Free Anything but Vanilla... by Liz Fielding Page B

to reproduce itself. A lingering madness, as outdated, as unnecessary, as troublesome as the appendix. It meant nothing.
    And yet, with his palm cradling her hand, face-to-face, the effect was amplified; not so much a ripple as a tsunami...
    Even as she floundered, out of her depth, going under, he released her hand, turned away, reached for his mug and filled it from the tap.
    That was what she needed, too. Water. Lots and lots of cold water...
    She had to settle for drawing in a deep, slightly ragged breath while his back was turned.
    ‘Was it that bad?’ she asked, needing to say something, pretend that nothing had happened. His throat rippled disturbingly as he drained the water and she swallowed, too. ‘The ice cream?’
    He glanced at her, then at the cup. Shook his head. ‘No. Not at all. You just have to get past the expectation that it will be sweet.’ He appeared to be completely unaware of the effect he’d had on her, thank goodness. ‘How are you serving it?’ He nodded towards the ice cream.
    ‘Oh... A teaspoonful squished between tiny triangle-shaped oatmeal biscuits so that it looks like a miniature sandwich.’ He pulled a face, unimpressed. She began to breathe more easily. ‘You don’t approve?’
    ‘I’ve tasted some oatmeal biscuits that closely resembled cardboard.’
    ‘These won’t.’ And gradually she eased back out of the quicksand of feelings running out of control, climbing back onto the firmer ground of the stuff she understood. ‘I picked them up this morning along with your bacon roll. Peter produces all our baked goods. Biscuits, tuiles, brandy snaps.’
    ‘Our?’
    ‘Scoop! is a family business. My older sister started it with the unexpected gift of a vintage ice-cream van. My younger sister—the animal lover—is an art student. She does the artwork for the PR and runs the website.’
    It was probably best not to mention her grandmother, who helped style their events, or her great-uncle Basil, a fabulous maître d’ at the big events and, when called upon, happy to don a striped blazer and straw boater to do a turn for them on an ancient ice-cream bicycle that he had lovingly restored.
    ‘And you?’ he asked. ‘What do you do?’
    ‘Me?’ She was the one who was going to turn their brand into a household name but she decided that, rather like the extended family, in this instance it was an ambition better kept private. Alexander’s eyebrow, like her pulse rate, had been given more than enough exercise for one day. ‘I’m the one who’s stuck here making ice cream when I should be in the newly restored Victorian Conservatory at Cranbrook Park, ensuring that the ice-cream bar is installed and fully functioning and that everything is in place for a perfect event.’ The eyebrow barely twitched. ‘Meanwhile, for your information, the biscuit we chose bears no resemblance to cardboard but is a thin, crisp, melt-in-the-mouth savoury oatmeal shortbread.’
    ‘If Peter Sands baked it, I’m warming to the idea.’
    ‘You know Peter?’
    ‘I wouldn’t have a bacon roll from anyone else.’
    ‘Great,’ she said, not sure whether he was serious, or simply winding her up. The latter, she feared. Unless... ‘You’re his landlord, too, aren’t you?’
    ‘I am, but I don’t sleep with him, either,’ he said. ‘In case you were wondering.’
    ‘No.’ She wasn’t wondering that. Not at all. ‘As for the florist, the delicatessen and the haberdashery in between...’
    He shifted, as if she’d caught him off guard, and suddenly everything clicked into place. It wasn’t just this corner. The entire area had been given a makeover three or four years ago. Cleaned up, refreshed, while still keeping its old-fashioned charm.
    ‘Ohmigod! You’re that West!’
    ‘No,’ he said, waiting for her to catch up. ‘ That West died in nineteen forty-one.’
    ‘You know what I mean,’ she said, crossly. Maybridge had been little more than a village that had grown up around