She was still dazed as they were herded onto the lawn for the celebratory high tea that always ended the series. They were met by an idyllic scene of traditional English life: long tables piled with goodies, bunting everywhere, families happily mingling over tea and ginger beer, and, of course, the giant fucking camera crew filming it all.

“Well, I’m rooting for Rosaline,” Anvita was telling Colin Thrimp, “because she’s excellent and sexy.”

He drooped despairingly. “You still can’t say ‘excellent and sexy.’”

“I think it’s going to be Nora,” offered Ricky, who was standing next to her, grinning and gorgeous as usual. “I mean, she’s a gran. Grans know how to bake, don’t they? Unlike me.”

Anvita jumped back in front of the camera. “Okay, can I say my Rosaline line again? I promise I won’t say I think she’s sexy.”

“Fine.” Colin Thrimp surrendered as usual. “But please, nothing suggestive. This is a happy moment and we’re going out before the watershed.”

“Yes, yes.” Anvita nodded impatiently. “I’m rooting for Rosaline because—oh my God, she’s over there.”

And Rosaline found herself nearly knocked off her feet by an overly enthusiastic optician in sparkly glasses.

“How did it go?” demanded Anvita, still hugging.

“Well, I think, but you’re holding me very tightly.”

“It’s a sign of affection.”

Anvita finally let her go—just in time for them to avoid being flattened by six grandchildren charging joyously towards Nora. It was only now Rosaline saw everyone again—most of them helping themselves to cake and chatting freely with the other contestants and their guests—that she realised how empty the last couple of weeks had been. How much she had missed the peculiar camaraderie that could spring up between strangers in a strange situation. And that was the thing about journeys, wasn’t it? They weren’t about where you started or where you ended. They were about who came with you.

“All right, mate?” said Harry, stepping out from the crowd.

And without thinking about it, Rosaline flung her arms around him and squeezed him Anvita-style. “I am, actually.”

“It’s nice catching up with everyone again.” Blushing slightly, he disentangled. “I was just talking to your bloke, Anvita.”

Rosaline spun round. “Your boyfriend’s here?”

“Yeah, that’s him.” Anvita pointed to tall, well-dressed man eating a fairy cake and talking to Claudia. She cupped her hands around her mouth and called out to him. “Hey, Sanj. Look, it’s Rosaline.”

“Wow,” said Rosaline. “You never mentioned he was a stone-cold hottie.”

Anvita shrugged. “I mean, you’ve seen my taste in men. I thought you’d take it for granted. Besides, he’s my boyfriend. We hang out all the time. I’m kinda used to it. Anyway, I have to go congratulate Nora as well. Partially because I like her but mainly so Alain knows I’m snubbing him.”

And with that, she dashed off into the crowd like a bespectacled torpedo. Leaving just Rosaline and Harry surrounded by an anonymising mill of strangers.

“I can’t believe it’s only been a week since I last saw you,” she said.

He smiled slowly at her, his eyes honeyed by the afternoon light. “Yeah, I wanted to text, but then I thought, Don’t be a ballsack, Harry, give her some space.”

“Did you miss me then?” She was fishing shamelessly. And she didn’t care.

“Course I did, mate. Like I’d be making a pie for my tea and then I’d be wondering how your practice bakes was going. Or I’d be thinking something and I’d wonder what weird thing you’d think about it. Or I’d be watching Downton on DVD with my nan and I’d be like, That’s what Rosaline’s house looks like.”

Laughing, she punched him lightly on the arm. Which, admittedly, was mainly an excuse to touch him again. “Hey, that’s my parents’ house. And it’s nowhere near as big as Downton Abbey.”

“You got two drawing rooms is all I’m saying.”

“So . . .” She didn’t quite scuff her toe against the grass, but she moved her foot in a way that was definitely grass-related and scuff-adjacent. “You know . . . last week when I sort of . . . and you sort of?”

His smile deepened. “Yeah?”

“And how I wasn’t in the right place to, well, anything really?

And you didn’t want to start anything with a slightly drunk person who’d just got out of a disastrous relationship with an arsehole and was in the middle of reevaluating her entire life.”

“Yeah?”

“Well. I’m not drunk today. And the arsehole, like most arseholes, is behind me.”

“Bloody hell.” He gave her a look of affectionate bemusement. “I did miss you.”

The words curled up inside her like a contented cat. “The life thing, I will admit, is a work in progress. But I’ve got a great kid, I look good in a pinny, and I’m a nationally recognised amateur baker. Which I think, frankly, makes me a catch.”

“I reckon it does.”

“Good.” She gave a decisive nod. “I’m glad we’re agreed.”

“You was the only one weren’t sure, mate.”

“I’m sure now. I’m sure about a lot of things.”

His gaze was half-challenging, half-teasing. “Like what?”

“This.”

She kissed him. And it was exactly like she’d imagined it might be. And nothing like it at the same time. The way he met her, mouth to mouth, as familiar as home, and unfurling sweetly with all the promise of days to come and moments to share. And they and this and he could be hers. Simply for knowing she wanted them. That they were worth wanting.

Because how could she have doubted for a moment that she wanted him? This strong, kind, slightly awkward man. Her stone-cold hottie who’d always listened to her and had her back. Who made her laugh. And was kissing her now in a way she wasn’t sure she’d been kissed since she was a teenager, when passion had been the easiest thing in the world to find. Except this carried with it an adult’s certainty, strong hands and firm lips moving against hers and a slow, steady warmth building between them.