She was walking her gorgeous new spaniel pup, a gift from her parents, back up from the beach to her car which she’d parked at the top of the village. She’d driven without an end destination that day, just the urge to head north for the coast, and she’d given Alfie his first-ever walk on the beach. She remembered his excitement and confusion at the feel of the sand beneath him, racing in laps then sinking his paws in to it, then dashing for the waves and darting back as the cold water rushed over his feet. Emma was watchful of him, however, careful not to let him go too far into the surf. Being young he’d tired quickly and became a little shivery from the cold water, so she wrapped him in her scarf and carried him back up the beach and through the dunes, setting him down on his feet to walk the last fifty metres or so to the car.

As they were climbing the hill from the harbour, with its Christmas lights aglow and a gorgeously decorated fir tree, past the quaint stone cottages of the main street, she spotted the ‘For Rent’ sign. The cottage to let was at the end of a row, made of pretty cream-grey stone, but it looked rather sad, as if it needed someone to care for it again. The woodwork around its windows was the worse for wear, all chipped white paint and flakes of rotten wood. She couldn’t see into the main shop window, unfortunately, as it was covered from inside with ancient, yellowing newspapers, relating tales of births, deaths, and village fetes from over ten years ago, and any gaps were covered with whitewash. But something about the place made her stop in her tracks. Warkton village was popular with the tourists but still had a sleepy air; it also had the most beautiful harbour and beach. It felt small and welcoming, a place you could relax, start a business, somewhere to rebuild her life. A place for a fresh start.

As soon as she got home she rang the agent’s number and asked to arrange a viewing as soon as possible and came back the next day. The cottage was old, and worn, and needed plenty of TLC, but Emma could see its potential; it had a big kitchen downstairs with plenty of work surfaces, the shop space was already shelved out and would be fine with a good clean and a lick of paint. She could picture it there at Christmas, all tinsel and fairy-light festive with colourful bags and boxes of chocolates. She’d already dreamed of making her chocolate crafting a career not just a hobby.

Before she had even left that very first time she had fallen in love with the cottage and its shop. It had stolen a piece of her heart, her Chocolate Shop by the Sea.