid said, pointing to the counter, where she’d already deposited the two boxes she’d carried in. “We’ll get everything in pronto, so you can park your car, then I’ll introduce you to everyone and get you all set up in your role for the day.”

“No worries,” she replied, setting her load down and following Ingrid back out the door to her car.

It wasn’t long before she slammed her boot closed and gave Ingrid a wave as she slid into the driver’s seat and drove to the car park at the end of the road. Her vehicle safely parked and securely locked, she hurried back to the café—picking up her pace and hunching deeper into her coat as the drizzle turned heavier.

She burst through the front door to the sound of Christmas music blaring out. Some of the other helpers were singing and dancing as they worked. It looked as though the party had already started—and the guests weren’t even expected to show up for another couple of hours.

“Ah, there you are,” Ingrid said, appearing from nowhere. “Let’s get your coat and bag hung up out the back. I thought given you enjoy baking, you’d be particularly useful in the kitchen, if that’s all right with you? Unless you’d prefer to be at front of house?”

“No, if you need me in the kitchen, I’m totally fine with that. Use me however you see fit.”

Her belongings stowed, and her own funky headband—a tiny, jaunty elf hat with an even tinier jingle bell affixed to its pointy end—settled in place, she straightened her oversized jumper, a knitted affair with gingerbread men and candy canes all over it, as she followed Ingrid. After being introduced to the wait staff she didn’t know—the others worked in the café normally, so they were already acquainted—she and Ingrid made their way towards the kitchen.

Ingrid pushed open the ‘in’ door to reveal a bunch of people already working hard, despite the fact there weren’t yet any diners. The clatter of trays, the rhythmic tapping of vegetables being chopped, and the whir of food processors filled the air—as did intense heat and the delicious scent of roasting meat.

“I’ve left the organisation in here entirely to my head chef for the day, since he knows what he’s doing. He’s the best there is. He works in some fancy place in the city, but somehow managed to wangle today off to help us out. Let’s go and introduce you, and he can decide where he needs you the most, okay?”

Rosie nodded, then tailed Ingrid as she made a bee-line for a man in a white chef’s jacket, and black and white checkered trousers. Rather than the tall, white hat one would usually expect a head chef to be wearing, he had on a Santa hat. He was tall, dark-haired, and had his broad back to them as he worked away at something on one of the stainless-steel surfaces.

“Hey, Chef,” Ingrid said as they drew close, “got your last pair of hands here. She’s good in the kitchen and ready to work.”

The man stopped what he was doing, wiped his hands on a tea towel and turned to them with a smile, which quickly faded as recognition kicked in.

“Rosie,” Ingrid said, indicating her head chef, “this is—”

“Luke Adams,” she interrupted, staring in disbelief at the man who’d broken her heart into a million pieces a decade ago. The very same heart which was now skipping like a rabbit on speed and sending heat rushing into her cheeks. Fuuuuck. Merry fucking Christmas to me.

━━━━༻❁༺━━━━

Chapter Two

The heat of Ingrid’s stare bored a hole into the side of Rosie’s face. As if she wasn’t hot enough. “You two… know each other?”

Oh, Christ. You could say that. She snatched in a sharp breath through her nostrils, which only made things worse as she caught the slightest whiff of Luke’s cologne—his favourite and the one he’d worn while they were together. She gritted her teeth against the onslaught of memories threatening to pile into her head. Then, with a gargantuan effort, she settled her face into another one of those forced grins and turned to her friend, whose expression was a mixture of concern and intrigue. Hopefully the redness in her face would be put down to the heat from the kitchen, rather than the tumultuous state of her emotions.

“Oh, yeah,” she wafted what she hoped looked like a dismissive hand and kept her tone as casual as she could manage, “known each other for yeeears, haven’t we, Luke?” She shifted her gaze onto his face—a decade older, etched with a few more fine lines, but damn it, as handsome as ever. Looking good at forty-two, Luke, you absolute bastard. Why couldn’t you do the decent thing and resemble a bag of shit?

Regardless of his appearance, she couldn’t wrap her head around him being there. She’d had no idea he was even in the country, much less that he was working in a restaurant in their nearest city, a few miles away. Presumably he was living locally again, too.

How was it even possible he was back—and without her knowing? Their hometown was small, and as a local business owner, she was incredibly well connected, so how had the news of his return never reached her on the grapevine? Maybe the event that had rocked her world had been so irrelevant to everyone else it didn’t occur to anyone to tell her. It had been a long time ago, after all. She hadn’t even been a local business owner at that point.

“Yeah…” he said absently, taking a beat longer than her to recover. He gave a little shake of his head and switched on a megawatt smile, while his gaze flicked briefly up to her elf hat, down to her jumper, then back to her face. “How the devil are you, Rosie? Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas! I’m good, thanks. Really good. How are you?” Overexaggeration, much?

“Right.” Ingrid backed away, peering warily between the two of them through narrowed eyes, her brow creased. “There’s loads still to do out front, so I’ll leave you to make the introductions, Luke, if you don’t mind. You know where I am if you need anything.”

“Sure do,” Luke said. “Thanks, Ingrid.”

As soon as the door leading out of the kitchen swung shut, Rosie wheeled around to face Luke. She spoke quietly, not wanting the others to hear. “What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were in New York.”

He cast a glance around, presumably to make sure no one else was paying them any attention, then focused on her. “I was. But now I’m not. Obviously.” He groaned. “Look, it’s a long story, but we don’t have time for it right now. There’s way too much to do. Can we just get through today, and talk later?”

The heartbroken young adult still buried deep inside her wanted to tell him to shove his talk where the sun didn’t shine, but the thirty-two-year-old woman who’d done a hell of a lot of growing up since then nodded. “Of course. We’re adults. I’m sure we can work together for a few hours with no issues.” She cleared her throat, hoping her next words didn’t choke her. “So, you’re in charge. Could you let me know where to find an apron, then give me a quick rundown of what’s going on and what you’d like me to do, please?”

He assessed her face for what could only have been milliseconds, but felt like days, then gave a curt nod. “You still like baking?”

Ignoring the pang in her gut at him remembering that nugget of information, she replied, “I do.”

“Great. Because I have a spot open in desserts. Let’s find you that apron and get you set up.”

He strode away, his long legs eating up the distance and leaving her to scurry behind him like a small child, while shooting daggers at his broad, still-muscular back. Ugh. If I’d known he was here, I’d definitely have asked to work out front. Bloody hell. What convoluted series of events have taken place to put the two of us in the same room, at the same time, after all these years? Especially on Christmas sodding Day. I must have somehow got onto Santa’s seriously-bloody-naughty list for this to be my present. A lump of coal would have been preferable.

She breathed deeply and squeezed her hands into fists. She couldn’t fall apart, not now. Nor could she turn tail and run. There were forty people coming for their dinner soon, and from the limited amount she knew about commercial kitchens, they were a finely-tuned machine. If one thing went wrong, it could cause everything to grind to a halt. She was determined not to be that thing. She wanted to help, not hinder. And she definitely didn’t want to give Luke a reason to look down on her. She needed to come across as the calm, capable, efficient woman she was when not faced with one hell of a blast from her past.

Rosie almost crashed into said blast from the past when he stopped without warning. She leapt back as he spun to face her, an apron bearing the café’s branding dangling from his long fingers. Huh. No wedding ring. Interesting. But then, would he wear it while he’s at work? “Here you are.”

She tore her gaze from his left hand and took the apron with a mumbled, “Thanks.” Then she relished the opportunity to stare at the floor as she slipped the strap over her head—not the easiest thing to do, as in her flustered state she’d forgotten she was wearing a novelty headband, which jingled madly as the strap got caught on it—and fumbled with the ties, before finally getting the thing secured around her waist.

Luke remained silent until she got herself sorted and looked up at him. Something swirled in those familiar hazel eyes—probably relief he’d got shot of her when he did—but quickly disappeared. “Okay.” He clapped his hands and snapped into professional mode, before giving her a run through of the layout of the kitchen and all the food, equipment and people within it.

It soon became apparent her role meant she wouldn’t have much to do with him at all for the majority of the shift—thank God. While each of the staff would jump in to help another person if needed, they’d mostly stick to their own areas. Luke would muck in with plating up courses and casting his eye over them before they went to the pass, meaning she had two whole courses to go before he would be hanging around in her part of the kitchen. As well as doing what she was here to do, she planned to use the time to get her shit together. When he finally reached her, she’d have been transformed into the coolest of cucumbers.

Once introductions were done, he led her to the area she’d be working in, reeled off a bunch of information, then jammed his hands on his hips and gave her a raised-eyebrow look. “Well, I think that’s everything. Does that all make sense? Any questions? Concerns?”

She shook her head. “No, I’m all good, thanks. Chef.” She added the commonly-used mark of respect and hierarchy in a kitchen with a sickly-sweet smile. She was willing to pull up her big girl pants and work with the man, but that didn’t mean she had to be entirely on her best behaviour, did it? As long as no one else noticed, it couldn’t hurt. And it might just make getting through the day a little easier.

He gave her a dark look, the menacing effect of which was only slightly diluted by the scarlet Santa hat with its white fluffy trim still perched atop his head. “Brat,” he murmured. Then one side of his lips tweaked up the tiniest bit, and a glint appeared in his eyes, making him look positively devilish. He leaned towards her, making her heart rate pick up. “There was a time when I’d have had you over my knee for that sort of behaviour.”

Then he straightened, turned, and marched away, leaving her gaping after him, wondering whether the hubbub in the busy kitchen could possibly have caused her to mishear him.

But then, as he reached the sink beside his workstation, he glanced over his shoulder and gave her the biggest, most salacious wink she’d ever seen, before turning to wash his hands.

Rosie gulped, spun to face her own work area, and gripped the edge of the stainless-steel surface until her knuckles went white. Nope, I didn’t mishear him. He really did just make reference to spanking me. Something he’s done on many, many occasions.

She’d been so devastated when they split—or, more accurately, when he’d ditched her to take up a job offer on the other side of the Atlantic—that she’d reacted by throwing herself wholeheartedly into her career, her hobbies, and socialising, not allowing herself time to even think about him, much less miss him or mourn the loss of their relationship and a potential future together.

Now, though, looking back through the prism of time, she found herself thinking not of their break up, but of what had gone before it. Two years of fun, love, laughter and lots of smoking hot, BDSM-laden sex, with him firmly in control—of the latter, at least. In every other part of their relationship she’d been his equal, but in the bedroom happily and blissfully submissive.

Things had been so good between them, in fact, that when he’d suggested cooking a special dinner for her at his house one Saturday night, she’d been convinced he was planning to propose. Her mind had raced, immediately running through potential locations and outfits and honeymoons, before hopping ahead to consider how many children they might have, and what they’d look like. At twenty-two, she hadn’t been ready for the having babies part yet, but definitely wanted them in the future, and couldn’t see herself having them with anyone other than Luke—whom she’d just known would be an amazing dad. He’d been fantastic with his younger cousins and his friends’ kids, and would undoubtedly be even better with his own. Their own.

However, the bubble of their bright future had been unceremoniously popped when, after three delicious courses and a couple of glasses of wine, rather than producing a small velvet jewellery box and getting down on one knee, he’d dropped the bombshell that he’d be moving to New York. He’d been offered the opportunity of a lifetime at a brand-new restaurant, funded by disgustingly wealthy Wall Street types, and was being given carte blanche on the menu and staffing. The salary was insane, too.

Her visions of their fairytale wedding, luxurious honeymoon, and imagined cherubic children had disappeared in the blink of an eye. As had any hopes of a future with Luke Adams.

A particularly loud clang snapped her back to the present—and not a moment too soon. Despite being determined not to fall apart, she’d come dangerously close. Hardly surprising, though, given Luke’s smutty, nostalgia-inducing comment, followed by that wink. Why did he still have to be so damn sexy? He looked great—even in his daft hat. Smelled great. It wasn’t fair.

She shook her head, gripped the worksurface more tightly still, until the discomfort in her fingers helped her to reboot her brain and bring everything into sharp focus. That done, she relaxed her hands, took a deep breath and reached for the sherry trifle recipe in front of her. Time to let baking relieve her stress, relax her, as it usually did.

But then, she didn’t usually bake while in the same room as the ex-boyfriend who’d broken her heart a decade ago, did she?

━━━━༻❁༺━━━━

Chapter Three

Thankfully, the requirement to concentrate on something other than her own inner turmoil got her through the next couple of hours. She kept her head down and did her best to steer clear of the playful banter being tossed around—not wanting to inadvertently get caught up in something that would give away her current emotional state or her feelings towards Luke. Not that she was entirely sure what those were yet.

As time ticked on, though, the atmosphere in the kitchen altered as the gear switched from prepping to actually getting ready to serve the meals. The banter disappeared, to be replaced by brief questions, commands, statements. The heat was on—literally and figuratively.

Despite the chaos in her brain, it was genuinely fascinating to see Luke in his natural habitat, playing to his skillset, honed through years of practice. She had no idea how well he knew the other kitchen staff, but he was clearly well liked, and thoroughly respected. She’d never admit it to anyone, not even under pain of death, but she was impressed. No wonder he’d gone far in his chosen career. More than can be said for me.

She pushed the unbidden thought aside and paid attention to what was happening around her. Given she was dealing with desserts, there was no major rush on her end at the moment, but it was entirely possible she’d be asked to help out elsewhere, depending on what was needed at any one time. The diners had been asked to arrive between twelve and half past, with a view to starting service at one. A glance at the wall clock revealed it to be ten past twelve.

Just then, Ingrid burst in, a look of mild panic on her face. “How’s it going, everyone? Everything on track? Just to let you know, folks are arriving. They’re certainly eager! We’ve got maybe a third of the expected numbers seated already.”

“All good,” Luke replied evenly, seeming as calm as Ingrid was the opposite. “Any changes to the plan? Surprises?”

During his intro, Luke had told Rosie the menu for the day had been kept as simple as possible. None of the staff were being paid to help out, so it seemed unfair to ask them to work with anything complicated or particularly time-consuming. Yes, they wanted to give people a wonderful lunch, but they also wanted to get away afterwards with enough time to have a relaxing evening with their own friends and families, too.

Starters consisted of prawn cocktail or pâté, with a mushroom pâté for vegetarians. Main was a full roast dinner, with a couple of options for meat, plus a nut roast for the veggies. Desserts were Christmas pudding, sherry trifle, or cheese and biscuits, as well as Rosie’s last-minute additions of chocolate roulade, mince pies and jam tarts. The guests had been asked to let the kitchen know what they wanted in advance, so they could plan and prepare, but years of experience had clearly taught Luke things didn’t always go to plan—hence his query.

“Not so far,” Ingrid said, shaking her head, which made the mistletoe on her headband bob and wave wildly. Rosie suppressed a grin. “But I’ll let you know if that changes. Hopefully not. I’ll get the table orders in to you pronto. When starters are done and dusted, we’ll be letting folks know there’s also a little bit of beef available, in addition to the turkey and gammon.” She smiled and nodded in Rosie’s direction. “Then when mains are cleared away, we’ll also offer the roulade, mince pies and jam tarts, with the option to let them take the latter two away with them for supper if they wish. Then we’ll see what’s left for us poor buggers, if anything. If this lot are as hungry as they are eager, it might just be crumbs!”

With a chuckle, she swept over to the pot-washing station, collected a tray of clean glasses and bustled back out front.

Luke clapped twice, loudly, gaining everyone’s attention. “Okay, folks. You’ve done brilliantly so far, but now it’s time to take things up another notch. But no need to stress. We’re prepped, we know what we’re doing, and no meal changes so far. Ten tables of four, served table by table. Rinse and repeat, twice. Calm, methodical, organised. Everyone ready?”

“Yes, Chef!” came the call from all sides—including Rosie, who wasn’t being sarcastic or sassy this time. She was in this now, fully invested. She’d offered to help out today because she wanted to. Giving these people the best possible Christmas lunch was all that mattered—regardless of who was running the kitchen and what he’d once meant to her.

“Good.” Luke turned to Hattie, who was dealing with the starters. “Okay, you’re almost up. As long as there are no last-minute changes, we know the numbers. We’re just waiting on what’s required for each table.” He glanced behind her to a huge, glass-fronted refrigerator, which was loaded with what Rosie assumed was the relevant number of prawn cocktails, ready to have the finishing touches placed on them, and nodded. “Right, good stuff. Soon as we get that info from Ingrid, I’ll be back with you and we’ll get those starters onto the pass, okay?”

Hattie bobbed her head, then returned her attention to where she’d been slicing up a delicious-looking loaf of brown bread, ready to be toasted and added to the plates of pâté.

Luke lifted the rim of his Santa hat and swiped his forearm over his brow, then settled the hat back into position before making short work of checking on the joints of meat, roasting potatoes and pigs in blankets. Seemingly satisfied with how things were progressing, he checked in with Mac. “All coming along here, mate?”

“Yes, Chef. All on schedule. Veggies, mash, stuffing and Yorkshire puddings will be ready when you are.”

“Brilliant. You know the drill. Things will ramp up as soon as that last starter goes out the door.” He clapped Mac on the back, and before Rosie knew which way was up, Luke was heading in her direction, his lips stretched into a wide smile.

“Last, but not least, Rosie! A baptism by fire for you. How are you getting on?”

She returned his smile, hoping it looked more confident than she felt. Though it was his presence, rather than any concern there were issues with her work knocking her for six. “On schedule, I reckon, Chef. By the time desserts are due to go out, I’ll have everything prepped. Then the dishes will just need putting together when we know what’s going where.”

Luke cast a critical eye over her workstation, making her gulp. So much for not being worried about my work. Oh God, please don’t say I’ve fucked something up. I’m perfectly fine in the kitchen at home, when I’m cooking for friends and family. This commercial malarkey is all new to me. As is having a big-shot chef checking what I’m doing.

He peered at her, lips pursed and one eyebrow cocked. “Looking good. Well done. Similar to what I just told Mac, things will really get going for you the second that last main meal goes out the door. Maybe before, depending on how quickly folks eat.” He paused, then said more quietly, “Everyone else has done this before, and as far as I know, you haven’t. So when I say shout up if you need any help, I mean it, okay? Every single person in this room will happily muck in if you need it—including me. Please don’t let pride get in the way.”

She’d barely opened her mouth to protest that she wasn’t in the habit of letting pride get in the way of anything, when Ingrid hurried back in, waving slips of paper. Her headband had slipped a little now, making her sprig of mistletoe appear drunk. This time, Rosie couldn’t help the amused snort that slipped out. Fortunately, nobody heard her as Ingrid trilled, “Two tables with drinks at their elbows, ready to eat whenever you’re ready to feed them.”

It wasn’t quite half past twelve, let alone the one o’clock service they’d been aiming for, but Rosie guessed they wouldn’t stand on ceremony, not when the food was all but ready to go. After all, the kitchen’s collective stress level would decrease with each successfully served plate, so the sooner it began, the better. Maybe it’d even mean they could all get home that bit earlier.

“Fab.” Luke took the slips of paper from Ingrid and eyed them as he moved over to his workstation. “Thanks. Coming right up.”

“Great. Oh, and Luke?”

“Hmm?”

“Your dad says hello.”

He paused in the act of attaching the paper slips to his order board, then let out a breath and smiled, his shoulders seeming to relax just a tad. “Oh, he’s here already? I haven’t had a moment to peek through the door and check. Tell him I said hello and I’ll pop out as soon as I get a second, please.”

“Will do.”

As Ingrid passed through the ‘out’ door, one of the waitresses appeared through the ‘in’ door and hurried over to Luke with a note in her hand. “Here you go, another table ready for their starters.”

“Great, thanks. Coming right up.” He added the third slip to his board, then said, “Okay, Hattie, listen up.” He reeled off the orders for the first and second tables, then immediately jumped in to help her. The pair of them moved swiftly, efficiently, murmuring to each other the whole time, presumably to make sure they were on the same page. Slices of toast and dollops of homemade chutney were added to plates of pâté, bread was placed on side plates to go with the prawn cocktails, and before Rosie’s brain could catch up with what was happening, Luke had scrutinised each dish in turn, placed it on the pass and slammed his hand onto a bell before calling, “Service, please, table one!”

He moved over and yanked a slip of paper from his board, jammed it onto a metal spike, then turned back and began assisting Hattie with the second table. Two wait staff bustled in and whisked away the waiting orders.

Rosie shifted her attention to her own tasks, but kept half an eye on proceedings as she did so. The next little while was a constant flurry of perfectly choreographed activity: finish order, place on pass, summon wait staff, jam paper onto spike, wait staff collect food, finish next order, and so on. No near misses, no fuck ups, no fuss. Just a triumph of culinary creation. Even a couple of tweaks in menu choices didn’t cause so much as a batted eyelid.

It was truly fascinating to see what happened behind the scenes in a commercial kitchen, and had already increased her appreciation of what they went through in order to feed large numbers of people in a timely fashion.

“Okay,” she heard Luke say to Hattie, “you can handle the last table by yourself, right? I’m going to nip out and say hello to my dad. I won’t be long—but come and get me if you need me.” Then, “Mac, you’re almost up. While I’m out there, could you do another check, make sure everything’s okay? Meat, too?”

“Yes, Chef,” came the reply.

Rosie glanced up to see Luke crossing the kitchen. Just before he drew level with her, he looked in her direction, an inscrutable expression on his face. He kept his gaze on her for as long as he could without having to turn his head, then he was gone, pushing through the ‘out’ door—the swinging of which allowed in the punctuated sounds of merriment from the main body of the café. Chatting, laughter, the clink of cutlery, crockery and glasses, the bangs from crackers and party poppers, the dulcet tones of Noddy Holder and co singing Merry Xmas Everybody.

Having turned to watch him go, she snapped her head back around, hoping nobody had noticed. She didn’t want anyone to think she was gazing after him like a lovesick teenager, when what she’d actually been doing was wondering why the hell he’d been staring at her.

She sighed and continued slicing cheese, ready for the cheese and biscuits. As far as she was concerned, this day couldn’t be over soon enough. While she was happy to be doing a good deed, it was hard not to feel like she was actually being punished for it. At least if she’d stayed at home alone, she wouldn’t have come face to face with her very own ghost of Christmas past.

Bah, humbug indeed.

She couldn’t help wondering why Luke’s dad was here, either. Where was his mum? Had they split up? Although she’d got along really well with the two of them, she hadn’t had any contact with Luke’s parents since their break up. A lot could happen in that time. Had the worst happened? She gulped. God, I hope not.

━━━━༻❁༺━━━━

When Christmas is Cancelled