‘I love it.’ She beamed. ‘You?’
He’d chosen fish for his starter. ‘Very good,’ he said.
She glanced around at the other diners. Mostly family groups, they were all engaged in loud and lively discussions. Jake, however, was quiet and concentrating on his food, his expression grave. Evie smiled. She found it endearing that he looked so serious so much of the time. Only when she teased him did his eyes crease a little and a glimmer of humour dance in their ocean-blue depths. She wondered what he was thinking about. She had a suspicion that she knew, and his enigmatic silence made her curious. She burned to know more about the woman who should have been here with him now.
She cleared her throat and tried to sound as casual as possible. ‘Did you come here with Maria?’
He looked up. ‘No.’ His brow pulled into a sharp frown, and she felt a flicker of fear that perhaps she had crossed a line into forbidden territory. ‘Why would you think that?’
‘You seem to know the area well, that’s all – where to shop, where to eat …’
His expression relaxed a little. ‘I’ve spent a lot of time here since I set up my company.’
‘I see.’ She laid her knife and fork down across her empty plate and waited, thinking he might divulge a bit more, but he remained silent.
He might have told Evie she looked beautiful tonight, but his wife had been stunning. She pictured the other woman sitting here opposite him in a slim-fitting dress, with her smooth dark hair sliding down her back. Evie glanced down at her side plait, suddenly regretting not having spent more time on her own hair. It was messily casual and, as always, strands had worked themselves loose all over the place.
‘Did you travel much before that?’ she asked.
He finished eating and sat back. ‘Mostly to Italy. Maria had Italian heritage and she loved it there.’
‘Italian heritage?’ Well, that explained her dark-haired beauty and sophistication.
He nodded. ‘Her grandfather was Italian. I never met him, but she had visited often as a child and, of course, she spoke Italian fluently.’
‘Of course,’ murmured Evie, feeling herself shrink with each crumb of information he revealed about her.
Jake looked away, his jaw set. She should stop asking questions, but she couldn’t stop herself. It was stronger than her, the need to know more about the woman who had captured his heart.
‘Are you still in touch with her family?’
‘No,’ he said tersely. ‘It was easier for me to cut all ties. Since we didn’t have children …’
He didn’t finish the sentence. His chin lifted, and he looked haughty, unapproachable. But she knew this was simply the armour of a wounded man.
She let the subject drop, and as the waiter cleared their plates, she thought of how Louisa was counting on her to watch out for him. They hadn’t come here to dwell on the past or reopen old wounds. She was determined to erase his frown, and what she wanted more than anything was to see him smile. From now on, she resolved, she would quash her curiosity and be careful to avoid any mention of Maria.
‘What would you like to do tomorrow?’ he asked.
Evie considered this. ‘I’d love to visit the area. Maybe we could go for a drive.’
‘A drive?’
‘You have a beautiful car. Why not make the most of it? With the sun on your face and the wind in your hair, it’s exhilarating! Don’t you think?’
His lips curved. ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’
When they got back to the villa, Evie lit the log fire while Jake made hot drinks.
‘Considering how accident-prone you are, you’re a dab hand with matches and a wood fire,’ he said, as he handed her a wide, bowl-shaped cup.
‘I have one at home. There’s nothing cosier, don’t you think?’ She’d left just one light on, so the flames cast an orange and gold glow over the whole room. It was cosy and warm, and she curled up on the sofa, cradling her hot chocolate.
‘You’ve never had to call on George next door to put out the flames?’
‘Never!’ she said indignantly.
‘I don’t believe you.’
She threw a cushion at him. ‘I haven’t!’
There was a pause. ‘Although I did once have to use the fire extinguisher …’
‘Knew it.’ His eyes creased, and she felt a pool of heat in her centre.
This was what she loved about Jake Hartwood. The flashes of humour, of teasing warmth. She didn’t want to see him buttoned-up and bleak-eyed any more.
Her hands were itching to be kept busy, so she opened her sewing bag. She was making a lap quilt for her first online customer.
‘This is supposed to be a holiday, remember? Don’t you want to use the time to relax rather than working on your patchwork?’ asked Jake.
She smiled. ‘It’s not patchwork, it’s a wholecloth. The quilt top is made from a single piece of fabric, see?’ Her stitches would form the pattern in the plain cream sateen fabric. ‘And it’s really relaxing. I’ve always done it, since I was nine or ten.’ There was nothing more soothing than having a warm quilt on her lap and the rhythmic motion of pulling the needle through, a few stitches at a time.
‘Nine or ten? That’s young. Who taught you?’ Jake sipped his coffee.
‘A teacher at school. Miss Shaw. She showed us how to stitch hexagon pieces together to make a pincushion and I was hooked straight away. I used to spend my evenings sewing while all the other girls were reading.’
‘You went to boarding school?’
She nodded. ‘All my family did. Eventually Miss Shaw taught me how to make other things, which was a relief because there are only so many pincushions a girl can use.’
She could feel Jake watching as she threaded her needle and began to stitch again.
‘Did you do a course? Do you have qualifications?’
‘I did one in my own time when I worked in London …’ she gave him a mischievous smile ‘… in secret. I told Tim I was going to Zumba classes.’ She pushed the tiny needle up and down through the layers of fabric and wadding, careful to keep her stitches small and even.
‘Why didn’t you tell him the truth?’
‘Because he would have disapproved. He thought my sewing was a silly hobby. He told me my quilts were old-fashioned, that I had the same interests as an eighty-year-old granny. I used to sew in secret and hide it all away before he came home. Luckily he often worked late.’
Jake’s eyes became shards of flint. ‘What did you ever see in him?’
She laughed. ‘I often ask myself the same question. He wasn’t like that in the beginning. He changed over time – or maybe he revealed his true colours. Anyway, my parents thought sewing was old-fashioned too. I know it’s an unusual hobby, these days.’
‘I’d say that in your case it’s more than just a hobby – it’s a passion, a rare skill.’
His words reminded her of the first time someone had said that to her. ‘When I did my City and Guilds someone asked me why I wasn’t making a living from it and that got me thinking of opening a shop. It became my dream.’
‘But let me guess, you didn’t find the courage to realise that dream until your life hit rock bottom?’
‘How did you know?’ She looked up, horrified that he could read her so accurately. After she’d left Tim and London, she’d been jobless and alone. Yet this was when the seed of the idea had begun to take root. Without her ex’s undermining criticism, she’d begun to dream. And she’d realised she was free to do as she wished. She had money her gran had left her and, with a loan to supplement it, she had the means to buy stock and open a shop.
‘Educated guess. Your optimism is exemplary, Pollyanna, but your nearest and dearest have seriously eroded your self-esteem.’
‘You’re wrong. It’s just hard to follow the high standard that my sister set. I’ll never be as clever or as successful as Zara was. And I never choose the conventional route … the path my parents would like me to follow.’
; ‘You’re a different person, Evie. Your parents should value you for who you are, instead of always comparing you to your sister. Do they appreciate how talented you are?’
She bit her lip, not wanting to admit the truth. They had never looked at her needlework with anything but a fleeting, derisory glance. They would have preferred her to come home with brilliant academic results, a high-status job title and a fat salary to match. The only time they’d looked at her with pride had been when they’d seen the glittering engagement ring Tim had put on her finger. They hadn’t noticed how uncertain she’d felt, even then, that she’d done the right thing.
‘My point exactly,’ said Jake, and put his cup down.
She shook her head. ‘You never knew Zara,’ she said quietly. ‘If you had, you’d understand. She was so much cleverer, taller, prettier, more interesting than me. She was … perfect.’
His sharp gaze was pinned on her, studying her, scrutinising. ‘No one is perfect. Can’t you see, Evie, how we’re all different? The world is populated by individuals. Some of them are businessmen or -women, others are nurses, sailors, teachers, racing drivers … The list goes on.’
‘But they’re all successful,’ she said, with a rueful smile. ‘They don’t have a huge loan and a shop which is losing money.’ She looked down at the sewing in her lap.
‘My point is we all have different skills. We’re all good at different things, but you don’t seem to value your own talents as much as you should.’
Her cheeks flushed again, just as they had earlier when he’d told her she looked beautiful. ‘Two compliments in one evening. Anyone would think you were thawing, Mr Arctic.’ She tried to make light of his praise but she was glowing inside.
And perhaps he had a point. Perhaps it was time she stopped measuring herself against her parents’ idea of success and accepted that she was different from Zara.
They sat up chatting until the early hours. Eventually, tiredness overcame her and Evie yawned.
‘How about we go to bed?’ he said, and his velvety voice reached across the dimly lit room to her.
Evie felt the tiniest shiver at his suggestive words. However, he didn’t seem to notice and carried their empty cups through to the kitchen.
He had meant it innocently, Evie berated herself, as she folded her sewing away and followed him upstairs. She had to stop the sparks of lust she felt whenever he was around. They were just friends.
Outside her room he paused. ‘Night, Pollyanna,’ he said softly.
Evie smiled. ‘Goodnight, Mr Arctic.’
He hesitated for a flicker of a moment, then bent his head and dropped a brief kiss on her cheek. Her skin tingled at the contact and she remembered the closeness they’d shared, the intimacy, when he’d kissed her.
Then he walked away, closed his door, and her stomach sank.
Why was she disappointed? She pulled shut the door of her own room. Wasn’t the memory of how he’d instantly regretted that kiss still vivid enough? She bit her lip as she undressed and slipped into bed. Whatever physical attraction she felt for him, she had to ignore it because he didn’t share it at all.
Chapter Thirteen
The car raced round the bends in the hillside, clinging beautifully to the road, the speed and the wind making the blood in his veins pump faster. The classic car handled every bit as well as Jake had hoped, and beside him Evie giggled with delight as they headed home to the villa. He hadn’t felt this lightness in his chest, this buzz, for months. Years, even.
Perhaps it was because he’d slept so soundly last night, or because they’d spent a relaxed afternoon exploring an ancient hilltop village in the winter sun. Or perhaps it was down to Evie – her enthusiasm and sunny disposition were infectious.
‘I can’t believe how beautiful this place is!’ she said. ‘Or how quiet the roads have been!’
‘It’s Christmas Eve,’ he reminded her. ‘The celebrations here begin tonight.’
Families would be coming together, preparing gifts and food for this evening’s festivities. But he and Evie weren’t constrained by any of that. They were free to do as they pleased, to go wherever they wanted whenever they liked. And that was what was so liberating about this trip.
When they got back to the villa, Evie brought her laptop down to the kitchen to check her emails. ‘Sorry to be a bore,’ she said, throwing him a sheepish look, ‘but I’ve had lots of enquiries from the online craft site I joined. It’s really time-consuming to answer questions and give quotes, but I feel I ought to reply promptly or customers might go elsewhere.’
‘Absolutely. And it’s not a problem.’ He got out his tablet and skimmed through the news.
But Evie’s gasp made him look up, and she squealed with delight.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
Her dimples winked and her eyes shone. ‘Look!’ She angled the laptop so he could see the screen. ‘Each of those there is a commission for a quilt!’
He counted seven. ‘You sound surprised.’
‘I am surprised. I didn’t think so many would translate into sales! They must like my work!’
‘Of course they do.’
‘And they’re willing to pay a lot of money for them to be bespoke.’
He nodded. ‘People value custom-made quality items. Why wouldn’t they pay a lot for your work?’
‘I’ve only sold one quilt in my shop. I thought people didn’t like them,’ she admitted.
He pressed his lips flat because he had witnessed her father telling her just that. Couldn’t she see how distorted her parents’ view of the world was, and how unfair their criticisms of her were? Was he the only one to appreciate her bright optimism? Her generosity? Her determination and dedication?
‘But this is so exciting!’ She grinned.
‘Will you be able to keep up with the demand?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve already found an assistant to help me in the shop, and when she starts, I’ll be able to dedicate as much time as I like to making quilts. This is a dream come true!’
His lips curved and he got up. ‘Shall I make dinner?’
‘Yes, I’m starving,’ she said, and snapped her laptop shut. ‘I’ll help you. We can make it together.’
They worked side by side. Evie sliced the tomatoes, courgettes and aubergine for the tian, and he put the chicken in to roast and prepared an onion soup. As she worked, she hummed and sang.
‘What’s that song you’re singing?’
She looked surprised that he didn’t know. ‘“Somewhere”. From West Side Story.’
‘What is it with you and musicals? Is that all you ever sing?’
‘Mostly, yes,’ she said, lifting her chin. ‘I love them.’
Her defiant tone amused him. He stirred the onions, careful to keep the heat low so they’d retain their sweetness.
‘I suppose you don’t like them, Mr A?’ Her dimples flashed as she threw him a taunting smile.
‘Actually, I did – I do.’ He didn’t tell her that he hadn’t listened to music for two years because it seemed to bypass his brain and trigger visceral reactions in him. Uncontrollable emotions, which he preferred to avoid.
Yet Evie’s cheerful singing didn’t bother him. In fact, he found it quite charming – even when she didn’t quite hit the high notes.
She stared at him. ‘Really? Which is your favourite?’
‘Les Misérables.’ He smiled wryly and pushed the glistening slices of onion around the pan.
‘How apt.’
He lifted a brow. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing.’ She giggled, and gave him a kittenish look that made his blood heat.
She innocently ran her tongue over her lips and fire shot through him. He had to make himself exhale. He tried to resist, but it sucked him under, this pull, this need to get close to her. He left the pan and stalked towards her. She giggled and danced away from him, but he caught her by the waist. She shrieked and squirmed to get away, but he held her fast.
‘What were you implying about me?’
‘Nothing,’ she repeated. Then squealed as he tickled her waist.
His pulse rocketed as she laughed and twisted and tried to tickle him back, though not with much success.
‘Okay, okay!’ she cried, laughing.
He released her and she brushed the hair back from her eyes and smoothed down her crumpled top. They were both breathless. His pulse spiked and he watched her, enchanted by the blush in her cheeks and her dimpled smile. He couldn’t tear his gaze away. She was so good-natured, she radiated fun and joie de vivre, and this was her special brand of beauty.
She looked up and her eyes widened as his gaze connected with hers. For a heartbeat – or an eternity, he couldn’t tell – their eyes remained locked.
Until a nasty hissing sound made them turn.
‘The onions!’ she said. ‘They’re burning.’
He cursed, rushed back to the pan and swiped it off the heat. An acrid smell rose into the air, and he tipped the charred remains into the bin.
‘Sorry,’ he told her. ‘Soup’s off the menu, after all.’
Her smile was ever so slightly bashful, her cheeks spotted red, like the tomatoes she had gone back to slicing. ‘Never mind. We’ve already got a feast with all this, haven’t we?’
He turned away, perplexed by what had just happened. His fingers reached for the ring on the chain around his neck. This, he thought, was exactly what he’d felt the night of the ball: the lick of desire, the uncontrollable urge to pull her close. It hadn’t faded. If anything, it was growing stronger the more time they spent together, making his muscles coil tight whenever she was near. And interwoven with this attraction was the sharp sting of guilt. He didn’t want to betray Maria’s memory, yet his body had other ideas. His awareness of Evie stubbornly refused to fade. When she was in the same room, he found himself watching her, enthralled by her infectious laughter, intrigued by her fragile self-confidence, thrilled by her mischievous smile. When he’d kissed her outside her bedroom door last night, it had taken all his self-control to walk away.
The Christmas Holiday: The perfect heart-warming read full of festive magic Page 20