Christmas Promises at the Little Wedding Shop: Celebrate Christmas in Cornwall with this magical romance!. Jane Linfoot
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mistletoe from Normandy along with our festive cider, to give away with our Christmas orders. That’s the kind of detail Huntley and Handsome customers appreciate.’ Rory suspends his mission statement for long enough to frown at me. ‘Are you sure you’re okay there, Holly Red?’
Before I have time to answer, an arm slides round my back. Next thing, I’m out of the tree and vertical enough to protest loudly as I push him away. ‘Hey, no need to wade in. I was totally fine there. Thanks all the same.’
He blinks and shakes his head. ‘Sure. So how about the stairs? It’s a long way up to the attic.’ And bugger that his dimples are there now too. ‘If you need a hand, I’m always happy to help. After throwing barrels of beer around, carrying you will be a doddle.’
I’m skimming over how he knows where I’m heading, because I’m desperate to cut him off before he gets to point out it’s happened before. I make a lunge towards the stairs, and once I grasp the handrail I feel much steadier.
‘Only a few flights up.’ And thank Christmas I’m in flats, not heels. Getting carried home by Rory isn’t something I want to remember, or repeat.
There’s that laugh again. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time. Just saying.’
Forget kicking myself for knocking back so many Christmosas, I’m actually cursing for having come down at all. As for Rory raking up the past, I’m furious enough to want to wring his neck. Which in the end is good, because suddenly my legs spring to life. Before I know it, I’m looking down at him from the enviable position of the first landing. There should be some snappy last word I could come out with, but in the end all I manage is a wave.
His voice comes floating up the stairs after me. ‘Take care up there. See you later, Red Cheeks.’
I’m crawling into bed when I finally mumble a reply. ‘Not if I see you first, mate.’
I had every reason to stay in my attic flat before. But Rory Sanderson just gave me a hundred more.
Sunday, 3rd December
At Brides by the Sea: Snowflakes, wind cheaters and yoga for mums
‘Sorry, there’s no leopard ones, but you can have a monkey, a zebra, a lion or a cat.’
It’s Poppy, and she’s talking about the cupcakes she’s been making while Jess and I have been busy downstairs. It’s no surprise that Jess doesn’t do hangovers. So we started early and moved straight on from helping the crack team clearing up in the basement to poring over the appointments book in the White Room. Jess talking me through every bride booked in for December is ideal displacement activity for both of us, because, realistically, Sera, Poppy and Lily are going to be in charge at the shop. But it keeps my mind off the engagement shoot – or more specifically Luc – and hers off her impending departure.
As I pore over the box Poppy pushes towards me and see the perfectly iced cake tops, my mouth waters. ‘I’ll have an orange cat, please. Which lucky person’s ordered these?’
‘A lion for me.’ From the way Jess strides across the room to take one, she’s momentarily forgotten her holiday wobbles. And Poppy still hasn’t answered my question.
‘Mmmm, totally delish, there’s zest in the icing too.’ It’s only when I open my eyes again, after peeling back my paper case and taking a bite, then letting the tangy icing melt on my tongue, that I realise Poppy’s hesitating. ‘Aren’t you having one, Pops?’ She eats for England, even when she’s not pregnant. I’d have put money on her going for a chocolate monkey first. Then a zebra.
She wrinkles her nose and looks down at her cropped sweatshirt, which is hiding a neat, yet surprisingly sizable, bump. ‘I didn’t have a muffin yesterday either. Midwife’s orders. I’ve cut back on carbs, and taken up Pregnancy Pilates, and Yoga for Mums.’
‘That’s harsh.’ I don’t mean to sound negative. It’s just hard to think of nine low-sugar months, with that much exercise.
‘It’s not for long.’ Poppy’s frown deepens as she shrugs it off. ‘Although there is something else I’ve been meaning to mention. About who the cakes are for.’
As the sound of the shop door opening echoes along the hallway, Jess beams at me over the top of her lion. ‘You’ve got a complete treat in store here, Holly. Poppy’s been baking for the owner of Huntley and Handsome. A lovely boy, he gives us the most fabulous deal on our Prosecco …’ Those words sound like a horribly familiar echo of what Santa said yesterday.
My mouth drops open midbite as her words sink in. Surely she can’t mean … Rory? As I gasp in disbelief, a lump of sponge goes straight down my windpipe, and a second later I’m coughing into my fist, eyes watering as I struggle to breathe. If you’ve ever had a violent choking fit that turns into a humungous sneeze, you’ll know what I’m going through. Even as I’m fighting for air, I’m desperate not to expel a throat full of chewed up cupcake, and spatter the entire rail of exquisite bridal dresses with bright orange cake crumbs.
Through my half closed eyes, I see Poppy, launching herself across the room. Then there’s a noise like flapping angel wings and she’s thrusting a handful of tissues into my hands to catch my sneeze. By the time I look up from blowing my nose, the dresses are saved. And Jess’s beam is wide enough to stretch from one chandelier to the other.
Poppy’s voice is a low murmur as her hand lands on my shoulder. ‘Sorry, Hols, there’s a blast from the past coming that I know you’re going to hate. Rory Sanderson’s come for his cupcakes horribly early. I promise I’ll explain it all later.’
It’s my own fault. If I’d had the guts to admit about bumping into him twice before, no doubt Poppy would have told me. At least this time I get to watch him walk in from the high ground of the mother-of-the-bride throne where I’m sitting. And I’m already a hundred per cent scarlet due to choking. Even so, his footfalls on the floorboards send prickles up the back of my neck. Whoever said attack is the best form of defence, I’m going to take their advice.
As I see the first, horribly familiar, weathered brown Timberland come through the doorway, I jam my mouth into a smile, scrape the last stray cake crumbs off my mouth, look up at the approximate place where his head is about to appear, and fire.
‘Rory Sanderson, one more time. Just when I thought I’d waved goodbye to you for another twenty years, too.’ I sink back against the cushions, but the hurtling retort I’m bracing myself for doesn’t come.
Instead of storming in, tearing up the the White Room with his super-confident swagger, Rory’s coming in at a shuffle. Leaning over to one side, so he can reach down to hold the hand of a small girl.
‘Wow.’ I’m not sure if I say that in my head or out loud.
At a guess, looking at his daughter’s pale silky hair, Rory’s partner’s a blonde. As if a rock god would settle for anything less. If her disagreeable pout came from her mum, it’s obvious he’s chosen looks over personality. Although for once Rory’s incessant grin has given way to a frown too as he clasps a rather over-sized baby tightly against the folds of his Superdry windcheater.
He pulls a ‘holy crap’ face at me over the top of the baby’s head and blinks. ‘Holly, right, great, hi.’ It’s a big change to see Mr Sanderson looking less than delighted with himself. Although the bad side is that when his dimples disappear, it makes the hollows under his cheekbones look even deeper.
Now I’ve seen who’s actually arriving here, I’m regretting my over-explosive ‘hello’. Somehow, even though I saw the car seats, the small people come as a complete shock. If I’d hoped for something to wipe Nate and Becky and Luc out of my mind, it definitely wasn’t this. Kids have that strange effect of making everyone around them more gentle. And although Rory doesn’t exactly look