The Little Village Christmas: The #1 Christmas bestseller returns with the most heartwarming romance of 2018. Sue Moorcroft
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The Angel Café have no relationship to each other, and Gabe, Jodie, me and your boss, Christopher Carlysle, who accepted responsibility for The Community Café fund, aren’t about to hand over the dosh to Carola.’
A suspicion of a twinkle lit Ben’s eye. ‘If I hadn’t come from a small town myself I’d be astonished at the politics.’ Then his phone beeped and he pulled it out to silence it. ‘Interesting as this is, I’m going to have to get home. That’s the alert to remind me that Barney needs his dinner.’
‘You must feed him.’ Alexia felt a tiny prickle of disappointment at losing his company, not to mention an opportunity for her to spout about her pet project, but told herself not to be so idiotic. ‘I’ll hang on here for a bit longer before I lock up.’
He hesitated. ‘On your own?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t you start! I could run around Middledip at night with my hands full of cash and nothing bad would happen. Honestly, I’ll wander home when I’m ready.’
‘Giving your friends time to quiet down?’ He half-smiled, his eyes bright in the overhead light.
She felt her cheeks heat up again. ‘That would be the plan.’
‘Can’t you just tell them to be more considerate? It’s your house.’
‘I could. But if I can move my career in the direction I want to then Jodie’s hoping Shane will move in when I move out. Two lots of rent will smooth my way considerably.’
Grey eyes thoughtful, he considered her. Almost offhandedly he said, ‘I can’t leave Barney hungry. He’s so young he needs feeding three times a day. You could come and meet him, if you want? It would fill an hour before you go home.’
Alexia debated quickly. It wasn’t that she couldn’t find something to keep her occupied for an hour or two at The Angel but, truthfully, she was intrigued by the idea of a late evening stroll through the woods with this man. He termed himself an oddball like his Uncle Gabe, but Gabe just happened to be one of the nicest men she’d ever known. Going over her plans for The Angel could wait. ‘I’d love to meet Barney and see how Woodward Cottage has turned out.’
They ferried the cooling grills into the kitchen in case of rain, then Ben waited as Alexia locked the big front door before they stepped together into the quiet night-time village.
Ben paused. ‘We could walk down Little Lane and hook back on ourselves up the track to the cottage, but it’s about three miles. It’s quicker to take the footpaths, if you’re not scared of the dark. I have a torch on my phone.’
Alexia laughed at the idea she might be scared. ‘I grew up here. I know my way around the bridleways and my phone has a torch, too.’ A feeling was fluttering about inside her. But it wasn’t fear.
Angling right and crossing Port Road, Ben lit up his phone ready to leave the pavement and take the bridleway. Beside him, Alexia followed suit. The bright white lights illuminated the path and the vegetation that soon replaced the fences on either side. Insects flitted through the beams as if anxious about what the humans were up to.
What was he up to?
He glanced at Alexia. ‘Certain you don’t want to go around by the road?’
In the backwash of the light he saw her brows lift. ‘What, walk three miles instead of one? The bridleways are safe.’ She reminded him of the cartoon character Betty Boop with her dark curls and mischievous smile. And her curves.
She also possessed the easy confidence and self-sufficiency that made him see why, by trying to look after her, her old boyfriend had been doing exactly what was most likely to aggravate her.
‘OK, if you’re sure.’ He set off again, deciding to accept it all as part of this strange ending to an odd day.
It had begun badly.
Opening his mail, he’d discovered he’d been granted his decree nisi.
Just plain white paper with typing on, he hadn’t even realised what it was at first. He’d stood on the old flags of Woodward Cottage reading the words that symbolised his failure and loss. Grief had risen up and made him want to break things, which was the only reason he’d given in to Gabe’s urging to attend the wrecking party.
He’d hurled stuff into the skips as if each bent curtain rod or cracked mirror had caused the end of his marriage. He’d only meant to hang about for one drink to wash the dust from his throat but then Alexia had arrived in front of him with big eyes and a wide smile and launched friendliness at him like a missile. When he’d tried discouraging her with boorishness he’d found himself apologising the instant hurt and dismay had filtered across her features.
When her infectious smile forgave him it had been as if she’d released one of his inner knots of tension.
Fun seemed to radiate from Alexia at a time when he’d all but forgotten what fun was. It had made him feel the first inclination to reclaim that distant, half-forgotten Ben, the one who’d liked a good time.
As the evening had progressed he’d found himself enjoying her company, wanting to know more about her, being interested in what she had to say.
Finally, she’d made him think about the decree nisi not as a symbol of failure but of liberty. A strange topsy-turvy instinct had seemed to pop the invitation to Woodward Cottage out of his mouth and he’d probably looked just as surprised as she had.
Maybe it was just basic need, but now a startling question was revolving in his mind. Could he still pull? It had been eight years since he’d made love to anyone but Imogen. Then for two years he’d gone without sex in a daze of pain and grief. Strange that the urge should flood back today but it was swamping him, compelling him to ease the need.
This woman beside him, with her smile and fitted T-shirt, was paying attention to him. It wasn’t that she was the only woman who’d done that since Imogen and Lloyd had ripped his guts out … just the only one he’d responded to.
He was man enough to admit to himself that her being commitment-averse and aiming to get out of the village at no distant date was attractive, too.
He cleared his throat. ‘So tell me more about your career plans.’ He might be rusty but he was pretty sure asking a girl about herself was a safe conversational gambit.
Alexia gave a little skip as if the subject put springs in her heels. ‘I’m an interior decorator.’
‘Painting and wallpapering?’ He could envisage her up a ladder wielding a paint roller. She’d seemed completely at home getting her hands dirty at the wrecking party.
‘No, that’s a painter and decorator. I do some of the same hands-on things but also project manage, come up with ideas and overviews, and produce some one-off and bespoke decorative items. In DIY, a householder decides on the look they want, sources the materials and carries out the decorating. I’m kind of the alternative option, working with clients to give them ideas and help them decide what they want. Then I create it, either via sub-contractors or by doing the work myself. Sometimes it’s a redecoration of a single room; sometimes it’s a much bigger project, particularly refurbishments. I’ve made it my business to build up a fantastic network of tradesmen who like working with me because I listen to them and properly utilise their skills. Do you know how vastly tradesmen are underrated? Especially by certain architects and designers.’
Taking the right-hand fork in the path, she climbed the stile that marked the beginning of Carlysle land, dropping down lightly on the other side. ‘My friend, Elton, started training at the same time I did. He stayed the course and became an interior designer, making him vastly superior to me – he thinks.’
He swung himself over the stile in her wake. ‘But didn’t you just say you are an interior designer?’
‘No.’ She came to a halt as if she couldn’t make him understand while she was in motion. ‘I’m an interior decorator. An interior designer has a professional