has a chocolate chip dough,” I tell him. “And the cactus is lemon.”
“Oh, now things have taken a turn,” Christian says, picking up the groom biscuit. I watch as he snaps off a piece and pops it into his mouth. I scrutinise his facial expression. I know within seconds if someone is savouring the bite and thinking it’s utterly delicious.
Then I see the look I’m waiting for. His eyes light up. A smile appears.
“That’s ace,” Christian says, appearing delighted with the biscuit.
“I feel guilty breaking it, but I’ll try the lemon,” Clementine says. “It’s such a beautiful cookie, I don’t want to eat it.”
“No, I absolutely want you to eat it,” I tell her. “It’s not merely art. It’s a biscuit to be savoured and enjoyed.”
Clementine nods. “Okay. But I still feel guilty.”
“You won’t after you taste it,” Christian quips, snapping off another piece of his biscuit.
“Well, if you say it’s ace, I must try it,” Clementine says, breaking off the branch of the cactus with the smudged pink flower on it. I hold my breath as she samples the biscuit, willing her to find it to her liking.
“Oh, my God,” she murmurs after taking a bite. “That is fantastic.”
I smile, my confidence returning. “My standard flavours are vanilla and almond, but I can do other flavours, too. These are some samples. But I can do spice, chocolate, lemon. I can be creative on that end, too.”
“I see,” Christian says, picking up a napkin out of a tray and wiping his lips. “So can you prepare several hundred for our evening reception at Frogmore House? In different flavours?”
My heart pings excitedly against my ribs. I know the wedding will be at the chapel at Windsor Castle, which has great meaning for Christian and Clementine, from what I’ve read about them. Seven hundred people have been invited to that. After the ceremony, there will be a wedding luncheon for invited guests held at Windsor. That night, there will be a reception at Frogmore House in the grounds of Windsor, and that is what they want the biscuits for.
“Yes, The Biscuit Cutter is prepared to accommodate that size of an order,” I assure them. “All of the bespoke decorators will be overseen by myself. I assure you, everything will be up to my standards.”
And being a perfectionist, if I have to work twenty hours a day to make this happen, I will, I vow.
“Obviously, we will need to discuss this before making a decision,” Clementine says, picking up her Fiona mug and taking a sip.
I nod. “Yes, of course.”
“Christian?” she asks, turning to him. “Do you agree with me that Poppy needs to send over a contract immediately?”
I blink. What?
Christian reaches over for the cactus biscuit and snaps off a piece. “Yes. Then we’ll put you in touch with our reception coordinator for Frogmore.”
I stare at them.
“We just discussed it,” he adds, his blue eyes twinkling at me.
“Pardon?” I ask.
“Poppy. You had the job before you walked in the door,” Clementine replies. “When Liz sent me those cookies for my first walkabout, I was hooked. They were beautiful, but even more than that, they tasted incredible.”
“Trust her. She’s picky about her biscuits,” Christian says.
Clementine nods. “I am. Your cookies are edible pieces of art. And Christian and I met because of art, so it’s the perfect gift to send home with our guests.”
My breathing picks up.
It’s happening.
I’m going to be the official bespoke biscuit artist for the royal wedding.
A flood of emotions run through me. Excitement. Relief. Gratitude. Wonderment.
“Thank you, thank you so much,” I say, the words tumbling out of my mouth. “Whatever designs you want, I’ll bake samples, and send you pictures of them for your approval. Whatever you need from The Biscuit Cutter, we’ll do it.”
“I have no doubt I’m in good hands,” Clementine says. “But we already know what we would like.”
I quickly fumble in my canvas tote for my notebook. “Yes, let me take a few notes.”
I pull it out with a pencil and flip it open to a blank page. “Go ahead.”
“We would like one with our initials intertwined,” Christian says.
I scribble that down, and as I write the words, all kinds of ideas for that biscuit flood my brain.
“A cookie with the wedding date on it, but I don’t know what kind of idea I have for that,” Clementine says.
“I can come up with some concepts and bake those for you,” I reply. “I can text or email photos, whatever is easiest for you.”
“Thank you,”