Breakfast Under a Cornish Sun Read Online Free PDF

hour into the date, at nine, to give me a reason to escape if needs be. She was back at Donuts & Daiquiris, feeling inspired by all this Cornwall talk, experimenting with a new recipe for doughnuts filled with jam and Cornish clotted cream.
    My mouth went dry and I fanned my face with my beaded clutch handbag, before smoothing down my dress. As the sun set, the heat of the day abated. It had been the hottest July for a long time and with August on the way the shops had already sold out of battery-run hand fans. Craving an iced drink, I pulled open the door and headed in—and almost about-turned and left as my stomach knotted really tight. Marcus and I had messaged briefly today. He said this pub served a great fish pie and we’d both laughingly agreed to have the Cornish dairy ice cream for dessert, as an homage to the Poldark series.
    Curling my free hand into a fist, I sternly told myself not to be a wimp and stepped onto laminate floor. I gazed around, bending forwards and backwards to study tables, in between wooden black beams. One family, a young man on his own, a retired couple …The grey-haired woman dropped her phone and I scooted forward to pick it up. As I got up and returned her thanks with a smile, I surveyed the pub again and … Ooh. On my left, his back to me, was a man with curly black hair, wearing a white shirt. Stomach now tighter than an eighteenth-century bodice, I strode over and walked around his table.
    â€˜Marcus?’
    He looked up and I almost peed my pants. God. It was him, but an older version. His picture must have been heavily photoshopped. Stupid me. Wrinkles surrounded his hooded eyes and his hair was clearly dyed black. It was thin on the top and—Aarghhh! Combed over. And out of his open shirt poked grey hairs.
    I know. Listen to me. Shallow or what? OK, so he wasn’t what I expected, but I was heading towards thirty, a mature woman, I should be above writing off potential romantic partners for superficial reasons—not that I was on the lookout for love. I gazed more intently … he could be over fifty which meant he might be the same age as my dad. Noooo. On so many levels, this was wrong.
    Yet I was curious. The sweetest expression had crossed his face and he stood up until I sat down.
    â€˜Kate,’ he said. ‘Er, cool to meet you.’ He winked. ‘Finally I get to meet my very own Demelza. Now I just need a horse to whisk you away.’ He ran a hand throughhis hair, but it didn’t seem like a natural movement. I couldn’t help smiling. Only a few seconds in and he was trying really hard. ‘So, what’ll it be?’ he said, in a bright voice. ‘Vodka shots or one of those trendy ciders?’
    â€˜Just a Coke please. I’m driving. But I’ll get it.’
    â€˜No. Let me,’ he said and darted up as quick as you like, as if I had a contagious disease.
    I watched him, at the bar, thinking back to my first date with Johnny, in a pub not unlike this. He’d seen me singing on one of my modern music nights, where I’d performed some Ed Sheeran, Joss Stone and James Blunt. He came up to me afterwards; said my voice had a unique quality he’d never heard before; wondered if I’d like to accompany him to a jazz pub the following evening as a friend had let him down. Not that we’d heard much of the bass and piano the following evening as we talked non-stop. And just before we parted, outside, he’d leant forward and kissed me oh so gently on the cheek, ever so close to my mouth, lingering for just a bit longer than expected, millimetres away from my top lip. I was hooked.
    I cleared my throat as Marcus returned to the table. He sat down, with two Cokes.
    â€˜Thanks, Marcus. Um … nice to meet you.’
    â€˜Wicked!’ he said.
    Cringe. What a painful attempt to appear younger. He’d realised it too. Marcus sighed and looked down at himself.
    â€˜I don’t normally wear