not going to be a carbon copy of King Arthur and Queen Antonia, who always seem so polished and practiced whenever they appear in public.
Christian and Clementine are real.
“Please, have a seat.” Clementine motions. “I can’t wait to see what you’ve brought,” she says, sliding into the seat across from me and putting down her mug.
I study the mug for a moment. Does it actually have Princess Fiona from the Shrek films on it? Upon further inspection, it does.
The future duchess is drinking out of a Shrek mug.
Suddenly, I try to picture Queen Antonia taking coffee from a Shrek mug and nearly laugh out loud at the image.
Nope, Christian and Clementine are modern royals for sure.
And ones who seem determined to set their own way.
“May I get you something to drink?” Christian asks. “Coffee? Tea? Hot chocolate?”
I set my soggy box down on the wood table and glance at the large kitchen windows. The rain is still beating relentlessly against them.
“Coffee would be lovely, thank you,” I say as I take a seat.
Christian nods. “You got it.”
I watch him in awe as he pours me a cup of coffee.
“Thank you, love,” Clementine says to him, smiling.
“My pleasure,” he replies.
“So I’m dying to see these cookies,” Clementine says eagerly.
“Biscuits,” Christian corrects.
Clementine sighs. “I live with constant corrections in my life, as you can imagine.”
Christian laughs, and I notice the second he does, Clementine’s face lights up with happiness. As if that’s the most beautiful sound in the world to her ears.
“But please, may I see your cookies?” she asks, cocking an eyebrow at her fiancé as she says it. “I am an American, darling.”
“Which is why I constantly have to correct you, Fiona.”
I watch them laugh and banter, and something crashes over me. The ease they have with each other. The mutual affection.
The love.
As someone who has kept men at a distance, who never wanted a relationship that would require me to give up any of my career goals or independence, I purposely kept things casual with men throughout university. Since I’ve been at The Biscuit Cutter, I’ve simply eliminated them as part of the equation. I have a busy job and odd hours, and I love my freedom.
But as I watch Christian and Clementine, I’m seeing there is something lovely about having someone who is a true partner in your life.
“Please, may I see them?” Clementine asks again, interrupting my thoughts.
I clear my throat. Good Lord, how am I going to sell this?
“I must prepare you,” I say, trying to project confidence into my voice that I’ve suddenly lost, “that these biscuits have taken quite a beating this morning.”
Clementine nods. Christian comes to the table and places a mug in front of me.
“Do you take milk? Sugar?”
“This is lovely as is,” I say, not wanting him to wait on me any further. Even though I do fancy milk in my coffee. “Thank you.”
Christian takes a seat next to Clementine at the table, and I proceed with my presentation.
“Originally, these biscuits were in impeccable order. But when the lorry splashed me with water, I nearly dropped them. That’s when Prince Alexander saved them,” I explain, feeling it inappropriate to call him Xander in this conversation. “He truly was a lifesaver this morning, or I’d have soggy bits to show you.”
“That’s Xander for you,” Clementine says. “He’s a good man.”
Yes, I think, as I picture him dropping his umbrella and racing to catch my box before it hit the ground, he is.
“We understand these might not be how you want to present them,” Christian says, interrupting my thoughts. “But we’re excited to see them.”
I inwardly cringe but refuse to let that show on my face. Despite Xander telling me my emotions showed there, I pray I’m somehow managing to hide them.
“Don’t be afraid,” Clementine says.
So much for having a poker face.
“Right, well, okay then,” I say, lifting the PVC lid off the box. “These are my roll-out biscuits.”
I go on to explain each biscuit, what inspired it, and what it looked like prior to the accident outside the path to their house. I feel a bit of relief when Clementine squeals with joy over each one, picking them up and examining them and proclaiming the “cookies” are by far too beautiful to eat. As she lifts them, they hold up, so they don’t appear to be soggy, thank goodness.
“No, no, you have to try them, they’re different flavours,” I say, nodding eagerly.
“Really? Not just vanilla?” Christian asks, looking intrigued by this.