Two elderly ladies came in for afternoon tea, and Olivia served them, watching them surreptitiously. They looked older than her mum, and they didn’t have dementia. They were both sharp as tacks, exchanging pointed comments about the village’s flower guild.

Why her mum? Why her? And what was going to happen now? What was the future going to look like for both of them?

Back in the kitchen, tidying up at the end of the day, Olivia told herself to get a grip. She was nearly forty years old. She ran her own business, lived her own life. This wasn’t the end of her world. But was it the end of her mother’s?

And, she realised as she flipped the sign to closed, Simon hadn’t even come in for his cupcake.

Upstairs Dr Jekyll was thankfully feeling friendly, and Olivia ate her mug of noodles for dinner with the fluffy cat nestled in her lap, trying to suppress the stab of loneliness that kept attacking her unawares.

She wasn’t used to it; she’d always liked her own company. But now, with her mother’s diagnosis in the offing, Olivia couldn’t keep from being painfully aware of her single state. At least she had drinks with Simon to look forward to, and whatever the rest of the evening would bring.

Chapter Eight

The Three Pennies had its usual clusters of well-heeled villagers scattered around the low-ceilinged room as Olivia stepped across the threshold, ducking her head under the ancient oak beam. Bing Crosby was on low volume, his melodious voice caressing the syllables of “White Christmas,” heard over the murmured conversations and few bursts of laughter.

Olivia scanned the crowd for Simon, trying not to feel self-conscious or look nervous. She’d spent over an hour trying to pitch her look between made an effort and trying too hard. Wearing a crimson jumper, skinny jeans, and knee-high leather boots, her hair tamed into natural-looking waves—well, ish—she hoped she’d succeeded.

“Olivia.” Simon rose from a cosy table in the back of the room and Olivia smiled and started forward, her heart feeling as if it were bumping against her ribs. Simon was in his usual charmingly semi-dishevelled state—hair a bit too long, corduroy blazer decidedly battered, with a button-down shirt and faded jeans. He looked scrumptious.

She came to a stop in front of him, unsure of the protocol. She’d never been one for air kissing, despite her years in London where mwah-mwah was the usual greeting, and anything more than that felt like too much, anything less—like a handshake—too formal. In the end, they simply smiled and stared at each other before Simon gestured towards the bar.

“What may I get you to drink?”

“Um...a glass of white wine, please.”

“Be back in a mo.” Olivia settled herself in her seat as Simon went to the bar. She glanced around the pub but thankfully didn’t see anyone she knew, which was always a danger in Wychwood-on-Lea. She didn’t fancy someone coming in to the shop tomorrow with a beady eye and a knowing look, wanting the low-down on her one date night since she’d moved to the village.