The Christmas Holiday: The perfect heart-warming read full of festive magic

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The Christmas Holiday: The perfect heart-warming read full of festive magic Page 10

by Sophie Claire


  ‘It was nothing,’ he said mildly, but she knew that wasn’t true. She remembered how sharply he’d asked her to stop singing.

  She couldn’t tell from his expression what he was thinking, but she was mortified that he’d found her trapped like that, and had witnessed her altercation with Tim in the pub. Now he knew all her embarrassing secrets: her financial difficulties, her tricky relationships with her parents and Tim, and her unbelievable clumsiness.

  ‘I’ll go. I – I’d nearly finished anyway.’ Her cheeks flamed. Hurriedly, she began to collect up her belongings, but she dropped her phone, then her bag. He said nothing, but she felt his stern gaze on her as she dug in her pockets for her car keys. She pulled them out, but immediately dropped them too. They hit the wooden floor with a clatter.

  Jake picked them up and handed them to her. ‘You’re not having a good day.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she muttered. Christ, he must think she was hopeless. Heat spread across her chest. ‘I’ve always been clumsy – ever since I was a little girl.’

  He absorbed this with the faintest nod. ‘But it’s worse when you’re nervous or in a hurry, right?’

  How did he know? ‘Right.’

  ‘And you’re always in a hurry to leave this place. No wonder you forgot your notebook last time.’

  She frowned, unsure what he was driving at. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m pretty sure I’ve got everything this time. I won’t bother you again.’ She grabbed her ladder and went to leave.

  ‘Wait!’ he said.

  She turned. There was a strange look in his eyes and his mouth was a flat line. An awkward silence filled the room as he stood there, hands in his pockets, looking fierce.

  He must be fed up with her disturbing him, constantly interrupting his life. She had done her utmost to keep out of his way, yet no matter how much she tried, they seemed to keep bumping into each other. Evie braced herself for what he was about to say. He’d run out of patience: he was going to ask her to leave and not bother coming back. From now on, he’d get his curtains elsewhere.

  Jake swallowed. He rarely cared what others thought of him, but seeing a woman so jittery around him made him feel deeply uncomfortable, and guilt speared him. He remembered what she’d said to her ex: I was never slim enough or elegant enough. I never said the right things … She’d had vivid spots of colour in her cheeks and a wounded expression. Jake had witnessed both her parents and her ex – unjustifiably, as far as he could see – belittling her. Making her feel inferior and jittery, with precisely the nervous look in her eye that she had now.

  Yet only now did he realise that he’d done the same: that she fled from his house whenever he appeared, in such a hurry to escape his presence that she became a fumbling nervous wreck.

  And that was his fault.

  It had been playing on Jake’s conscience, gradually building, even before Natasha had called. Now he couldn’t ignore it any more: he’d been unforgivably rude the first time he’d met her, the night of the snowstorm.

  ‘You don’t need to leave. Finish your work.’

  ‘I’ll do it another time. I’ve disturbed you quite enough already – what with this and my singing …’ She blushed, and her cheeks were the colour of peaches. Velvety dark peaches.

  He pressed his lips together, not happy with himself. ‘About the singing – I’m sorry. You caught me at a bad moment. My French is limited and the line was bad. The winemaker and I were finding it difficult to understand each other – even before you started singing.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I shouldn’t have been so abrupt. It wasn’t your fault.’

  She frowned and narrowed her eyes warily. ‘It – it’s all right. I know you value your privacy and I respect that.’

  ‘Well, you shouldn’t.’

  Her head whipped round. She blinked at him.

  He asked softly, ‘Would you really have cut off your hair rather than ask me for help? Am I so bad?’

  Her eyes widened with horror. He noticed they were the colour of a deciduous forest, a fascinating blend of greens and chestnut brown.

  ‘Natasha shouldn’t have told you that.’ She turned on her heel and hurried away.

  He caught up with her, lifted the stepladder out of her hands and carried it down the stairs. ‘Natasha has just given me a talking-to about remembering my manners. I realise you haven’t seen me at my best – not today, but especially not that night of the snow.’

  They reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped. She’d been in such a hurry to get away that now she was out of breath. She frowned at him but didn’t reply. Smoke, waiting obediently at the bottom of the stairs, rubbed his head against her thigh.

  ‘I – ah …’ Jake raked a hand through his hair. ‘I apologise, Evie.’

  She stared at him, her mouth a perfect circle, her face framed by loose strands of hair. She was pretty, he realised suddenly. Or, rather, other men must find her pretty. Especially when she relaxed – as she did now, visibly.

  ‘Apology accepted,’ she said quietly, and smiled.

  ‘And I owe you an explanation,’ he added.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘That night we were snowed in. It wasn’t typical – I mean, I wasn’t … my usual self.’ He dragged in air, feeling the hive of pain stir. Just talking about it was painful – which was why he never broached the subject. Normally, at least.

  ‘You mean, you don’t down a whole bottle of whisky every night?’ she asked shyly. Her eyes gleamed with mischief, and her dimples flashed.

  He wanted to smile, but he was also intent on explaining himself. He inhaled deeply. ‘It was the anniversary of my wife’s death,’ he said, aware that this was no excuse for how hostile he had been towards her.

  ‘The anniversary? I – I didn’t know …’

  ‘How could you? I deeply regret the way I behaved that night, the things I said and did.’

  If he could have wound back the clock, he wouldn’t have attacked the whisky with such abandon. He would have apologised the moment Smoke had knocked her off her ladder, and he would have behaved with concern, instead of lashing out at her for intruding on his private grief.

  But, then, if he could wind back the clock, there were a lot of things in his life he would have done differently.

  ‘I turned to alcohol hoping it would act as an anaesthetic. It didn’t, of course.’

  ‘I understand.’ Her hazel eyes locked with his.

  He cleared his throat. ‘I was about to start supper.’

  She followed his gaze to the open door of the kitchen. On the worktop a packet of rice, a solitary onion and a piece of fish were laid out ready. ‘Of course – sorry – I won’t keep you any longer,’ she said, and turned to go.

  ‘Would you like to stay?’ he said quickly.

  She stopped. Wide-eyed, she blinked at him.

  ‘I know I don’t have a track record for being the most welcoming host where you’re concerned,’ he said ruefully, ‘but I’d like to make amends and show you that I’m not always such an antisocial beast.’

  ‘Stay for supper?’ Confusion but also excitement chased across her features.

  His gaze narrowed. He didn’t want her to get the wrong idea. This wasn’t a romantic date he was proposing – just a meal. A simple meal, at that. Then again, he wasn’t arrogant enough to believe she’d be in any way attracted to him, given the first impression he’d made on her.

  ‘Salmon risotto – if you fancy it?’

  Her eyes sparkled like the frost-covered pines outside. ‘That sounds delicious!’

  ‘I take it that’s a yes, then?’ His lips curved at her enthusiasm.

  ‘The offer of a meal, plus the possibility of hearing Mr Arctic thaw a little? Only a fool would refuse! I’ll just put these in the car.’

  He picked up the stepladder and followed her outside. Darkness had fallen and the air was freezing, yet an unfamiliar warmth touched his chest.

  It was relief, he told himself – relief that h
e had the chance to explain and atone for his behaviour on the night of the snowstorm.

  She locked her car. ‘I’ll give you a hand with the cooking. I could be your sous-chef!’

  Had he done the right thing in inviting her to stay? She really was relentlessly cheerful.

  Jake quickly peeled and diced the onion. Evie sat across the island watching him. She was perched on a bar stool drinking orange juice, and Smoke was settled in his bed, which now lived in the corner of the kitchen. In the short time he’d been living there, Jake had found that this was the room he used most, along with the study.

  Evie pointed to the window. ‘Look – it’s snowing again!’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said wryly. ‘I have fully furnished guest rooms now. There’s no danger of being stuck in the same room with me again.’

  Her dimples showed as she smiled.

  ‘Is this weather affecting your business?’ he asked, stirring the onion and grateful to return to a neutral subject of conversation.

  ‘It is, actually – people aren’t willing to travel far in the snow. And the weathermen say it’s set to stay cold until Christmas. It is beautiful, though, isn’t it?’ She turned to the window, a dreamy look in her eyes. ‘Like a fairy-tale wonderland.’

  ‘It’s a damn nuisance. And all my customers are experiencing a drop in custom when usually this is the busiest time of year for restaurants. Even walking the dog is twice as hard as it should be.’

  ‘You don’t mean that. I bet you love the snow, don’t you, Smoke?’ The dog looked up sleepily from his bed in the corner of the room. She turned back to Jake, who tipped the rice into the pan and stirred a jug of hot stock. ‘You look like a real pro. Do you cook every night?’

  ‘Not every night, because I’m often away with work. But when I’m home I find it relaxing. How about you?’

  ‘I cook in batches. I make a big pan of soup or stew, then eat it every night for a week.’ She smiled and reached for her glass but knocked it over. The sudden noise made Smoke bark, and orange juice splashed everywhere.

  Evie jumped to her feet. ‘Oh, no – I’m so sorry!’

  ‘It’s no big deal,’ he said, picking up the glass, and waving her hand away when she tried to help. ‘Look. It’s not even broken. No harm done.’

  ‘I’ll get a cloth.’ She picked up a plastic bowl and came to stand beside him.

  Their shoulders rubbed, their hands collided as they cleared up the spillage. He felt an unfamiliar dart of something – awkwardness? Yes, that must be it. After all, he wasn’t used to having his personal space invaded.

  ‘Why don’t you watch the risotto for me?’ he suggested, and nodded at the pan behind him. ‘Just keep stirring and adding the stock a little at a time.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said sheepishly.

  When he’d finished clearing up, he poured her another drink and took charge of the risotto again.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she repeated.

  Something about her cowed expression reminded him of Smoke when he’d first found him. ‘What for? We all knock things over from time to time.’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m clumsier than most.’

  Jake remembered the red-faced temper her father had displayed in her shop and wondered if that had anything to do with her shamed expression. He stirred the contents of the pan again. ‘It’s not deliberate, though, is it?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Well, then,’ he shrugged, ‘no apology needed.’

  Her shoulders dropped and she seemed relieved. He dipped a fork into the risotto and tasted it. ‘This is ready,’ he announced, and dished up.

  ‘Delicious!’ said Evie, after the first mouthful.

  It was a simple dish, nothing special. But, then, everything with Pollyanna was worthy of excessive praise and beaming smiles.

  ‘Lemon?’ he asked, passing her a wedge.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘What? Why are you looking at me like that?’

  ‘I can’t work out what colour your eyes are. They look blue, yet the left one has a patch of brown in it.’

  ‘Segmental heterochromia iridum.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  He repeated the name. ‘It’s hereditary. It can affect an eye completely or partially. In my case, it’s partial.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of it before.’

  ‘Only one per cent of humans have it.’

  ‘One per cent? How lucky are you?’ She grinned.

  He tipped his head to one side. ‘I’ve never thought of it like that.’

  ‘You should! You’re special. One of a kind. But, then, we already knew that, Mr Arctic.’ She winked, and he knew she was teasing him.

  Curiously, he quite liked it when she took this irreverent tone and her eyes gleamed with mischief. It was refreshing.

  ‘You said you’re away a lot with work,’ she said. ‘Where do you travel to?’

  ‘Mostly France. I focus particularly on importing French wine.’

  He noted how she ate with genuine pleasure. He had no time for people who picked at their food. Sitting so close, he was aware of her perfume: a warm fruity scent that made him think of apples.

  ‘Why French?’

  ‘Personal preference. Plus, many people would agree that it’s the best in the world.’

  ‘Have you visited Luc’s family? Nat told me their vineyard and château are beautiful.’

  ‘Yes. He gave me a guided tour when I first set up my business.’

  ‘What made you leave medicine and begin importing wine?’

  He stopped chewing. Memories invaded his head, making it difficult to speak or think. Evie glanced at him.

  ‘When Maria died,’ he said tightly, ‘I left my job. I wanted to start again. A new challenge.’

  She nodded, but still looked puzzled. ‘Was it difficult – to start again with a new career?’

  ‘Yes. But I was happy to learn, and I didn’t mind working long hours. In fact, I welcomed it.’ Like alcohol, work was an anaesthetic – it kept his mind busy, too distracted to think or feel. Although it didn’t take away the lead weight in his chest. And at the end of the day, when all the emails had been sent and the phone stopped ringing, the snarling monster of grief was still there, waiting for him.

  She sent him a look of sympathy. ‘I know what you mean. I don’t mind working long hours because it’s always been my dream to open a quilting shop and do what I love for a living.’ She speared a piece of fish, and he noticed that for someone who said she was clumsy, she was also very graceful. Her slim fingers reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. ‘I never get bored like I used to in my old job.’

  Her cheerful expression faded. The change was so dramatic he was intrigued to know more. ‘What did you do before?’ he asked.

  ‘I worked at a jeweller’s in Knightsbridge. It was the dullest job in the world.’

  Chapter Seven

  Evie frowned, remembering the days when she’d had to drag herself out of bed each morning. She’d been lucky enough to live in a nice flat with green spaces and parks nearby, but life in the city had felt so … grey. All the tarmac and traffic and tall buildings closing in on her. She’d sometimes worried that if she stayed there any longer she’d turn to concrete, like her surroundings, or become another face in a suit sitting on the Underground, staring at her feet.

  ‘You weren’t bewitched by all the diamonds and gold?’ Jake asked.

  She shook her head in distaste. ‘At the end of the day, they’re just rocks. Yes, some are very beautiful, but they’re not worth spending hundreds of thousands of pounds on.’

  ‘I take it your customers were very wealthy?’

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘Disgustingly rich. Yet some of the men who bought the most expensive rings hardly looked at their fiancées. They weren’t in love. You could tell from the way they talked to them – or didn’t talk to them, in some cases. Even if Tim hadn’t done what he did, working there was enough to put a girl of
f the whole engagement business.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought most women dreamed of being given a ring.’

  ‘Not me.’ Evie thought of Tim’s weighty diamond, which she’d been relieved to wrench off her finger and throw at him. ‘I won’t make the same mistake again.’

  She had loved Tim once, but warning bells should have sounded when he’d delayed their wedding by two months, then six. Now she realised he’d hoped she would change and become the woman he wanted her to be, but she hadn’t been slim or beautiful enough, and she’d had no successful career or achievements to her name. Even working in the jeweller’s she’d consistently failed to hit her sales targets because she tried to meet customers’ needs rather than persuading them to buy the biggest, most expensive diamond.

  Jake casually dug his fork into the rice on his plate, but she saw him cast her a sidelong glance. ‘You’re going to let one bad experience dictate your future?’

  ‘It’s not just about Tim and what he did. It’s also me. I … I’m not cut out for all that stuff. My sister was, but I’m not.’

  ‘You have a sister?’

  ‘Had.’ She stabbed a piece of fish. ‘She died.’ She rushed on before he could offer his condolences. ‘Zara had an amazing career, she was pretty, clever – the kind of girl every man dreams of settling down with. She and her fiancé were perfect for each other.’

  Finally she ran out of steam, and her mouth clamped shut.

  ‘When did she die?’ Jake asked quietly.

  ‘Five years ago.’

  The job at the jewellery shop had been meant as a stop-gap, but after Zara died, she’d felt so lost that she didn’t have the energy or the courage to look for something else.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  She shrugged. ‘Working in that jeweller’s drove home to me that love can’t be measured in silver or platinum. It’s about how someone treats you, how they look at you, where they prioritise you in their life. And when someone truly loves you, the size or price of the ring doesn’t matter at all because you know your relationship is going to last.’

  She stopped to catch her breath, and blushed because she realised she was sounding a little passionate. Why? She had no idea. She took another mouthful of risotto and hoped Jake hadn’t noticed.

 

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