Second Chances at the Log Fire Cabin: A Christmas holiday romance for 2018 from the ebook bestseller

‘Oh, thank you!’ she gasps gratefully. ‘I run a catering business and, believe it or not, I’ve run out of flour.’

‘Ooh, what’s the name of your business?’ I ask.

‘Truly Scrumptious.’

‘Great name!’

‘Thanks.’ She smiles warmly. ‘It’s just me, really, although my friend, Erin, sometimes helps out. I’m baking for a children’s birthday party tomorrow so I need to get my hands on some flour. I can’t believe this is the only bag left.’

‘People must be making their Christmas cakes.’

She smiles, looking a little less flustered. ‘Yes, it’s that time, isn’t it? I’ve got twenty Christmas cakes to bake for next weekend.’ She holds out her spare hand. ‘I’m Poppy.’

We shake. ‘Roxy.’

‘Nice to meet you, Roxy. Now, I really must get back. Those fairy cakes won’t bake themselves, worse luck!’

She turns to go but, as she does, the bag of flour somehow slips out of her grasp. It falls to the ground, catching her boot buckle, which tears the bag open. The contents spill out across the floor.

Poppy stares at the mess in stunned disbelief, and I feel her pain. She looks as if she’s about to sob her heart out right then and there, in the middle of aisle number seven.

‘Have you tried the corner shop?’ I ask quickly.

She nods. ‘None left.’

‘The supermarket on Bridge Street?’

‘They’re out of flour as well, believe it or not. There’s been a problem with deliveries.’

I frown, racking my brains to come up with a solution. Poppy seems really nice. I can’t just leave her here in bits like this.

‘I’ve got flour at home that you can have,’ I say, in a burst of inspiration. ‘And I only live along the road.’

She glances at me, round-eyed and hopeful. ‘That’s so nice of you to offer, but I couldn’t possibly …’

‘No, really, it’s fine. Come on.’

After paying for my groceries, we head back along the street and Poppy tells me all about her catering company. Apparently she’s just won a contract to supply mince pies and festive gingerbread men to a local pop-up ice rink during the fortnight leading up to Christmas Day.

‘That’s brilliant,’ I say, although I can’t help noticing that Poppy doesn’t seem overjoyed.

‘Well, it is. But the problem is, my friend, Erin, who normally helps out, is off to Mexico on holiday.’

‘So you’ve got to manage yourself.’

‘Exactly.’

‘I’m just here.’ I indicate our blue front door and we turn in at the gate.

Poppy frowns. Then she peers at me. ‘I don’t suppose you bake?’ She smiles. ‘The fact that you’ve got flour is a promising sign.’

I laugh. ‘Oh well, the last time I made a chocolate cake—’

‘Does she bake?’ says a loud voice. ‘Oh Lord, yes!’

We swing round and there stands my neighbour, Edna, wrapped up to go out, handbag over her arm. At eighty-two, she’s a little deaf, hence the shouting.

Addressing Poppy, she says in her plummy voice, ‘Dear Roxanne baked a chocolate cake for the church hall Christmas fayre last week and all I’d say is, Nigella, eat your heart out! Soft. Moist. Simply chocolate heaven!’

She beams at me.

I laugh. ‘No, no, it was—’

‘Now, don’t be modest.’ Edna wags a finger at me. ‘It was utterly mouth-watering, believe me! My friend Celia bought it and made me try a slice because she thought it was just as good as a Marks & Spencer cake. And that’s no exaggeration!’ She taps the side of her nose at Poppy, smiles and walks off with a little wave.

I shake my head apologetically at Poppy. ‘Really, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.’

‘Oh.’ Poppy’s face falls. ‘The thing is, I really need some help, otherwise this whole event is going to be a complete disaster.’ She shrugs. ‘People need mince pies at Christmastime.’

I nod solemnly. ‘And festive gingerbread men. Although shouldn’t that be ginger people these days?’

She laughs. Then her chin wobbles and her pretty face crumples. ‘Oh, God, sorry about this. It’s ridiculous, really. I mean, of course people don’t need mince pies. It’s just, if I want the business to succeed, I’ve got to nail this contract.’

I fish out a hanky, which mercifully seems unused. I can’t believe I actually have any clean ones left after my sobbing marathon of the past few days.

‘Thank you, Roxy.’ Poppy dabs her eyes, streaking her mascara. ‘Sorry about this.’

‘Hey, it’s no problem. And if you need some help … well, I’m in between jobs at the moment, so …’

‘Really?’ Her dark brown eyes open wide. ‘God, you have no idea how grateful I would be for an extra pair of hands.’ She peers at me anxiously. ‘Is it weird hiring someone I’ve only just met? Sorry, just thinking out loud. I mean, I wouldn’t even be thinking of offering you the job if I didn’t have a good feeling about you.’ Her eyes light up. ‘Perhaps you could do the desserts as well! I’ve said I’ll cook for my boyfriend’s family and friends at Christmastime, too, you see.’

‘Oh, no.’ I shake my head in horror. ‘I couldn’t possibly do anything like that.’ I could probably throw a handful of stuff into a pan to make mincemeat, as long as I had specific directions – but make desserts? I don’t think so.

‘That chocolate cake you baked sounded fab!’ There’s more than a hint of desperation in her tone. ‘And there’d be no set menu. You could just make the sort of puddings you normally do.’

Her face is a study in pleading. I can’t bear to tell her the cake was a fake, and my pudding-making skills stretch only to opening up the box and cutting the contents into slices. On the other hand, I’m going to need a pretty hefty distraction if I’m planning to get over Jackson Cooper this side of the next millennium. And I suppose there’s always YouTube if I get stuck.

‘So I wouldn’t have to make anything complicated?’

‘Oh, no, no. Just simple things, like maybe a cherry chocolate mousse? Or a delicious cheesecake? Or a basic but wonderful lemon meringue pie?’

Simple things?

‘Or cranberry cranachan?’ Poppy laughs. ‘Actually, now I’m insulting your abilities. I saw the recipe for that the other day and it’s so simple, even a five-year-old could make it!’

My face performs a cross between a smile and a grimace. I’d better steer clear of the cranberry cranach-thingy, then!

‘And obviously, you’ll be a dab hand at making sweet shortcrust pastry,’ Poppy rushes on. ‘For the mince pies.’