Page 26 of Christmas at Sturcombe Bay (Sturcombe Bay Romances #3)

Kate glanced at Mike as he drew the car to a halt at the kerb beside the café. “Thank you. That was a lot of fun.”

He smiled. “I enjoyed it too. Next week again?”

“I’d like that.” Should she invite him in for coffee? It was so many years since she had been in the dating game — not that this was a date, of course. “I never knew you could waltz to the music of Pirates of the Caribbean. That’s little Amy’s favourite film. Well, second to Frozen, of course.”

“There’s a very good waltz in Frozen too. We could ask for it next week.”

“That would be good. I’m afraid I was a bit clumsy with the Foxtrot. I couldn’t seem to get the rhythm.”

“Don’t worry, it’ll come to you. Just relax and follow my lead. You’re very good in the Viennese Waltz.”

“Thank you. Well . . .” Impulsively, she leaned over to kiss him on the cheek, but he turned towards her, and it landed on the corner of his mouth instead.

“Oh . . . uh . . .” Mortified, her cheeks hot, she fumbled to free her seatbelt and open the door.

“Goodnight. I’ll . . . um . . . see you next week then. ”

“Yes. Though . . . I might pop into the café over the weekend, as usual. If that’s okay?”

“Of course.” She was out of the car and digging in her bag for her keys. Dammit, why did they always have to fall into the deepest, most awkward corner? She managed to grasp them, thrust them into the lock and push the door open. Mike waited until she was inside before he drove away.

Of course, he had always been a real gentleman.

She locked the door behind her and hurried up the stairs to her flat above the café. She hadn’t quite got used to Debbie and Amy not being there.

She was more than happy that Debbie was settled at last with Bill, the stockman up at the Cullen’s farm. They had moved into a cottage up there which was really cosy. And Amy was ecstatic that they had adopted two young cats — sisters — from the animal shelter.

But she missed them.

Was that why she was thinking more and more about Mike? That was a very bad reason to start a relationship. Not that she was really thinking about starting a relationship. It was just . . . a pleasant dream to indulge in when she was feeling a bit lonely.

On the sideboard were several framed photographs of Debbie growing up, and of Amy. And her own wedding photo. She picked it up and gazed at it.

Her Terry. Oh, how she had loved him, from the first moment she had met him — running up out of the sea, laughing, shaking his head like a seal and spattering her with wet drops.

He had dropped to his heels beside her, apologising with a cheerful teasing, and insisting he had to buy her an ice cream to make up for it.

Right then she had known that he was The One. And to her joy and amazement, he had felt the same. They had been so happy, so in love, and she had thought it would last forever.

She used to watch the elderly couples who came down to Sturcombe for their holidays, walking slowly hand in hand along the Esplanade or eating fish and chips on the beach, and imagine her and Terry like that in forty, fifty years’ time.

Instead, they had barely had five.

Brushing a tear from her eye, she put the photo down. In those five years she’d had more love and happiness than most people had in a lifetime.

* * *

Mike drove carefully down the Esplanade and into the hotel car park. He let himself in through the staff entrance and slowly climbed the stairs to his flat on the second floor.

He had lived here for thirty years, and it fitted him as comfortably as the old pair of tartan slippers waiting for him by the front door. Taking off his jacket, he hung it carefully in the hall cupboard then strolled into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea.

Sarah had always been very proud of her kitchen, and he had always tried to keep it as spotless as she had herself. Same with the rest of the flat, though there was only himself now to appreciate it.

Sometimes they had thought of moving out, buying a little house. When the children come along, they’d promised themselves. But the children hadn’t come along.

That had been their biggest regret. They’d considered adoption, but somehow it hadn’t felt right for them. So it had been just the two of them, and they’d stayed here. And they had been happy for all those years.

Taking his tea, he strolled through to the sitting room and over to the glass-fronted cabinet beside the fireplace, its shelves filled with the cups and medals he and Sarah had won.

And photographs, he in his smart dinner jacket, she in a dozen different spectacular dresses, all swirling skirts and sequins. She had made those dresses herself.

Maybe one day he could reach that standard again with Kate.

He had really enjoyed tonight. Kate was a natural — she had picked up the steps quickly, and she was so light on her feet. She seemed to really feel the music.

He had wondered, driving home, if she would invite him in for a last drink. Had she been worried that he might take it the wrong way?

He laughed, shaking his head. Hardly, at their age. But that kiss . . . Well, it hadn’t really been a kiss. She had really only intended a friendly peck on the cheek, but then, like an idiot, he’d turned his head at the wrong moment, and embarrassed them both.

At least she had agreed to come dancing again next week.