Page 41 of Christmas at Sturcombe Bay (Sturcombe Bay Romances #3)

“I don’t think we need to discuss the Bellingham proposal.”

“The lovely Georgina? No, I think not. Of the other two, I tend to favour Verney and Woolfe.”

Mike was only listening to the discussion between Paul and Alex with half an ear. He knew he ought to be excited about all the new plans for the Carleton — everyone else was — but somehow it seemed to be passing him by.

The hotel had been his whole life for thirty years, and he had loved it. He still did, but . . . What else was there out there for him? He was fifty-seven years old. Surely not too old to make a fresh start. What was that saying? ‘Don’t wait until you retire to start living your life.’

Losing Sarah had taught him the truth of that.

He glanced around the small office that had been his retreat for so many years.

Why had he never noticed before how dull it was in here?

No view, no sunlight. Sarah used to bring in flowers from the garden to put on his desk, to brighten the place up a bit, but since she’d been gone he’d never bothered.

No, he wouldn’t miss this room.

Paul and Alex were discussing saunas and gym equipment, studying a page on Paul’s laptop. “This company do a good range — good value and good after-sales service. I’ve used some of their stuff. It’s sound.”

Alex leaned over to look. “Yeah, seems okay. You’re the expert there. I’ll leave it to you to draw up a list of what we need and negotiate a price with them.”

“Right. Mike, have we got the quotes in for replacing the guest lift?”

“Oh, yes, they’re here.” With an effort he pulled himself back into the meeting, shuffling through the papers on his desk. “This is the one we’ve used before.”

Alex took the stapled sheets from him. “Hmmm. Would you recommend that we stick with them?”

“Not necessarily.” Mike shook his head. “We’ve had some issues with them in the past regarding repairs. They’ve let us down a few times.”

“Ah. What about the others?”

Mike handed over the tenders, and watched as the two men poured over the details, occasionally grunting or making a comment.

Do what’s right for you. It was a big risk, and he’d never really taken a risk in his life. He’d always settled for safe, comfortable. But he felt this was something he had to do.

“Okay, so are we agreed on that?” Paul tossed one of the tenders onto the desk, and held up the other one. “This is the one we’ll go with.”

“Agreed.” Alex nodded. “Right, is there anything else?”

“Er . . . just one thing.” Mike opened a drawer in his desk and took out the letter he had written earlier. “This.”

Alex frowned as he took it from him. “What is it?”

“My resignation.”

“What?” Paul stared at him in shock. “Why?”

Mike smiled gently. “Everything’s changing, so it seems like it’s the right time for me to go. You can make a fresh start with a new manager, along with everything else.”

“But . . . Look, we don’t want you to go.” Alex glanced at Paul, who nodded his confirmation. “You are this place. You’ve been here so long, you know it inside out.”

“Exactly.” Mike laughed. “I’ve been here so long I feel as if my backside’s permanently rooted to this chair.

It’s time for me to try something else. I’m planning — I’m hoping — to stay in Sturcombe, and I’d be more than willing to help you through the transition, and to be around at any time if you need me. ”

Alex sat back in his seat, puffing out a sharp breath. “Well, I . . . We don’t want you to go, of course. I hope you don’t feel that we’re putting you out to grass.”

“Of course not. It’s entirely my decision.” Suddenly he felt a lightness inside him, like a seagull soaring in the high blue sky. “I wish you every success. The old place will be starting a new chapter. And so will I.”

“Right . . . Well, okay. We have to agree, of course. Maybe we could meet again later in the week to . . . sort out dates and things. And thank you.” Alex held his hand out over the desk.

“I have the feeling that if it hadn’t been for you, the old place wouldn’t have still been here for us to take over. ”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

“No, I know you wouldn’t.”

* * *

Later that evening Mike was sitting in the kitchen of Kate’s café, watching her bake. It was barely a quarter of the size of the hotel’s kitchen, but was just as bright and spotless and well-equipped.

She had made two trays of scones and wrapped them in clingfilm, loading them into the large fridge ready to go into the oven in the morning. Now she was kneading a block of pastry.

“Do you do this every night after you’ve closed the café?” he asked.

She smiled. “Most nights. It depends on what we need in the café. Only for about an hour.”

“After you’ve been on your feet all day?”

“It’s not a problem. I like cooking.”

“You should go on one of those bake-off shows on television.”

She laughed, shaking her head firmly. “Oh no. That’s not for me.”

He liked the way she laughed — free and musical. And the way she worked, neatly and efficiently, no wasted movements. He crept round behind her, swiped a corner of pastry, and popped it into his mouth.

“Mmm, scrummy.”

She slapped his hand away playfully. “Hey, hygiene standards. You’ll get me shut down.”

“There’s no one here to see but us.” He wrapped his arms around her waist from behind and nuzzled into her neck. “We can do whatever we like.”

“Not while I’m cooking,” she scolded.

He pulled a disappointed face, making her laugh again.

“Mind you . . .” She gave him a teasing glance, “I’ve nearly finished. I just need to wrap this and put it in the freezer. And do the washing up.”

“The washing up can wait. Why don’t we go upstairs and watch television? Or something . . .”

“Or something?”

“Something a little more interesting than watching television, maybe?”

She felt a little fizz run through her veins. Something interesting — at their age? Well, why the hell not? They were only in their fifties, for heaven’s sake! She turned her head to kiss the side of his neck. “That sounds like a good idea.”

“I thought so.”

It took her very little time to wrap the pastry dough in clingfilm and pop it into her big freezer.

Then she splashed her hands under the tap to clean off the flour, wiped them quickly on a towel, and with those soft brown eyes gleaming, she took his hand, led him through the small lobby and up the stairs to her flat.