Christmas Down Under: Six Sexy New Zealand & Australian Christmas Romances

by Rosalind James

  He didn’t know about the cake shop.

  And he sure as hell didn’t know that she loved him.

  Had a crush on him, she amended quickly.

  He knew none of that.

  “I was lucky having two guys like Greg and Michael around. They were protective. All my friends envied me.”

  “I imagine my son wasn’t backward about butting his nose into your life in that big-brotherly way.”

  “He was like that,” Pen admitted. Funny how a month ago she wondered if she’d ever see Michael again. Now he was back in her life in ways she’d never anticipated.

  They drove past the café and down a side street where Jerome snagged a carpark. They walked around the corner, down to the café, as Pen mentally ticked off boxes. There was street parking and wide footpaths. The character building was heritage protected, but had been completely renovated a few years back.

  The inside was as Pen remembered from the last time she was here, and out the back, Jerome showed her the kitchen areas, storage and office space.

  As she looked, excitement rose steadily in Pen.

  It was perfect. It had space and storage and light and she could see herself here. Could see herself working her guts out there to make a go of it.

  Could taste the possibility.

  Except…

  Her heart took a dive.

  Except this was inner Auckland city.

  It was prime real estate and maybe Jerome’s idea of cheap rent was her idea of heart failure.

  Jerome said cautiously, “So what do you think?”

  “I think…” She breathed in deep. “I think this place could be perfect. It has so much going for it.”

  “But,” he said for her, “it depends on the rent.”

  She nodded.

  He led her back out to the café, and said, “I’ll order us some tea, Penny. We need to talk.”

  Five minutes later they were both at one of the outside tables.

  The waitress brought the tea out and when she left, Jerome said, “Penny, I need to explain some things to you. Eugenie and I, we really want this to work. Eugenie, especially. She feels bad for what happened out at our place, at the barbeque.”

  Penny shook her head. “No, she needn’t feel bad about that. Honestly, I understand.”

  Their tea arrived and while Jerome poured, he said, “But she does worry. She’s been ridden with guilt ever since, and she wants to make it up to you.” He set the pot down. “But you should know there’s another reason. It’s gratitude for you being there for Michael.”

  Doubtfully, Pen said, “I don’t know I was ever there for him. I was around him a lot but I was just around. Being a pesky teenager, most likely.”

  “You have been there. All those years, whether he knew it or not. Whether he wants to believe it or not.”

  He shook a sugar sachet. “It’s not great being an only child when your own parents spend half their lives away. It wasn’t what Eugenie wanted. It was never her plan. But she couldn’t have more children.”

  Pen was silent. “I did wonder,” she admitted.

  “She miscarried three times after Michael was born, and each time, she was devastated. She couldn’t go through the heartache of another loss, and so she made the decision not to try anymore. I supported that decision, and that’s why she threw herself into her work. There was so much grief going on in those early years of Michael’s life.”

  “Michael never mentioned anything,” Penny said, thinking back.

  “That’s because he doesn’t know. It’s not that it was any big secret; it’s just the way it turned out. I tried to shield him from Eugenie’s grief and, to be honest, when he met your family, it took the edge off Eugenie and me. And so, she wants to help you. She really wants to help you out, and to say thank you. And I do, too.”

  Jerome took a pen out of his jacket pocket and on the paper napkin he scribbled numbers.

  “We went through the figures last night.”

  “Even before you asked me?” she queried.

  He gave a smile, that same curled-up smile Michael often gave. “We hoped. This is what we’d charge for rent. Eugenie wants to subsidise you until you get on your feet. To give you a chance to make a real go of it.”

  He slid the napkin across the table and Pen looked down at the figure.

  She drew a long, shaky breath as excitement rose up from the pit of her stomach, and hope began to flow over her.

  The sum was comparable to what she’d be paying in a place way out of the city in one of the western suburbs.

  “What do you think?” Jerome asked.

  Penny couldn’t find her voice. She glanced back inside as another couple entered the café. She looked around at the foot traffic, the high-end fashion store to one side, and the specialist book shop to the other.

  Daisy’s store was half a kilometre down around a side street.

  How would Pen ever get another opportunity like this?

  She glanced at the napkin again, then back up at Jerome.

  He was smiling at her. Warmly.

  She pressed her lips together, felt something like joy begin to ping and bubble in her chest.

  “I think,” she said, her throat clogging, “that this might just be the best Christmas present ever.”

  Chapter Ten

  IT WAS the night of Michael’s party and it was going to plan.

  Pen breathed a sigh of relief that Jerome had promised he wouldn’t mention the café, and that Michael hadn’t brought up what had happened at dinner.

  Maybe he didn’t even remember.

  She hoped he didn’t, even though the minute she’d stepped into his apartment, the second she’d seen him, it had all come flooding back to her in a wave of embarrassed heat.

  She’d avoided looking at his face.

  At his lips

  At his hands.

  If she was being obvious in avoiding him, he didn’t comment. He’d seemed distracted anyway. Probably having second thoughts about giving her the job, but she’d forced that thought away. All she had to do was concentrate on the food, manage the whole event, and do a good job. Do the best job ever.

  Because she needed him to know she was good.

  She needed him to agree, as Trustee of Greg’s estate, to give her the money.

  Screw this up, and you’ll be toasting Paninis at Portman’s forever.

  She’d gone to her father’s accountant, and had run through all the details. It seemed sound, and he’d told her he’d be happy to advise her when she finally got her business up and running.

  Now, she thought, as she replenished some trays, she just needed the money.

  Meghan was serving, Brett was monitoring the bar in the corner, and Michelle had spied some film producer client of Michael’s she’d taken a shine to.

  It was going well. It was going great.

  Just great, Penny muttered, as she spied Michael chatting to a slinky red-head with a short pixie cut.

  She tore her gaze away. Anita had decorated the place with poinsettias and bunches of holly. It was simple but it held the promise of the season.

  Meghan came back carrying a tray of smoked salmon canapés, and Pen beckoned her over. “What happened? Why aren’t they eating them?”

  Meghan rolled her eyes as she set the tray down for a moment. “Quit it with the paranoia, Pen. They love them. I need some more paper napkins, is all.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief. “I panicked, I admit it, seeing you come back like.”

  “Everyone loves your food. I’ve had so many compliments, and people have even asked who the chef is. Pen, you’ve been working all day. Take a break, you deserve it.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t, I need to-“

  “Go.” Meghan gave her a gentle push. “Go on, Pen. Employee’s orders.”

  Pen held up her hands. “Okay. I’m going. But it’s under duress.”

  She resisted the temptation to look for Michael, went out to the kitchen to pou
r a glass of water, and made her way down the hallway to the spare bedroom.

  They’d commandeered it for a storage and preparation area, and she stepped around the hire boxes and crates, and made a beeline for the bed.

  She plumped up the pillows, climbed on to the bed, leant back against the pillows and with a sigh, stretched out her legs.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. The evening was going off better than she’d hoped, but none of it could take her mind off the fact that now there was a tension sitting between her and Michael. Did she confront him? Tell him the truth.

  Oh, by the way, I know you think of me as a sister but guess what? I’ve liked you for years…

  A rap sounded on the door, and Pen opened her eyes.

  Anita stood there, arching her perfectly shaped eyebrows. “Am I bothering you, Penny?”

  “Of course not. I’m just thinking.”

  “Meghan said she’d ordered you to take a rest.” Anita gestured to the bed. “Mind if I join you?”

  “Of course.”

  Anita came in, a flute of champagne in one hand, and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “It is all still under control out there, isn’t it?” Pen asked.

  Anita waved her hand. “Of course it is. It’s going well, Penny, really well. Carl had some doubts and to be honest, so did I. You’ll definitely get more business out of this.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I know so.” Anita sipped her champagne. “Penny, you know I work as an image consultant.”

  “I do.” Penny started to get a sinking feeling.

  “We offer a service for women. It’s really all about how to make the most of what you’ve got - your assets.” Anita’s gaze flicked down and across Penny’s face in a scrutinising way. “Michael mentioned you’d been running your father’s café, and I know you plan to branch out more into functions like this.”

  Pen nodded, although that wasn’t quite true. It was the cake shop she really wanted to work on. The cake shop was her ultimate goal. “I have plans but they’re all in the ‘thinking about’ stage,” she said vaguely.

  “I believe you could make a real go of it, Penny. I’d hire you for something like this in a heartbeat. But,” she said, “that’s not what I want to discuss with you. Look, I’m going to be upfront. I’d like to help you.”

  She must have heard wrong. Pen said, “You want to wait on the customers?”

  “No. I did that once when I was sixteen and it was enough.” She shuddered. “What I want is for my image consulting business to help you.”

  And there it was.

  That sinking feeling had been right. Anita was touting for business and Penny Portman was the ideal candidate.

  “Anita, I’m a pastry chef. I‘m not a glamour puss. That whole scene isn’t me.”

  “This isn’t about glamour. It’s about you. You’ve just said you’ve got plans, and if you’re thinking of going into business, then there are a dozen ways you could help that along. Social media. Advertising and promotion. Penny, think of all those opportunities to get your name out there, and think how much a change of image could help.”

  “Why should I bother about my image? It’s not like I even have one, and I’m not the type to start talking about myself on media, social or otherwise. It’s my food I’m trying to sell, not me. I’m not Nigella Lawson.”

  Anita reached over to place her hand on Pen’s sleeve. It was strangely comforting, given she thought Anita might actually be insulting her. Firm, yet oddly reassuring. She looked up into Anita’s eyes.

  “Pen, you are an attractive woman.”

  Pen rolled her eyes.

  Anita said, “You are. You just don’t see it. Do you believe that it’s what’s on the inside that counts?”

  “I do, actually. Which really seems to be at odds with what you’re saying.”

  Anita took away her hand. “Sometimes the outer makes the inner more beautiful. Sometimes it’s not the other way around at all.”

  Pen began to protest but Anita pre-empted her. “Look at us, Penny. Look at us. We’re women. We’re the underdogs in nearly everything in society.” She jabbed her fingers towards the door. “There’s a world out there against us and it’s not going to let up anytime soon. Look at advertising, look at the media. Do you know how many blonde, skinny girls just out of journalism school there are fronting TV shows these days? Because they’re blonde and skinny and men like looking at them? And don’t get me started on business. Do you know who they’re targeting with their advertising? It’s us. Women. Women made to feel bad because of the way we look and we get sucked in by it.” She began to count down on her fingers. “They are targeting tweens, teenagers, they are targeting girlfriends, wives, mothers, employees, employers. Even my grandmother’s been asking me for advice. She’s eighty two. In ten year’s time, I’ll be worried about crow’s feet. After that its my neck, my sagging skin, and cursing I never used hand lotion in my twenties.”

  Hand lotion.

  Pen went red and looked hastily at Anita’s hands.

  Anita quickly repositioned them. “And do you know why I am going to always feel not good enough? Because business is going to make a fortune off my insecurity.”

  Pen was confused. “So surely the answer is to rebel? To fight it? To say, screw you, and not go and buy the products these companies are trying to suck us into buying?”

  “If you don’t want to succeed then, yes. Take one for the team. It may surprise you to know I’m a third-wave feminist.”

  Pen blinked. “I had no idea there were waves.”

  Anita nodded. “Google it some time. But I am also a realist. It’s about enhancing what you already have.”

  Pen glanced sideways at the mirror on the wall. Her frizzled reflection looked back at her. She looked quickly away. “Anita. Look, I’m not against makeovers but they’re for other women. They’re just not me.”

  She’d never been a girly-girl with monthly highlights and a fortune spent on clothes, and one who knew how to dress for her body shape. What body shape, anyway? She’d bought a dress for the McGuinn’s barbeque and now it was hanging in her wardrobe, and she guessed would still be hanging there in a year’s time, never to be worn again.

  “Penny, I’m just saying that if at any time you want advice, come and see me. There’ll be no charge. But I think it’ll be fun.”

  Pen could think of nothing worse. “I’ll consider it.”

  Anita watched her shrewdly. “You know, all we do when it comes down to it, is point out what you can do to enhance what you’ve already got. In the end, we’re not doing anything else than that. And you have a lot of attractive features. You’ve got amazing, beautiful, strong hair and your eyes are incredible.”

  “I’ve heard that before,” she said.

  “And yet you don’t believe it, do you? Why is that?” Anita raised her shoulders in frustration. “Why would I or anyone else lie about that?”

  Pen felt something begin to stir inside her.

  She looked at her reflection again.

  Maybe she should take Anita up on the offer. Maybe she had a very valid point and if she at least tried to look more – girly – she winced – she had a better chance of making it, of competing with the truckload of chefs and cooks and food superstars out there.

  And there was some serious competition.

  A French patisserie had opened in Newmarket last year, and the Irish-born owner, a tiny girl who wore ridiculously high heels, had got a multi-book contract, a regular spot on morning TV, and had become a media darling. How she remained so tiny, Pen had no idea, but she did, and she’d been labelled the Patisserie Princess.

  Pen bit down on her bottom lip. How was she going to compete with that if – when – she opened up her own cake shop? Especially in Ponsonby, especially now she had a glimmer of hope she hadn’t had a month ago.

  Anita said, “Look. I can see you’ve got doubts about this but think of, say, Carl. Or Michael.” Anita waved out in the di
rection of the party. “They both emphasise their good bits.”

  Penny’s heart gave a jolt, thought of the smell of Michael close to her, as he’d been that night; the feel of his hands on her. “Michael doesn’t have any bad bits,” she said half to herself.

  Anita spluttered in to her champagne, and Pen realised what she’d said. “Well, not many,” she amended. “Have you ever met his parents? They have fantastic bone structure and they’re both tall.”

  Anita shook her head. “He might have inherited that, but put six kilos on him, give him a receding hairline, bad skin, a slouch and cheap clothes and he would look very, very different.”

  Pen found it hard to believe but of course he’d look different. The same, but different.

  Anita went on, “If you do go into business and do more catering - and after tonight I won’t be surprised if you start getting more high-end jobs - if your business takes off, you will be the front person of that business. And I’m here. No charge. I’m a friend of Michael’s and I hope a friend of yours. I’d love to help.”

  A friend of Michael’s. Suspicion began to curl through Penny. “Did he put you up to this?”

  Alarm raked Anita's face. "Good god, no. The man can barely tolerate what I do. He thinks I’m a con.” She hastily drank down the last of her champagne. “In fact, I wouldn't even mention this conversation to him. I’d prefer if it was between us girls, but then, that decision is entirely up to you."

  Pen agreed silently with Anita. She wasn’t going to mention this. It was too embarrassing for words. And when all was said and done, Anita had made a point. If Pen did want to move ahead, she was going to have to do something. Something bold.

  Auckland might already have a patisserie princess.

  Something like resolve began to settle in Penny’s chest.

  But Penny Portman might just be starting to get some luck going her way, and she was going to use everything she had to start nipping at those dainty, stilettoed heels.

  AN HOUR later, guests began to leave, Brett was still keeping an eye on the bar, and Michelle was circulating with a coffee pot; on the lookout, she said, since the film producer she’d chatted up was already married.