A Cosy Christmas at Bridget's Bicycle Bakery by Alex Brown

Author:Alex Brown [Brown, Alex]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780008463687
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers

Chapter Twelve

‘Hey, girl! Is that you?’ someone calls out from across the market square.

I’ve just dropped ten loaves of bread and all the mince pies off to Rita at the pub – it’s surprising how many loaves can fit inside a bicycle pannier, and the answer is five, to be precise. And so I was over the moon when Oscar found a pair of faded old khaki-green bicycle panniers in the back of the shed. They were covered in cobwebs and had salty white tidemarks on them from the damp sea air, I guess, but I managed to clean them up and cover them in a pretty strawberry-print piece of fabric from my crafting box. They fit perfectly on either side of my old bike to transport the bread in, and with the mince pies in the wicker basket at the front it’s worked out absolutely fine. Rita did call to say that Jack is happy to come and collect the baked goods sometimes, if he’s not busy in the kitchen cooking the lunchtime menu. Apparently, he’s not only the barman and Christmas tree delivery person, he’s also the chef at the pub too. But after thanking Rita – or should that be Jack? – for the kind offer, I explained about my plan to move more and feel fitter and I have to say that the ride along the coastal road today was a little easier than it was the first time, so it’s a step, or a pedal rather, in the right direction.

‘Bridget, babe. It is. OMG, it’s you! Long time no see, babycakes.’ I stop walking and turn around.

And then I see him.

‘EDDIE!’

I do a double-take. The last time I saw my wickedly acerbic and completely camp friend from the Carrington’s days, he was about to jet off to Los Angeles to film a TV chat show.

‘Wow. How are you?’ I ask, taking in his impeccable look: blonde hair in a side parting and super slick and mischievously sparkling blue-green eyes framed by perfectly cultivated eyebrows. And with his beautifully manscaped face he doesn’t look a day older than he did when I was a Saturday girl all those years ago. In fact, he actually looks younger, if that’s even possible. He’s wearing a beautifully tailored cashmere coat with a dazzling diamante-encrusted grey wool scarf and matching grey leather gloves.

‘You know me, sweetpea.’ He presses the tips of his gloved fingers to his lips before offering out a flamboyant flurry of air kisses. ‘Always dazzling!’

‘Well, I can see that!’ I call back, pushing my bike across the square until I’m standing opposite him. ‘Look at you! All perfect. You put me to shame,’ I say, on seeing him glancing down at my flappy pocket and vagabond-style coat which I tried to repair with a safety pin on account of not being able to find my sewing kit, but the coat looks worse than ever now. ‘I had a bit of an accident, got pulled over by a

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