Free Breakfast Under a Cornish Sun by Samantha Tonge Page A

…’
    She gave me a sympathetic glance. Hurriedly, I continued along the jetty, feeling a little seasick as the boats either side bobbed up and down. To the left, a man in a black shirt sat examining a fishing net. Short blond hair. No good. It wouldn’t grow in time. With a sigh, I continued. In the next boat stood a stocky guy, with a beanie hat on even though it was practically August, and a wedding ring glistening on his finger. Forget that. A couple of kids and, presumably, their granddad were playing in the next boat, with a supply of fizzy drinks and crisps. A smooching couple sprawled across the wooden floor of the next. The rest of the boats were empty, apart from a huge white one,right at the end. Talk about flash, with piles of nets and hooks, plus masts going in all directions and polar white sails.
    But ooh … The owner stood on deck with dashing white marine cap, curly black hair, tanned skin and a pipe in his mouth. Old school, I liked that. Plus, he was reasonably tall and the sunglasses added an air of mystery. But would he stand up to close scrutiny and exude a sexiness rugged enough to drive Saffron wild?
    I approached and pretended to be engrossed in my phone. As I neared his boat, I looked up.
    â€˜Gosh.’ Innocent voice. ‘I didn’t know I’d walked so far.’
    He turned his head to face me. ‘Good thing you didn’t continue for a couple of metres. You’d have been shark bait,’ he said and smiled.
    Oh. No Cornish accent. But I couldn’t be too picky. Mind racing, I smiled back. His voice was rather polite. In fact a bit plummy and I couldn’t help thinking I’d heard it before.
    â€˜Didn’t know there were sharks in these parts,’ I said.
    â€˜Oh definitely. Mackerel shark just to name one species. Although granted, nowhere near Port Penny. I’ve done my research.’
    I put away my phone and pulled out my bottle of water, whilst the fisherman went back to looking at his boat. How could I get myself invited on, just to get to know him that little better, or rather secretly auditionhim for the part of my plus-one? Discreetly, I screwed the lid off my bottle and turned it upside down. The water ran out. Mentally, I shook my head. Was I really doing this?
    â€˜Goodness. I’m gasping for a drink and I’ve no water left. I don’t suppose you could fill this up could you?’ I said and showed him the empty bottle.
    His face broke into a smile again and I noticed wrinkles where I hadn’t before. Plus that hair—it kind of shifted oddly when he scratched it. Oh my God! It wasn’t real!
    â€˜Come on into my cabin,’ he said. ‘I believe there’s a bottle of champers in the fridge. How about helping me celebrate?’
    â€˜Um …’
    He lifted up his hands, grinned and whipped off his wig and glasses. ‘No funny stuff, my dear. I am just a fuddy-duddy old writer doing research for my next book.’
    I gasped. Of course, I’d seen him on several TV programmes last year, that’s why I knew that voice.
    â€˜Hardly fuddy-duddy!’ I stuttered. ‘But it’s a pleasure to meet you, Dick Thrusts.’
    He ran a hand over his bald head and gave an infectious chuckle. ‘Trevor’s the name. I may like writing erotica, but in reality most of my time is spent with a nice cup of tea and my gardening programmes.’
    I grinned back, now. My shoulders relaxed. Yes, I’d seen him on a horticultural show. Dick Thrusts—Trevor—was always extremely courteous and took jokes about his work very well. You see, on the tail end of Fifty Shades ’ success he’d written a birdwatching erotic book—don’t ask—called A Flock of Shags . For the uneducated—which included me—a shag is a bird rather like a cormorant. The book was a runaway success due to its schoolboyish humour. Think Christian Grey with whips that made farting