Christmas Cracker 3-Book Collection: Three Cosy Christmas Romances. Lindsey Kelk
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swinging the gorgeous caramel-coloured Anya bag in her left hand. I bloody knew it. And Mrs Grace was right. She’s utterly stunning in real life. Oh God, even I’m doing it now. This is real life. I say it over and over as a mantra inside my head as a reminder. I’m convinced it’s the only way to keep a lid on this totally surreal scenario. ‘Where’s that gorgeous man, Tom? There’s somebody here to see him,’ Kelly says, flashing me a smile.
‘He won’t be long.’ Zara jumps up on the corner of Tom’s mahogany desk and tosses her cascade of honey-hued big hair around for a bit. And I’m sure her eyes narrow when she glances in my direction.
‘Nice bag.’ I can’t resist.
‘Perk of the job,’ she replies, giving the buttery soft leather a quick stroke before discarding the exquisite bag down on the floor next to a wire-mesh bin that’s overflowing with rubbish. ‘I can take a message if you like, save you hanging around. I’m guessing you need to dash back down below stairs, as it were, to dust your shelves or something,’ she giggles superficially, giving me the once-over like I’m the hired help. I ignore her and study the pattern on the wallpaper instead, wondering what her problem is.
The door opens again and Tom appears.
‘I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.’ He flashes a polite smile around the room but there’s a flicker of apprehension when he sees me. After jumping up, Kelly dashes towards him, flings an arm around his chest and gives him a big squeeze. ‘Oooh, the things I could do to you,’ she says in a saucy voice, nestling her face into his left pec before pushing up on tiptoes and planting a big kiss on his cheek. Tom coughs discreetly and adjusts his cufflinks.
Momentarily I waver, blown away by his looks, which literally take my breath away. His eyes are the darkest velvety brown and nestle in sumptuous eyelashes that make me want to lick them right here and now. The thick curly black hair – which only two nights ago was entwined in my fingers during our mammoth lovemaking session – is now slicked back, giving him the appearance of a gorgeous Hollywood heart-throb, or how I imagine a young Jon Hamm might look in a Mad Men prequel.
‘Georgie. What are you doing up here?’ He breaks free from Kelly’s grasp and walks towards me, his delicious chocolatey scent teasing all around me.
‘We need to talk.’ I swallow hard.
‘Sure,’ he says, easily. ‘You OK? It’s not Mr Cheeks is it?’ He looks directly into my eyes and creases his forehead slightly.
‘No, he’s fine. Err … ’ I glance towards Kelly who is still gazing up at him like some lovestruck fan-girl.
‘Right. Of course. Would you mind if we have a minute?’ he says, turning first to Zara and then to Kelly.
‘Catch you later. I’ve got a session with my shaman in any case,’ Zara sniffs airily. She bounces down from the desk, practically canters over to Tom, plants a big smoochy kiss on his lips and runs a finger down his lapel before tossing a look over her shoulder in my direction.
‘And I mustn’t miss my call from Isabella. Can’t wait to hear all about Costa Rica.’ Kelly blows Tom a kiss as she heads towards the door.
‘Then please give her my love and say that I’ve been thinking about her a lot. I promise to take her to lunch very soon.’
I wait for them to leave and then close the door before I turn towards Tom.
‘Isabella?’ I say in an accusatory voice, and the very second the word comes out of my mouth I want to shove my fist inside and pull out my tongue. This wasn’t what I had in mind at all when I was lying in bed last night planning out the scene in my head. And I’m not usually the jealous type.
‘Yes. My mother. Kelly and she were at Cambridge together,’ he states, and I swear his Downton accent (upstairs, naturally) just got a little stronger.
‘Oh, I see. That’s nice,’ I reply, feeling relieved and trying to make it sound as if it’s really no big deal, that in fact I was merely being polite. But I realise in an instance just how little I really know about him and his family, and I didn’t have Kelly down as a Cambridge University type at all. I imagine them all to be very serious and intellectual – she seems far too wacky to me. And I bet they don’t read OK! magazine at Cambridge, much preferring some ancient Latin parchment or whatever, requiring the handler to wear special white gloves just to unravel it because it’s tied up with a big scarlet ribbon made from real human peasant hair dyed with their blood.
‘So, what did you want to talk to me about?’ he asks casually, taking a step forward and circling an arm around my waist. I jump back. ‘Hey, what’s the matter?’ He sounds concerned.
‘What do you think?’
‘I’m not sure, but I can see that you’re upset. What is it?’ He looks puzzled, as if he genuinely has no idea why.
‘Upset? That’s putting it mildly. Did you get my messages?’
‘Yes,’ he replies. I stare, waiting for him to elaborate.
‘And?’ My forehead creases.
‘Oh, when I say I got them, I meant just a few minutes ago. Haven’t had time to listen properly or read the text messages yet, though,’ he explains, picking up a pile of papers from his desk and flicking through them.
‘I see,’ I say tightly, wondering why he’s being so indifferent. I clear my throat. He stops flicking and places the papers back on the desk.
‘Is this about the filming?’ he smiles.
‘Oh, duh! Ten out of ten, genius.’ I fold my arms, wishing I could be cool and calm like him, instead of borderline hysterical. Tom gives me a strange look, kind of a mixture of bafflement and disappointment, and one I haven’t seen on him before.
‘Georgie, why are you being like this? It’s not like you.’ He steps towards me again, hesitates, and places a hand on my arm instead.
‘Are you wearing guyliner?’ I ask, suddenly distracted.
‘Err, I think so.’ He shrugs his shoulders and grins. ‘The production team insisted on trying out some looks for the opening credits … hence the tux.’ He opens his arms to show off the midnight blue dinner suit and crisp white shirt, making him look even more adorable than ever. ‘They’re going with a “Mr Carrington” image, whatever that means.’ His smile widens as he raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow.
‘That’s nice for you,’ I say, in my best breezy voice.
‘Oh come on, don’t be like this.’
‘Like what?’ I ask, wishing I didn’t sound so much like a sulky teenager.
‘So emotional.’
‘Well I’m sorry if I have emotions, but why didn’t you tell me about the filming? Warn me at least?’
‘I couldn’t.’
‘Of course you could. You’re the boss, you can do whatever you like.’
‘It’s not quite as … simple as that.’ He glances down at the carpet and my cheeks smart from the implication.
‘Then why don’t you explain it to me then?’
‘Look, I didn’t mean anything malicious by it, but I can’t just … do whatever I like, as you say. Yes, Aunt Camille sold her majority share to me, to keep the store in the family – and with a bit of luck and lots of hard work, we’ll manage to turn it around and keep us all employed for many more years to come. But there’s the board to consider.’ I bite my bottom lip. ‘That’s what doing the show is all about; it’s an incredible opportunity for Carrington’s and we are really lucky to be given the series,’ he says, as though he’s learnt it off by heart from an official statement that somebody prepared earlier for him.
‘So it had nothing to do with your mother and Kelly being