All I Want For Christmas (A Sweet, Contemporary Romance) (Romance In The Lakes Book 1)

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All I Want For Christmas (A Sweet, Contemporary Romance) (Romance In The Lakes Book 1) Page 2

by Tracey Mayhew


  “Yogi, here, boy!”

  With no time to turn to see who’s calling, I’m attacked by a hairy, brown monstrosity, that seems intent on trying to cuddle me, or eat me, I’m really not sure which. “What the-?” I gasp, struggling to stand under the unexpected weight of the dog.

  I try to push him away but he’s going nowhere; his muddy paws and wet fur leaving damp patches across the front of my hoodie. But, worse than that, there’s a thick, gloopy, trail of drool hanging from the corner of his mouth, threatening to drop onto my arm, as he tries to lick my face.

  “Hey, Yogi; get off her, would ya?”

  I look up as a hand comes into view, pulling the dog away, and I can’t help but stare as I find myself looking into the most amazing blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Now, I’m not one to get poetic about a man’s eyes but, honestly, it’s like looking into the clearest ocean. “Wow…” I find myself muttering before I can stop myself.

  The guy standing in front of me is gorgeous. His dark hair is damp with sweat, and rain, as it falls down over his forehead; he’s wearing jogging bottoms and a thin, orange, hi-viz running jacket over a black T-shirt. He’s panting slightly but looks like he could run a good few miles more. If I had to guess, I’d say he was a little older than me - in his late thirties, maybe?

  “Hey.” He nods, grinning smugly, as he looks me up and down.

  Under his gaze, I can’t help blushing. “Hello,” I reply coolly, trying to regain some of my composure; I’ve never been so completely thrown by a guy before. I’m usually the one in control, not fighting butterflies.

  He gestures at the dog, now sitting, obediently, by his side, panting up at me, his black eyes almost hidden by his thick fur; his feet, legs and belly are splashed with mud and the ends of his fur have started to frizz. “I’m sorry about Yogi,” the man offers, “it’s just that, once he sees a beautiful woman, he can’t help but try to get her attention any way he can.” He winks at me. “He’s like his dad that way.”

  I scoff, rolling my eyes. “Does that line work every time you use it?”

  The man’s smile widens, revealing a perfect Colgate smile. “Let’s just say… it never works as well as I’d like it to.”

  I laugh; I can’t help it. “I didn’t think so.”

  “Hey, you can’t blame a guy for trying, right?”

  I shake my head. “If you say so.” I glance down at the dog, reaching out to stroke him but recoiling as the dog, nuzzles me with his mouth, leaving a smattering of drool on my hand. “Lovely,” I mutter, wishing I could wash my hands.

  The guy cringes, pushing the dog away. “I’m sorry; I should have warned you-”

  “And I should have known better,” I assure him.

  “I usually carry anti-bacterial gel but…” he shrugs, “I was in a rush and forgot it today.”

  “Just my luck,” I smirk. “Don’t worry, though, there’s soap and a sink inside.”

  The guy glances to the tearooms behind me; I can see the concern in his eyes. “Are you helping Holly in the shop?”

  I nod. “You could say that.”

  The man nods, looking pleased. “That’s good; I’m glad she, finally, has someone.” He meets my gaze and looks as if he’s about to say something else, but suddenly, Yogi rears up, impatient to be off again, almost pulling his owner along with him. “Well, looks like we’re off,” he laughs. “I’ll see you around, then.”

  I smile. “Maybe.”

  The man nods as he jogs away from me. “I’ll take that as a yes!” he calls over his shoulder.

  I watch him go for a moment before realising I’m grinning like an idiot. Seriously, Jess? What’s wrong with you? Pushing the image of his very attractive face from my mind, I unlock the door and step inside.

  I barely take the time to look around as I head straight to the kitchen, rinsing the drool off before dousing my hand with soap and washing them thoroughly under hot water. Drying them on a towel, I look around the kitchen smiling to myself as I recall the many hours Holly and I had shared here, coming up with new recipes for cakes. Admittedly, baking isn’t my forte but it is Holly’s and she would come up with some truly mouthwatering delicacies. My personal favourite has always been her cherry scones, though, to be honest, it would change from day to day, depending on what she produced. Honestly, sometimes it was a miracle our customers ever got the chance to eat any of her cakes with me around!

  Dropping the towel onto the stainless steel work surface, I make my way back into the tearooms, finally taking a moment to look around. It’s a proper quintessential English tearoom, with traditional stone walls and oak beams; wooden tables are scattered throughout, covered with lavender printed oilcloth for easy cleaning (as my mum never failed to point out); artwork from Beatrix Potter books lines the walls, something that never fails to catch the children’s eyes and keep them occupied. We even have a little area (thanks to me and my dad) that houses a bookcase providing booklets and maps for hikers and anyone looking for a day out in the mountains.

  I turn and open the door to the pantry, surprised to find it a little thin on the ground; usually, it has a selection of Holly’s creations left from the previous day. But all I see now are two pieces of Victoria Sponge and a piece of chocolate cake… what I can’t see are any of Holly’s more inventive creations - where are the lemon and blueberry bars, the raspberry and coconut cupcakes, the seven layered rainbow cake that would attract so much interest? These creations were the things she loved baking, not the every day, traditional, cakes I’m looking at now.

  If I had been in any doubt about whether I’d made the right decision to come, I wasn’t now; if Holly had lost interest in her baking, then things really had hit rock bottom.

  Behind me, I hear the door open and I turn to find my best friend staring back at me, a look of shock, and confusion, on her face; her usually bright smile is nowhere to be seen, her eyes are bloodshot, evidence of the pain she’s still in. Her long, black hair is damp, falling over that ridiculous chunky, pink and grey, knitted cardigan she loves so much (yes, it really is as bad as it sounds). She offers me a half-hearted smile as her eyes fill with tears.

  “Jess…?” is all she can manage before crumbling into a pool of tears.

  Chapter 4

  I cross the tearooms in record time, gathering Holly into my arms, before she can hit the floor. We stay like this for a while: Holly sobbing and me holding her up, telling her everything’s going to be okay. I don’t know if that’s true but what else can I say?

  I’ve honestly never seen her this bad before, although I would have thought that being married to Mike had given her plenty of practice at being disappointed but clearly I was wrong.

  “Please, don’t say ‘I told you so’,” she pleads as she pulls away, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her cardigan (I really do hate that thing but she loves it – I think it’s a comfort thing). “I couldn’t hear that, right now.”

  I stare at her, offended she thinks I’d use this as an opportunity to lord it over her that I was right (I mean, I am right but I would never say that to her face; I’m not that cruel). “Well, that’s insulting,” I mutter, hoping she catches the playful edge to my voice.

  Holly gives me a teary smile. “Don’t pretend that thought hasn’t crossed your mind: the first thing you said when I told you was that I should have listened to you in the first place.”

  I can’t deny that; not that I want to. She should have listened to me but that’s beside the point, now. “To be fair, that was when you were mad at him.”

  “I am mad at him,” she insists, brushing her overgrown fringe from her eyes. “Jess, I’m so angry at him!”

  I can hear the rage in her voice, bubbling just beneath the surface; she’s probably been fighting to keep it at bay, for the kids’ sake. I pull her into another hug, feeling her relax slightly. “It’s okay to be angry, you know.” God, I know that, better than anyone.

  Holly shakes her head, refusing to accept anger as a valid emoti
on; she’s always been like this. Holly would prefer to smile her way through life, pleasing everybody, offending no one; so, feeling anything other than happiness and joy is completely alien to her. “No, it’s not,” she mutters, pulling away from me. “Mike’s the father of my children… I can’t…”

  I sigh; we could argue about this all day, it wouldn’t get us anywhere. “Sit down; I’ll make us a coffee and we can talk.”

  Holly nods, pulling out the nearest chair and slowly sitting down. She glances up at me, smiling faintly. “It’s been a while,” she points out, “do you still remember how to use the machine?”

  I smirk at her. “I’m pretty sure I’ll manage,” I assure her. “We have coffee machines in Falcone’s, too, you know. Anyway, all these machines are pretty much the same.”

  I know she’s watching me as I make my way to the machine, probably waiting to see if I make a mess of things. Granted, it had taken me a while to get used to it when we first started up, resulting in far too many lost cups of coffee to count, but, with a little practice, I soon mastered it and it wasn’t as if I had been out of practice these last three years; working in one of London’s busiest restaurants had made sure I kept my hand in.

  Switching it on, I wait for it to power up and turn back to Holly. “So… how are the kids?”

  She shrugs, suddenly unable to look at me. “How do you think?” she asks. “They don’t understand what’s happened.”

  I say nothing. I want to tell her she’s wrong - that they understand only too well - but I doubt now is the time; we’ll work up to that conversation.

  “It’s ready,” Holly points out, nodding towards the machine behind me.

  I smile. “Alright, boss, keep your hair on; it’s coming,” I mutter.

  I set about making the coffee before taking both cups to the table, setting them proudly before my friend. “There, get that down you; if that doesn’t make you feel better, nothing will.”

  Holly smirks. “It is just coffee in here, right?” she asks, eyeing the cup dubiously.

  I laugh. “And just what do you take me for?” I ask. Granted, there may have been a time when I would have been tempted to put something a little stronger in it, but not anymore; as Holly well knows, my relationship with alcohol is now non-existent. “It’s just coffee,” I confirm, taking a sip from the cup in front of me. “See?”

  Clearly satisfied, Holly sips her own, her eyes never leaving mine; even when she’s devastated about her own life, she still has this ability to sniff out what I’m not saying. “So, are you going to tell me why you’re back?”

  I put the cup on the table, running my fingers around the rim as I decide how best to proceed. “I got a phone call last night-”

  She gasps. “Your Dad finally rang?” she asks hopefully.

  I shake my head. “It was Amy.”

  Holly stares at me. “Amy?” she echoes. I nod. “Why was she-?”

  “She’s worried about you, Hol,” I say simply. “We both are and I’m betting Josh is, too.” As I say these words, I recall the question the jogger had asked earlier: Are you here to help Holly in the shop? And then: That’s good; I’m glad she, finally, has someone. It seems we aren’t the only ones worried. That’s the thing with villages like Keldsthwaite: everyone knows each other’s business and everyone has an opinion.

  Holly blushes. “She shouldn’t have done that,” she mutters, looking out the window at the village that still hasn’t really awoken yet.

  I reach across the table, placing my hand on her arm. “No, you should have been the one to call me; you should have told me you were finding it hard; I must say, you hid that well.”

  “I couldn’t do that,” Holly insists, her eyes meeting mine. “I couldn’t be the one to ask you to come back.”

  I smile sadly. “Holly, nothing else matters, right now.”

  “So, your dad knows you’re back, then?” she challenges, fixing me with a look.

  I sit back in my chair, trying to distance myself from this subject as best I can. “What do you think?” I say, my voice barely a whisper.

  “Are you going to see him while you’re here?”

  I watch her for a moment; I know exactly what she’s doing. “You’re deflecting, Holly,” I point out.

  She smiles. “So are you, Jess.”

  She’s right; of course, she’s right. “Okay, maybe I am,” I accept.

  She grins, taking another sip of her coffee. “Wow, that’s a first for you.”

  I laugh. “Don’t push it; I’m here to help you through this but I can easily get back in my car and leave,” I joke.

  “Please don’t,” she begs, her voice barely a whisper now, as if reluctant to say the words aloud.

  I look at her, all laughter gone. “I’ve cashed in all my annual leave; I can stay until Boxing Day,” I tell her. “If you want me to, that is.”

  Holly nods and I can see she needs this, needs me, probably more than she’d like to admit. “The kids will love having you around.”

  I smile. “So when do I get to see the little monsters? Do they still come by after school?” I wouldn’t be surprised if, now that they’re older, they went straight home.

  “Yeah,” she says, smiling fondly. “Amy still wants to help in the kitchen.”

  I glance at the glass counter. “Please tell me you haven’t stopped baking the good stuff.”

  Holly looks at her half empty cup, guiltily. “I just can’t-”

  “Nope, we’re not having that,” I tell her, getting to my feet. “We’re going to get you back on that horse; we need you baking again.”

  Holly sighs. “But-”

  “No, no ‘buts’,” I insist. “It will be happening, Holly Elizabeth Richards; just think of it as the first step to getting back to your old self.”

  Holly laughs, a surprisingly bitter sound. “I don’t even know who that is anymore.”

  I pull her to her feet, hugging her tightly. “Then we’ll figure that out, together, okay?”

  Holly nods. “Okay.”

  “I guess we better open up,” I announce after a moment, releasing Holly and heading for the door.

  “Just a sec,” Holly calls after me. “I’ve been meaning to ask you: what’s happened to you? Didn’t you bring any clean clothes?” she asks pointing at my hoodie. “I’m not sure the customers are going to appreciate being served by you wearing that.”

  I scoff. “Okay, before you start on at me about the state of my clothes, you need to take a look in the mirror, Missy,” I retort, waving at her cardigan. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’re wearing that thing.” Glancing down at myself, I’m horrified to see the state of my top now that it’s had a chance to dry. That bloody dog! “As for this: this is the result of me being attacked by a bear this morning.”

  Holly laughs. “You met Yogi, then?”

  I scowl. “Yes, I met Yogi,” I mutter.

  “Glenn’s lovely, isn’t he?” she asks, absent mindedly, as she makes her way behind the counter to turn on the cash register.

  “Glenn?” I ask, still too horrified by the state I’m in to take much notice of what Holly’s saying.

  “Yogi’s owner,” Holly explains, now pressing buttons on the register.

  “Yeah, he was okay, I guess,” I mutter. “Look, I’ve got to go change; I can’t face everyone on my first day back looking like this. Be back in a sec,” I say before racing out the door.

  Chapter 5

  I really don’t know what I had expected; after all, despite how much I may have wanted to, there was no way I’d ever have been able to slip back into Keldsthwaite without being interrogated.

  The day had started slowly enough but then the Knitting Club came in (apparently, Holly lets them hold their meetings in the tearooms now that the library’s operating on shorter hours), ordering enough cream teas to feed an army.

  It was pretty full-on, I can tell you, especially as they all insisted on telling me how much they had missed me, asking que
stions about London and getting me up to speed on how bad Holly’s had it this past month or so. I noticed Holly had made a swift exit at that point but I said nothing, hoping that, with the ladies’ attention focused solely on me, she could take whatever time she needed to sort herself out. Of course, it didn’t help when Mrs. Newton began dropping hints that she was missing our usual range of cakes, in particular, Holly’s cherry scones (I have to agree with her there, though). I simply smiled through it, telling them things would get back on track soon.

  Thankfully, things slowed down after lunch and I was, finally, able to catch up with Holly.

  “How you doing?” I ask as I wipe down the counter. She hasn’t said much all morning; I think she had been happy enough to let the knitting ladies do all the talking.

  She shrugs. “You know…”

  I turn to her, forgetting my task. “You can talk to me, you know,” I remind her. “I may not have been Mike’s biggest fan but-”

  Suddenly, I’m interrupted by the door of the café being thrown open. “So, it’s true, then: you’re back?”

  I turn to the door, smiling as I take in the very welcome sight of my other best friend, Sofia de Luca; she may not look like her usual, fun-loving self (in fact she looks more furious than anything else) but just seeing her brings a smile to my lips. “I am; for a few-”

  “And you didn’t think to call and tell me you were coming?” she demands, her fiery Italian temper definitely working on full throttle. Even when angry, Sofia’s beautiful; she has her father’s olive skin and black hair, her mother’s blue eyes and a figure that puts the rest of us to shame. “Or call me when you got here? I had to hear about it from Mrs. Harrington, of all people.”

  Just to keep you up to speed, Mrs. Harrington is the Head Knitter of the Knitting Club (is that even a thing?) – she’s also one of the village’s biggest gossips. I can well imagine she went running straight over to the pub as soon as she left here to tell anyone who would listen that I was back.

 

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