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"Blimey, that is good," he said after a moment, surprise etching his rugged features. His eyebrows, previously knit with doubt, now arched in genuine appreciation. "I stand corrected, Charlotte. This might just be better than my mum's Sunday roast."
"High praise coming from a man who's tasted the bounty of the sea his whole life." Her heart swelled at his words, warmth flooding her cheeks. To have her food likened to the sacred institution of a British Sunday meal was an unexpected victory.
"Your hands work magic, not just with paints but with pastries too," Simon continued, giving her cheek a kiss before taking another hearty bite. The corners of his mouth lifted in a contented smile, one that reached all the way to his eyes.
"Who knew?" He gestured with the half-eaten pasty, his gesture encompassing both the basket of food and, Charlotte felt, the budding connection between them.
She laughed, a sound that mingled with the cries of the gulls and the gentle lap of water against the hulls of the boats. "Well, I did hope you'd enjoy it. Consider it my bid to anchor myself here in Chesham Cove, through stomachs if nothing else."
"Anchor away, then," he replied, his voice rich with the promise of shared meals—and perhaps shared tomorrows. He looked at her warmly, a flicker of desire in the depths of his gaze. Charlotte felt herself blush.
As Simon continued to savor the lunch she’d prepared, the gentle hum of the harbor seemed to slow to a languorous tempo. Charlotte watched Simon lean back against the weathered wood of the bench, his eyes momentarily closed in appreciation. The sun, high and benevolent, cast a golden sheen on the scene, turning the simple lunch into a tableau of quiet contentment.
"Simon," Charlotte began, her tone light yet threaded with an undercurrent of excitement. "Have you ever thought about tours? On your boats, I mean." She twisted a strand of hair around her finger, a habit when she was mulling over artistic possibilities—or, as it seemed now, business ones. The idea of tours had been one they had spoken about before, and it seemed it might benefit them both.
His eyes widened, a hint of seafoam green meeting her earnest gaze. "Tours?" he echoed, the word hanging between them like a sail waiting for wind.
"Yes, like... like fishing expeditions for tourists. Or even just coastal cruises. People are always looking for experiences these days, aren't they? It could be a way to diversify, attract more customers."
A forkful of the Cornish pasty paused midway to Simon's mouth, and he set it down, a furrow appearing on his brow. His hands, still faintly scented with the ocean's brine, found their way to his chin, stroking the rough stubble there. Charlotte noted the hesitation that flickered across his features, the way his gaze drifted out toward the horizon, perhaps envisioning the risks as clearly as the endless blue before them.
"More customers, hm?" He considered her words, weighing them against the rhythm of his life that was as predictable and reassuring as the tides. "I have the occasional charter, but nothing steady. It's not a bad idea, Charlotte, but it's... well, it's different from hauling nets and setting lines."
"Sometimes different can be good," she offered, her voice a soft encouragement. "Think of all the untapped potential—"
"Potential that comes with complications," Simon interjected gently. His practical nature, the one that had ensured his boats weathered many a storm, now anchored him in caution. "Regulations, safety measures, insurance, not to mention the unpredictability of tourists."
"True," Charlotte conceded, her enthusiasm undiminished by his doubts. "But isn't that what life here has taught us? To embrace the unpredictable?"
He smiled then, a smile that mingled admiration with affection. "You do have a point, Charlotte. And I suppose I'd be lying if I said the idea doesn't hold a certain appeal."
"Imagine it," she pressed on, her hands gesturing as if painting the picture in the air before them. "The Old Crown Inn could even partner with you. We could offer packages—a room with a view and a day out at sea. It's collaboration, community."
Simon let out a soft chuckle, the sound blending with the cawing of the gulls overhead. He picked up the pasty once more, his appetite returning as he mulled over her proposal. "Collaboration and community, eh? Those are strong currents to sail on."
"Exactly!" Charlotte's heart swelled with hope, sensing the shift in his demeanor. "And think of the stories people will take back with them. Your Chesham Cove, shared with the world."
"Shared with the world..." he murmured, lost for a moment in the vision she had conjured. The man who knew every secret of the sea was now navigating uncharted waters, considering a voyage beyond his familiar shores.
“When people come here seeking the story they've heard, seeking the adventure, they bring their friends, their families. They eat at our inn, they sleep in our beds, they buy from our shops. Your sea becomes a siren's call, not just for fish, but for prosperity." She gestured into the air as if painting a picture.
Imon sat upright as if the potential of her vision had physically drawn him to his full height. He extended his hand, roughened from years at sea, an offering of partnership, of new horizons. "I'll consider it—properly. You make a compelling case, and truth be told, I'd like to see this place thrive too."
His words were more than mere acquiescence; they were the tender shoots of faith in her, in the shared venture that lay ahead. And as their hands met, the warmth of his palm pressed against hers, there was a silent acknowledgment of the mutual trust being threaded through their fingers.
"Thank you, Simon," Charlotte breathed out, her relief mixing with the tang of salt air. She felt the fluttering in her chest settle, replaced by a burgeoning sense of partnership, of unity. And something warmer and more intimate—definitely not business-related.
"But not right away. Let's just chew on it for a while," he finally said, a twinkle in his eye revealing that he was onboard with the idea, even if he hadn't quite hoisted the sails yet.
"Chewing is something we're both good at," Charlotte quipped, relief flooding through her as she reached for a tart, offering it to him with a playful flourish. "Especially today."
"Let's finish our lunch then, shall we?" he suggested with a chuckle, gesturing to the remnants of the food.
As they turned back to their meal, Charlotte watched as Simon's hands, still marked by the morning's work, deftly folded the wax paper around the remnants of her culinary experiment. His roughened fingers moved with unexpected grace—a contrast to the rugged intensity she had come to associate with his daily toil among the nets and boats.
"Simon," she began, her voice a soft effusion carried on the breeze, "I've been thinking about...well, about dreams. You know, the ones we're almost afraid to say out loud." She tucked a stray curl behind her ear, feeling suddenly vulnerable.
He paused, looking up from the neat parcel he had created. His eyes, the color of the ocean at twilight, held hers. "Go on," he encouraged gently.
