#she is like a tiny pistachio furry

[cinderoo]

minimus ambus: anime girl edition kotobukiya minimus ambus design by @ehlnactila-journal

[orpheusdrinkinga40inadeathbasket]

The most annoying thing Walnut does, even worse than barking at the mailman, is the ritual of his “evening drink.” Every night, when I am settled in bed, when I am on the brink of sleep, Walnut will suddenly get very thirsty. If I go to bed at 10:30, Walnut will get thirsty at 11. If I go to bed at midnight, he’ll wake me up at 1. I’ve found that the only way I cannot be mad about this is to treat this ritual as its own special kind of voyage — to try to experience it as if for the first time. If I am open to it, my upstairs hallway contains an astonishing amount of life.

The evening drink goes something like this: First, Walnut will stand on the edge of the bed, in a muscular, stout little stance, and he will wave his big ridiculous fan tail in my face, creating enough of a breeze that I can’t ignore it. I will roll over and try to go back to sleep, but he won’t let me: He’ll stamp his hairy front paws and wag harder, then add expressive noises from his snout — half-whine, half-breath, hardly audible except to me. And so I give up. I sit up and pivot and plant my feet on the floor — I am hardly even awake yet — and I make a little basket of my arms, like a running back preparing to take a handoff, and Walnut pops his body right into that pocket, entrusting the long length of his vulnerable spine (a hazard of the dachshund breed) to the stretch of my right arm, and then he hangs his furry front legs over my left. From this point on we function as a unit, a fusion of man and dog. As I lift my weight from the bed Walnut does a little hop, just to help me with gravity, and we set off down the narrow hall. We are Odysseus on the wine-dark sea. (Walnut is Odysseus; I am the ship.)

All of evolution, all of the births and deaths since caveman times, since wolf times, that produced my ancestors and his — all the firelight and sneak attacks and tenderly offered scraps of meat, the cages and houses, the secret stretchy coils of German DNA — it has all come, finally, to this: a fully grown exhausted human man, a tiny panting goofy harmless dog, walking down the hall together. Even in the dark, Walnut will tilt his snout up at me, throw me a deep happy look from his big black eyes — I can feel this happening even when I can’t see it — and he will snuffle the air until I say nice words to him (OK you fuzzy stinker, let’s go get your evening drink), and then, always, I will lower my face and he will lick my nose, and his breath is so bad, his fetid snout-wind, it smells like a scoop of the primordial soup. It is not good in any way. And yet I love it.

Walnut and I move down the hall together, step by bipedal step, one two three four, tired man and thirsty friend, and together we pass the wildlife of the hallway — a moth, a spider on the ceiling, both of which my children will yell at me later to move outside, and of course each of these creatures could be its own voyage, its own portal to millions of years of history, but we can’t stop to study them now; we are passing my son’s room. We can hear him murmuring words to his friends in a voice that sounds disturbingly like my own voice, deep sound waves rumbling over deep mammalian cords — and now we are passing my daughter’s room, my sweet nearly grown-up girl, who was so tiny when we brought Walnut home, as a golden puppy, but now she is moving off to college. In her room she has a hamster she calls Acorn, another consciousness, another portal to millions of years, to ancient ancestors in China, nighttime scampering over deserts.

But we move on. Behind us, in the hallway, comes a sudden galumphing. It is yet another animal: our other dog, Pistachio, he is getting up to see what’s happening; he was sleeping, too, but now he is following us. Pistachio is the opposite of Walnut, a huge mutt we adopted from a shelter, a gangly scraggly garbage muppet, his body welded together out of old mops and sandpaper, with legs like stilts and an enormous block head and a tail so long that when he whips it in joy, constantly, he beats himself in the face. Pistachio unfolds himself from his sleepy curl, stands, trots, huffs and stares after us with big human eyes. Walnut ignores him, because with every step he is sniffing the dark air ahead of us, like a car probing a night road with headlights, and he knows we are approaching his water dish now, he knows I am about to bend my body in half to set his four paws simultaneously down on the floor, he knows that he will slap the cool water with his tongue for 15 seconds before I pick him up again and we journey back down the hall. And I find myself wondering, although of course it doesn’t matter, if Walnut was even thirsty, or if we are just playing out a mutual script. Or maybe, and who could blame him, he just felt like taking a trip.

Sam Anderson, "Lessons from a Lifetime of Animal Voyages"

[letterfromtrenwith]

A Feast for the Senses

A George/Elizabeth AU fic.

While hunting for a last minute gift, George Warleggan is drawn to the Cusgarne Chocolate Company, where he meets the chocolaterie's lovely owner, Elizabeth Chynoweth, and finds himself unable to resist returning...

~

George mentally cursed himself as he hurried down the street, turning up the collar of his coat against the chilly autumn wind. How could he have been so stupid? He could blame the chaos of the move and setting up the new office. Except part of the reason he had been so keen to move back to Cornwall was to be nearer his Aunt Joan, and now he had gone and forgotten her birthday!

For once in his life – and completely unintentionally – Uncle Cary had actually managed to be helpful, in that he had been the one to remind George, during the course of an otherwise all-business call.

“I suppose you’ll be out at your godmother’s tonight…I’ll tell you what, finding out she was born on Halloween wasn’t much of a surprise.” Cary had probably kept talking, considering he rarely let an opportunity to complain about Joan pass him by, but George had zoned out, staring in seasonally-appropriate horror at the date on his desk-top calendar.

He’d essentially just hung up on Cary, pulled his coat on and hurried out passed a bemused Margaret and Emma, saying he had an appointment and would see them in the morning. It was already just after 4pm, so he didn’t have long before the shops closed. The supermarkets would be open later, of course, but he didn’t want a cheap bunch of flowers and a bottle of Asti. Joan had been his mum’s best friend, and George had been close to her his whole life. She deserved something special.

Although he’d visited her several times while he’d been living in London, he hadn’t actually been into Truro proper for years, not even in the time since he’d moved back. He’d been too busy opening up the new branch. Almost all of the shops had changed from what he vaguely remembered, which did nothing to help him. How he could possibly have failed to remember the date became more bewildering as he went, considering almost every building he passed, and not just the shops, was covered in orange and black decorations. Now he thought about it, at least two of the other flats in his new building had had pumpkin lanterns outside their doors when he left this morning.

Even the little art shop he came to had delicate strips of black crepe trailing down its windows, framing several suitably gothic paintings. Knowing his aunt’s fondness for art, he went inside. Despite some difficulty extracting himself from the overly chatty owner, he considered it a successful visit, coming away with a very nice watercolour of Mousehole and a birthday card featuring a charming illustration of two foxes frolicking in awoodland.

George was just deciding whether to finish off with flowers or chocolates when the scent of the latter decided it for him. Warm and rich, the scent was fleeting but incredibly enticing. He managed to follow it to the entrance of a small courtyard, which was made up of half a dozen traditional shop fronts gathered around a paved square and big stone fountain, its water covered in the orange and yellow leaves which fell from two trees growing up between the stones. Directly in front of him was the obvious source of the aroma. Gold lettering flowing beautifully over midnight blue paint proclaimed the establishment to be The Cusgarne Chocolate Company.

Their window was also decorated for Halloween, but far more uniquely than the plastic skeletons and furry spiders in the other shops. Across the glass, delicate white cursive quoted Shakespeare: “Double, double, toil and trouble, Fire burn and cauldron bubble…” The display itself centred on a witch’s cauldron, which George realised was actually skilfully crafted out of dark chocolate. Green goo oozed over the side and orange flames burned underneath, both likely made out of sugar.

To the left was an odd assortment of chocolate creatures: bats, snakes, and what looked like lizards. He recalled the Macbeth reference – the ingredients of the witches’ brew. It also made sense of the little tableaux on the right hand side: trees made of chocolate and sugar, with tiny human-like figures hidden amongst them; the woods advancing on Dunsinane. The artistry and creativity of the display was truly amazing. Now, he wanted to go in as much out of curiosity as to buy something for Joan.

A traditional shop-bell tinkled over his head as he pushed open the door. Inside, the smell was incredible, and his stomach chose that moment to remind him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. At that same moment, a woman appeared behind the counter. He was about to say hello but then she smiled at him and he found he couldn’t say anything. She was tall with dark hair and soft features, and her smile took his breath away. The colour of her apron matched the décor outside, and the colour suited her.

“Can I help?” At her raised eyebrows, he realised he was probably staring at her like an idiot. He cleared his throat, gripping his parcel tightly. “Were you looking for something in particular?”

“Oh, er – “ George finally shook some sense into himself. “I want to get a present for someone.”

“Wife? Girlfriend?”

“No! Er, no – I don’t have – That is, it’s for my Aunt. It’s her birthday. Today.”

“Oh, last minute, hmm?” She smiled again, gently teasing and he couldn’t help but smile back.

“Well, I’ve just moved and – “ Why was he telling her that? “Never mind.”

“Let’s see what we have for her.” She indicated a display of chocolate in a cabinet in front of her and George finally left where he’d been standing awkwardly in the doorway. “I can make you up a selection box of a few different flavours.”

“That sounds nice.” He propped his bag from the art shop up against the counter. “I was just, er, admiring your window display. It’s very original.”

“Oh, thank you.” There was that flooring smile again. “But that’s Morwenna’s work, really. My cousin – and business partner. She’s the real artist, I just make the chocolates.”

“Well, they look lovely, as well.” They really did. The cabinet held an extraordinary variety – milk, dark and white chocolate in many different shapes.

“What does she like? Your Aunt?”

“Er – “ George had never said ‘er’ as many times in his life as he had in these last few minutes. “She likes liquors, and nuts, and dark chocolate.”

“Oh, a woman of taste! I can do her a box of 16, with four different flavours?”

“That would be great, thank you.” She fished in the pocket of her apron, coming out with a pair of glasses. Putting them on only made her more attractive and George had to glance away, pretending to examine a display on the other side of the small shop floor, although he barely actually took it.

“So, where did you move from?”

“Hmm?” He looked back to see her peering intently into the cabinet, considering the selection in front of her.

“You said you moved.”

“Oh, yes. From London. Although, I’m from Cornwall, originally, actually. But, I’ve been working for the family company, and we’ve opened an office here.”

“What sort of work do you do?...Would she like a gin truffle, do you think?”

“Er, yes, she would, and we do investment banking.”

“Oh, that sounds interesting! Dark chocolate salted caramel?”

“Yes, please, and not really. It’s just lots of numbers. I imagine it’s not as interesting as making chocolate.”

“Maybe not.” She flashed him another smile; she really was stunning. “Does she like marzipan?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Then what about….pistachio squares and marzipan cherry deluxe?”

“Sounds delicious.” She finished packing the chocolates, neatly folding the lid of the elegantly embossed gold box closed then sealing it with an imitation wax seal bearing what George assumed was the company logo.

“I hope she likes them.”

“I’m sure she will.” After he had paid, she passed him the box, their fingertips touching as he took it. With her leaning forward, he finally got a good look at the name sewn into her apron. “Thank you, Elizabeth.”

“It was my pleasure.” 

~

About a week later, George found himself loitering on the street outside the entrance to the courtyard, debating whether or not to go in. He did have a legitimate reason to go back to the shop, but still felt like a silly teenager, manufacturing an excuse to see a pretty girl again.

Pretending it was just out of interest, he’d taken the invitation on the little business card clipped to his receipt, which suggested a visit to the shop’s website. He’d learned that they’d been in business just a little over three years, and it was a family company, owned by Elizabeth and the cousin she’d mentioned, Morwenna, as well as a third girl with the same surname, Rowella. He’d heard of the Chynoweth family before; they’d been landowners a few hundred years ago, same as the Warleggans.

From a professional point of view, the business seemed very impressive.  Aside from a small selection of unusual products sourced from around the world, everything they sold was handmade on site, using local ingredients wherever possible. All of their honey and edible flowers were sourced from the big Trenwith estate, which had its own organic farm shop now, according to Joan. They offered special ordering for occasions and even had a small online business, delivering to the local area. From their website, he found their Instagram profile, which included pictures of some of the window displays Elizabeth had credited to her cousin. They really were stunning. According to a post from a few months ago, the shop had won a Cornish Business Award, the three women posing proudly in evening dresses.

Macbeth had disappeared from the window today, replaced by a sugar bonfire and a chocolate Guy, flanked by brightly coloured candy Catherine wheels. At the sound of the bell, Elizabeth looked up from where she was adjusting a display next to the till.

“Oh, hello again! Did your Aunt like her present?” He had to admit to a slight suffusion of pleasure at the fact she remembered him, even though it had only been a few days.

“Yes, she loved them. I actually came back to get her some more of those marzipan cherry things.”

“Oh…” Her face softened, the corners of her lovely mouth turning slightly downward. “I’m afraid we don’t have any. We sold out but one of our suppliers has been having problems, so we don’t have the ingredients to make any more at the minute.”

“Oh. Well, that’s all right.”

“Is there anything else you’d like?”

“Yes, as it happens.” Just then, George realised they weren’t alone. A girl George recognised as Morwenna was talking to two women at the far end of the counter, in front of several copper pots warming on burners, something he somehow had managed not to notice the last time he was here, although they were clearly creating the wonderful smell that had brought him here in the first place. “One of my colleagues is going on maternity leave this week, and I’d like to get her something.”

“How lovely! When is she due?”

“In about six weeks.” Margaret finding out she was pregnant just after she’d agreed to re-locate to join the new office hadn’t been the best timing, but it was hardly her fault. Besides, part of the reason she’d agreed was that her and her husband wanted to get out of the City. Unfortunately, it meant that he and Emma had to take on her clients themselves at the same time as getting the new branch on an even keel. At least until they could find someone to cover her.

“Wonderful! What do you think she would like? Rose and violet creams might be nice for a new mum?”

“I think she would like those, actually. Thank you.”

“How are you settling in? To your new house? And job? If – er – if you don’t mind me asking.”

“No, er. It’s a bit hectic, but it’s going okay. I still haven’t unpacked at the flat, though.” There he went, talking too much at her again. God, it really had been too long since he’d had any kind of normal social interaction with anyone. Let alone a beautiful woman. Her laugh was wonderful. Suddenly, he became aware they were being watched. While they’d been talking, Morwenna had been pouring hot chocolate into paper cups for the other customers, and now she was finished she was looking over at him and her cousin with a quirked eyebrow. She probably saw men making utter fools of themselves in front of Elizabeth every day.

“Here you are. Um – I could, er, I could call you when we get more of those chocolates made, that your Aunt likes. If you’d like to leave your details, that is.”

“Oh, well, er, yes, that would be very good of you. Here.” Rummaging in his jacket pocket, he produced a business card. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She read the card with a hint of a smile. “George.”

~

“There’s a woman on the phone for you.” Emma waylaid George as he returned to the office from a meeting with some potential new clients. “Says she’s from some chocolate company?”

“Oh, put her through.” George tried not to sound too excited, even though he’d felt a little thrill knowing Elizabeth had called him, even if it was only to tell him that she had some chocolates in stock that his Aunt liked. God, he was pathetic.

“George? Hello, it’s Elizabeth Chynoweth here, from Cusgarne. I’m sorry it’s been so long, but we ended up having to find a new supplier. I think the new recipe is just as nice as the old one, but maybe your Aunt can be our official tester!” Even over the phone, her laugh was musical. “I’ve put a box aside for you.”

“Oh, thank you very much. I’m a little busy at work at the moment, but I’ll try to drop in – “

“I was going to say, we’re having a special evening at the beginning of next week – the 2nd -  for the Christmas light switch on. When they do the late night shopping, you know? Well, I suppose you don’t – Anyway, would you like to come? We’re open until 8.”  

“Oh, that would be nice. I’ll – I’ll see you then.”

George spent the next week in a state of eager anticipation, as if he were going out on a date, instead of dropping into a Christmas sale at a chocolate shop. He even found himself considering what he should wear, looking at his wardrobe on the morning of the 2nd and trying to decide which was his nicest suit. Crossly, he told himself not to be so pathetic, but still pulled out a dark blue one which Margaret had once told him complemented his eyes. 

The shop was busy when he arrived just before half past 6, people milling about with glasses in their hands, some already carrying bags emblazoned with the shop’s logo. Clearly, the event was doing well for them. Christmas music was playing quietly and thankfully unobtrusively in the background, and the usual delicious aroma was even more so, layered with other flavours George couldn’t place.

“George! You came!” Elizabeth slipped between two chatting couples. Tonight, her apron was worn over simple black dress, which made her look even more stunning. Her smile was wide and welcoming and she seemed almost excited to see him. Considering the obvious success of the evening, she couldn’t be that keen to get one sale, could she? “Would you like a drink?”

“Er…”

“There’s mulled wine, or not mulled wine, or – “

“Or a chocolate martini. Here.” George took the glass, because it was presented to him so firmly he didn’t feel like he could refuse. He recognised the young woman who handed it to him as the third partner in the business, Rowella Chynoweth. Unlike Morwenna, who resembled Elizabeth quite strongly, she was more petite, with fair hair, but she was still unmistakably a Chynoweth. “I may not know much about chocolate, but I do know how to make a killer martini.”

Killer was right. It was very tasty, but also incredibly strong. One sip and George had to blink several times to feel like he could see straight again. Then again, he hadn’t had more than a single glass of wine to be polite at business dinners in he didn’t know how long.

“Rowella helps out in the shop sometimes, but she mostly deals with the business side of things for us.” Elizabeth explained, giving her cousin a look George was unable to interpret.

“I’m the brains, and they’re the beauty.” Rowella grinned. “So, you’re the famous George.”

“Er – “ He doubted that, somehow.

“Rowella – “ Before Elizabeth could say anymore, she was interrupted by a cry from across the room.

“George?! George Warleggan, is that you?” A petite brunette politely elbowed her way through the crowd towards him. It took a couple of moments to place her, although he didn’t know if that was because he hadn’t seen her in years or the effects of the martini.

“Verity? Wow!” George had gone to school with Verity’s brother Francis Poldark a long time ago, but they’d mostly lost touch after going off to university. “How are you?”

“I’m well, thank you! And you? I saw the new office, but I didn’t know you’d come with it!”

“Well, I have.” Wanting to get the conversation away from himself – especially as Rowella was still looking at him speculatively – George looked between Verity and Elizabeth. “Do you two know each other?”

“Verity’s one of our suppliers – Trenwith Organics.”

“Oh, of course!” He had forgotten that the estate belonged to the Poldarks. When they’d been at school, Francis’ father had been having some financial troubles with it, troubles which it seemed his children had managed to solve. “You’ve got the big farm shop now, haven’t you? I saw the signs for it when I drove down. How’s that doing?”

“Oh, great!” This thankfully led into a business related discussion, a topic George was much more comfortable with. It turned out the Poldarks were looking to expand their business even further by opening a full restaurant at the farm shop, and George was able to refer Verity to some financial people in that line. “You know, the Cusgarne range is one of our best-sellers in the shop. We can’t replace the stock fast enough!”

“Oh, well, you know – “ Elizabeth looked charmingly embarrassed at Verity’s praise, a wonderful soft pink blush creeping over her cheeks.

“And Morwenna made us a chocolate Trenwith for our birthday celebrations! It was amazing! She’s a true artist.”

“She is.” George couldn’t argue there. Tonight’s window was back to Shakespeare again – a Winter’s Tale complete with intricately painted chocolate bear.

This led onto talk of Cusgarne’s own expansion plans, Rowella explaining that they hoped to increase their online business, as well create some new product lines.

“Once we can afford the R&D, of course. I’ve made a contact with a local distillery, and we’d love to make a chocolate gin with them. We’ve done some small test batches, but we really need to put some more substantial time into it, which we just don’t have at the moment. We’ve been focusing on the beauty side.”

“Beauty?” George wasn’t sure he’d heard that correctly.

“Yes. Verity’s sister-in-law, Demelza, she makes her own line of soaps and hand creams and things.” It took him a moment to process the news that Francis had managed to get himself married. “She uses ingredients from the Trenwith estate, usually, but her and Elizabeth came up with the idea to do some cacao-flavoured products. We’re just testing the waters with them at the moment, but – Hang on.” Rowella hurried away to the other side of the room, Elizabeth watching her go with a smile.

“I’m sorry, she’s very enthusiastic.”

“That’s okay. It’s very impressive, actually. I meet a lot of business people, and not many have the kind of focus and vision you all seem to.”

“Oh, that’s so kind of you to say.” There was that blush again, and George feared a far less attractive version might be appearing on his own face.

“While she’s off, let me get you those chocolates for your Aunt, and I want to ask your opinion on a new recipe.” Verity excused herself to talk to someone else, and George followed Elizabeth over to the counter, on which sat several little platters of different chocolates, over which was a beautifully handwritten sign saying ‘Eat me’. Evidently Shakespeare wasn’t Morwenna’s only literary inspiration. “These are my new Christmas flavours.”

He saw White Chocolate Coconut Snowball, Christmas Pudding Truffle, and Milk Chocolate & Roast Chestnut, but Elizabeth picked up the tray marked Mulled Wine Truffle.

“I’m not completely certain about this one, so I’m canvassing for opinions tonight. Would you try one for me?” George shifted his now empty martini glass to the other hand so he could pick up a chocolate but, to his surprise, Elizabeth lifted one and held it out to him, close enough to his mouth to make her intention clear. Imagining she could probably hear his heart pounding, George leant forward and took the sweet, his lips just touching her fingertips. Since she wanted his opinion on the flavour, he tried to focus on that rather than the way his blood was doing its level best to rush away from his head. “What do you think?”

“I think – “ He coughed slightly. “I think that Morwenna isn’t the only artist in your family.”

“Oh, my – “ Just then, Rowella appeared again, brandishing a tube of cacao & burnt orange hand cream, which she insisted George try.

Later that night, the charming scent still on his hands and boxes of chocolates on the coffee table, George sat down at his laptop and pulled up a search engine. He needed to do some research. 

~

Christmas shopping was his next excuse to visit the shop, which was almost as busy as it had been on their party night. Clearly it was a popular place to buy gifts, and the wintery weather which had settled over Cornwall made their hot chocolates especially appealing. Morwenna poured him an orange flavoured one, having failed to persuade him to accept a shot of brandy in it instead.

“I have to go back to work after this.”

“I’m at work,” she replied, adding a measure of Irish cream to the cup she had behind the counter. He assumed she didn’t drink on the job when she was doing her windows – today was a chocolate Santa’s sleigh filled with brightly-coloured sugar gifts, soaring over a white chocolate and powdered sugar snow scene.  

“Yes, but you’re the boss.”

“So are you.” This was an excellent point, but he was saved from having to refute it by Elizabeth appearing with a welcoming smile. She was more than happy to help him pick out his gifts, most of which were either corporate ones, or for his employees. Cary got a bottle of whisky every year, and besides him there was only Joan to buy for on the personal side.

“So, what are your plans for Christmas?” Elizabeth asked as she made up a box of their different flavoured chocolate squares for a private trust the firm handled investments for.

“Oh, er, not much. Dinner with my Aunt here, but back to London for the day itself.” He’d probably end up working. Cary wasn’t the festive type, but for some reason he got grumpy if George didn’t come home for Christmas, despite the fact he usually spent most of the day drinking in his study. “Although I’m actually going to be there for a while.”

“Oh. Really? How long?” She made an odd expression as she closed and sealed the box, placing it with the others.

“Maybe a month. Just some things that need finished off back there.” With Margaret still off, Emma had been displeased to find George was going away for a month, as well. They had maternity cover for Margaret now, as well as support staff in place and a graduate trainee, so he was entirely confident Emma could manage.

“Oh, well. You won’t be away too long, then.”

“No.”

“Shall I gift wrap all of these for you?”

“Oh, I don’t know – “ He glanced at his watch, and then back at the door as two new customers jangled their way in. “I’ve got to get back, and you’re getting busy.”

“I’ll do them this afternoon. You can come back and collect them later.”

“Oh, thank you.” He paused. “Er – When I come back – from London, that is, there’s something I’d like to talk about, with you.”

“Oh?”

“About your business.”

“Oh.” Was it just him, or did she sound slightly disappointed? “Well, I look forward to that. I’ll see you later.”

It was oddly dismissive, and George spent the rest of the afternoon wondering if he’d offended her somehow. Maybe she didn’t want some corporate type interfering in her family business? He hadn’t considered that. How arrogant of him. Perhaps he should apologise to her. However, when he got back to the shop later on, he found Morwenna alone. Apparently, Elizabeth had gone out to see a supplier. George did his best to hide his disappointment.

“But she did leave you all these.” She handed him a pile of beautifully wrapped boxes, before placing a final one on the top which he didn’t recognise.

“Oh, that’s not.”

“It’s on the house, for being such a good customer.” She winked at him, and he wondered how many of those ‘special’ hot chocolates she’d had.

At home, he opened the package, finding inside a selection of poinsettia shaped chocolates flavoured with caramel, and a little note in soft, flowing hand which he knew instinctively was Elizabeth’s.

Merry Christmas. Good luck in London, and make sure to come and see us when you get back.

Underneath that was a phone number. 

~

It ended up being closer to six weeks in London, and they were the longest of George’s life. He spent several days debating whether to call Elizabeth – she had given him her number after all. But why had she? Just because he’d said he wanted to talk business? He wanted to do that face-to-face. In the end, a few days after the New Year, Elizabeth settled it for him.

Hi. Hope you had a good new year. Your aunt came in for some more marzipan cherry. She’s found some new flavours she likes, too! :D

This led into them texting occasionally throughout his stay, George feeling a little blip of excitement every time his phone trilled a text alert, and then immediately scolding himself for acting like a love-struck teenager. A little while after the first message, he received an email from his aunt, mostly just her usual general chat, but with a small PS tacked onto the bottom:

You never told me that Elizabeth girl from the chocolate shop was so lovely – although I suppose I should have guessed by how much you were talking about her. Although, I’m sure she only keeps inviting me back so she can talk to me about you.

That couldn’t be true, could it? Surely Elizabeth just liked Joan – he could see why they would get on well. From Elizabeth’s messages, Joan had quickly become something of a regular at the shop. George imagined she would appreciate Morwenna’s ‘enhanced’ hot chocolates.

Meanwhile, in his spare moments , he worked on the proposal he wanted to make to Elizabeth – the business proposal. He was going to offer to secure investment in the business: to fund their research & development, maybe expansion to larger premises if they wanted, to take on extra staff so Rowella could devote herself full time to the management – and so they could increase production. George generally didn’t deal with a lot of small businesses, but the model wasn’t actually that different to larger companies in some ways. He did know about the failure rate of small businesses, especially food related ones, and they’d already beaten the odds on that.

He kept telling himself he was doing this solely because he was impressed with their work – and he was – but would he really be offering to find funding for some other nicely run little shop he might have accidentally wandered into, one where a beautiful woman hadn’t stepped out behind the counter and floored him with a single smile?

Well, it didn’t matter what his underlying motives were, he honestly did think the Cusgarne Chocolate Company deserved a boost, and a boost was really all they needed. He’d have to have a proper look at their accounts, but considering their current expansion plans they seemed to be operating on a steady financial basis.

A few days before he was due to arrive back in Cornwall, George sent Elizabeth a message:

Hi Elizabeth. I’m going to be back in Truro next week, and I was wondering if we could meet up? I’d like to discuss that business matter with you. If you’re interested, that is.

Every second until she replied felt like an age.

I’d love to. Friday, okay? You can drop by shop after closing. Any time after 6.

~

He gave the window a quick look – a sort of sculpture that looked like a mineral, painted purple. It was very pretty, and executed with Morwenna’s usual skill, but he couldn’t quite make out what it was.

The door was locked, and there was no sign of anyone inside, although the lights were still on. Perhaps they’d forgotten? Or maybe they were running late. He’d assumed Elizabeth would bring in her cousins – his aunt had managed to clarify the exact relationship between the three women, George not having liked to ask – since they were her co-owners in the business, and Rowella was the manager.

At his knock, Elizabeth hurried out from the back and came to let him in. Although it was not as strong as during opening hours, the warm scent of chocolate still lingered. It was such a comforting aroma, and George hadn’t realised how much he’d missed it while he’d been away. He knew how much he’d missed Elizabeth’s smile, however.

“Come in! It’s freezing out there.”

“It is.” He followed her through into the back. The kitchen was, as he’d suspected, rather compact; these old buildings usually didn’t have much space. It was actually impressive that they produced so much here. To his left, he saw a tiny office with a safe. Rowella’s domain, presumably. She was not there now, though. In fact, she wasn’t in evidence at all, and neither was Morwenna. “Are the others on their way?”

“Oh, they’re not coming.”

“Oh.” He didn’t know what to say to that. Was Elizabeth just here to let him down gently? It was kind of her, but she could have just told him they weren’t interested in whatever he had to say. He attempted to counteract his slight disappointment with a moment of levity. “I was hoping to ask Morwenna what her window is!”

“Oh, it’s amethyst. February birthstone.”

“Oh. Well, it’s very pretty.”

“Yes. I don’t know how she comes up with them all. She’s being very secretive about her Valentine’s Day one.” There was a slightly awkward pause as they stood facing each other next to a spotlessly clean metal bench. George decided to make one last ditch attempt at persuading her.

“Look, about my proposition – proposal.” Quickly – and far more nervously than he’d ever spoken even when addressing a conference hall full of hard-nosed hedge fund managers – he outlined what he wanted them to consider, and the potential for their business it could bring. “You could increase your beauty line, or even move into other foodstuffs, different merchandise, maybe even a recipe book…But, maybe you don’t want some bloke you hardly know interfering in your business and you’ve just kindly let me waste your time.”

“No!” Elizabeth had been listening in what seemed to him to be politely tolerant silence, but suddenly she became a lot more animated. “No, I’m – we’re – immensely grateful for your offer, and I know Morwenna and Rowella want me to snatch your hand off.”

“You’ve discussed it with them already?”

“Well, after you put Verity onto those restaurant venture people, I guessed what you might be going to offer us when you said you had something…and your Aunt tipped us off a bit.” George bit back a sigh. He loved Aunt Joan, but sometimes she could be as frustrating as Uncle Cary. By all rights, they should get along better, considering how much they loved to interfere in his life.

“But you have reservations?”

“Yes…” She stepped back slightly, glancing down as she trailed her hand over the surface of the bench. “Not because I don’t think it’s a wonderful plan, and not because I don’t think it’s incredibly kind of you to offer, but because – Well, you know what they say about mixing business with pleasure.”

“Wh – what?” George had to put his slightly rude response down to complete confusion at what she’d said. Having gone to the back of the room, Elizabeth returned with one of the shop’s golden boxes in her hands; a long, thin one. Standing in front of him again, she bit her lip – a gesture George struggled to tear his eyes away from – and flipped open the lid. Spelled out with individual letters on two rows of chocolates was a message: Be My Valentine.

“I mean – I don’t know how much more obvious I can be. The first day you walked in the shop, I asked if you were married; the next time, I asked for your number. Then, I invited you to a party, and gave you a present, and my number. I did my best to impress your Aunt, and I texted you for weeks, and now I’ve invited you here to see me, alone, at night and….Oh. You were expecting the girls to be here as well, weren’t you?” She pressed the box shut, suddenly looking distraught. “You’ve just been being polite this whole time, haven’t you? And now I’ve gone and made a complete fool of myself and I’m sure you’ll never want to give us the investment now – “

George leant forward and stopped up her tirade with a kiss, not caring that he crushed the box of chocolates between them. Elizabeth hesitated for a moment before wrapping her free hand around his neck and kissing him back. When they broke apart, they were both breathing heavily.

“What you said before – about business and pleasure – “

“Oh,” Elizabeth shook her head. “Whoever said that was an idiot. Besides, no matter how much I fancy you, Rowella would kill me if I turned you down. And Morwenna would help.”

Before he could reply, she threw the now hopelessly squashed box aside and wrapped both her arms around his neck, kissing him again.

She tasted like chocolate.