‘Hah.’ He does a sarcastic laugh but abandons it halfway through because it obviously hurts. ‘You’ve been worried about me? We only met yesterday and you don’t like people who don’t like Christmas.’
‘I don’t dislike them that much.’ In hugging him, I’ve re-smooshed his hair up, so when I sit back onto my knees, I reach up and tuck it back again, and his good hand drifts up to my wrist again, the backs of his fingers sort of rubbing against the skin of my inner wrist. He focuses on the point where we touch until his eyes start to close.
‘When did this happen?’ I ask because his fingers are doing such a good job of distracting me that I’d need a “phone a friend” lifeline if someone asked me my own name at the moment.
‘Do you really care or are you just trying to keep my mind off it?’
‘The first one,’ I say with a grin. ‘The second one’s an added bonus.’
It seems to take him a moment to decide whether he trusts me or not. ‘Last week. It’s why I was so late starting here. I should’ve been setting up the shop but I wasn’t functional for a couple of days after the accident.’
He doesn’t look particularly functional at the moment. ‘Did they get the driver?’
He rolls his head from side to side. ‘They didn’t stop.’
‘It was a hit and run?’ I feel my eyes getting wider with every word he says.
‘It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t their fault – it genuinely was mine. I was frustrated and annoyed with work and I wasn’t paying attention. I don’t think they even realised they’d hit me. I bounced off the car, hit the pavement, and got straight back up and shook my fist at them and yelled a string of choice swearwords about their driving ability, picked up my phone and finished the conversation. I think it was the shock and adrenaline at first and it was only when I stopped for a minute and started processing it that I realised I was actually hurt and took myself to A&E.’
My hand on his knee must tighten because he says, ‘Even without opening my eyes, you don’t have to look so worried. I’m fine as long as I keep my upper body straight. I twisted it trying to grab that nutcracker off you. Serves me right for being such a Grinch, right?’ He opens his eyes and looks at me. His fingers move on my wrist and my hand slips from brushing his hair back and slides down his face until my thumb brushes his jaw, and we hold each other’s gaze for a moment, until I realise I’m stroking the jaw of a complete stranger.
I pull back so abruptly that it makes him jump and he winces again.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. ‘You sure you don’t need an ambulance?’
He still hasn’t lifted his head from where it’s leaning against the wall, but he moves it slowly from side to side. ‘I’ll be fine. There’s nothing they can do for broken ribs. I’ve just got to keep active, not lift anything heavy, and do a load of incredibly painful breathing exercises to keep my lungs clear so I don’t get pneumonia.’
‘Well, you’ve certainly been keeping active,’ I say, picturing him climbing up and down on that stool today.
‘That means you’ve been watching me …’
Is he being deliberately obtuse or does he genuinely have no idea how difficult it is not to watch him? ‘Actually, we were watching the Macarena-ing Santa. It’s impossible to take your eyes off him.’
His face breaks into a smile and then he groans. ‘Oh, please don’t make me laugh, I beg of you.’
My concern must show on my face because he tells me again not to look so worried. ‘I just twisted it, that’s all. It’s the end of a long day and I admit I overdid it this morning with the painting. I haven’t been sleeping because the ribs are too painful to find a comfortable position, and I’ve already hit my pain threshold a few hours ago.’
‘Why didn’t you go home at closing time?’
He goes to shrug but thinks better of it. ‘Nothing to go home for. How about you?’
‘I like spending time here.’ I hesitate because I’m sure he’s going to make fun of me for it. ‘It feels more and more like Nutcracker Lane as we know it is going to be gone soon, and I want to make the most of it while I still can.’
He pushes his bottom lip out and then pulls it back with his teeth, but I cut him off before he can say something sarcastic. ‘You said something yesterday about painkillers?’
He laughs. ‘Oh, I can’t take them here.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’ve been taking them at night, at home, in private, because they make me fuzzy-headed. It’s bad enough making a fool of myself, I don’t want to make a fool of myself in front of you too.’ He uses his good hand to pat mine where it’s still resting on his knee. ‘So you have to go away and leave me alone because I’m not moving until I’ve taken them.’
‘I’m not going anywhere.’ I can’t help smiling as I squeeze his knees. ‘We’re the only two people here and you’re sorely mistaken if you think I’m going to leave you by yourself in this state.’
He laughs again, a shallow chuckle rather than a laugh. ‘I’ll be fine. I just need to take something and not move for a while. I’ve been alone for a long time – I can look after myself.’
‘Good for you, but I’m not leaving.’ I pat his knees again gently and use the box on either side of his legs to push myself up. ‘Painkillers?’
He pats the front pocket of his jeans. I go to get him a cup of water from the staff water dispenser inside the door, and when I get back down the corridor, he’s got the packet held between his teeth and is somehow managing to push two out with one hand, and I watch as he pops them into his mouth and takes the water with a nod of thanks, his hand shaking as he swallows it and puts it down on the box beside him.
‘Right, tea. Sugar?’ I ask, but stop him before he has a chance to respond. ‘Actually, don’t answer that – you need something hot and sweet so you’re getting sugar whether you like it or not.’ I pat his knee again. ‘Back in a minute. Don’t move.’
‘I assure you I’m going to lose consciousness if I even think about moving.’
‘Good.’
He cracks one eye open and raises an eyebrow. ‘You really don’t like me, do you?’
I grin. ‘I meant because you’re not going to think about it, and you know it.’
A smile spreads slowly across his face and I’m smiling back involuntarily even though he must think I’m a lunatic because so far tonight, I’ve been ecstatically happy that he was hit by a car and tried to smother him to death by boob. I’d better get that tea before he starts thinking I’ve got a vendetta.
When I get back up to the shop, I can’t make the tea fast enough. I spoon at least three spoonfuls of sugar into each mug while I wait for the kettle to boil and I search the table and rifle through my handbag for something to eat, wishing Stacey and I hadn’t polished off those mince pies I got from the Nutcracker Lane bakery this morning. I haven’t got anything to offer him.
Generally, you don’t need anything here. Nutcracker Lane has got its own bakery which sells all manner of Christmas-themed cakes and biscuits, and next door to that is the coffee shop which sells every festive flavour of hot drink you can imagine, but everything’s closed at this time of night. Most of the shopkeepers have their own kettle in the back room, which will probably get more use now we’re all in competition with each other and buying coffees from the coffee shop makes it more likely that they will be the winners. It makes me sad just thinking about it. I don’t want to work somewhere that I can’t even go and buy a gingerbread tiffin latte because of this awful competition between us.
I take the two mugs of tea in one hand and walk down the silent lane and back towards the staff-only entrance to the storage rooms.
‘You still conscious, Grinch?’ I call out as I enter the code one-handed and use my foot to manoeuvre round the door and close it behind me.
‘Define conscious,’ he replies from inside the storage room.
It makes me laugh. ‘That counts,’ I say as I go in the doorway and find him sitting in exa
ctly the same place I left him. He doesn’t look like he’s moved a centimetre. ‘How are you feeling?’
He opens his eyes and looks up at me. ‘Extremely grateful to the doctor who prescribed these lovely painkillers.’
His cheeks are flushed and his skin tone looks a lot brighter than it did before. I put my own mug on the box and crouch down in front of him. Before he has a chance to move, I reach out and lift his good hand and push the hot mug into it, letting him curl shaking fingers around the handle and close them, and I keep mine curled over his for a moment too long. ‘Here. Tea is clinically proven to help in all medical emergencies. Probably.’
He smiles his wide, open smile. ‘I’m fine, Nia. This is not a medical emergency.’
‘There are people in coffins who look better than you did just now.’
His mouth curves into one of those wide impossible-to-stop smiles as he lifts the mug of tea and takes a sip without taking his eyes off me. ‘Flipping heck, do you take a bit of tea with your sugar?’
‘Hot. Sweet. Drink up.’ I give him my most menacing look and pick up my own mug, and have to hide the shudder as the sweetness assaults my taste buds. Maybe I overdid it a little on the sugar front.
‘You should go, Nia,’ he says as I sit down on the box next to him. ‘My filter goes when I’ve taken these. Usually I take them behind closed doors so no one has to see me in this state.’
‘So no one can look after you?’
‘So no one can use it as blackmail material later.’
It sounds bitter and sad and makes me feel like an icy cold arrow has just hit my back. ‘What kind of people do you have in your life?’
‘Ones who aren’t like you, obviously.’ His wide brown eyes are blinking slower than usual. ‘Usually I start asking my Alexa barely legible things that she can hardly decipher. I keep waking up in the mornings and finding the app on my phone has got a list of nonsensical questions I’ve been asking, like: “Why do I feel cold without my teeth?” and “How many photos of encyclopaedias do I need?” And I assure you I have all my own teeth and don’t own any encyclopaedias, never mind take photos of them.’
I’ve made the mistake of taking another sip of tea and it comes out of my nose as I snort with laughter again.
He laughs too and then groans. ‘And I can’t believe I just told you that. That I ask my smart speaker nonsensical questions until I fall asleep or that it’s the most exciting thing I’ve got to talk to.’
‘Me too,’ I say quietly. ‘I mean, with the being alone thing, not with the nonsensical questions. I don’t feel cold without my teeth or take many photos of encyclopaedias.’
He giggles even though it’s obviously painful. ‘Please ignore everything I say. I’m at the stage where I’d tell you my bank login details and my mother’s maiden name and forget about it by morning, so feel free to take advantage.’
I’m sitting on his undamaged right side and I scooch a bit closer until my thigh presses against his and my arm grazes against his bare forearm.
I don’t know what it is about this man, but there’s something that makes me want to be closer than is normal with someone I only met yesterday. And I’m still not a hundred per cent sure he isn’t a giant nutcracker come to life.
I’m so distracted by my thoughts that I jump when his head flops to the side to rest on my shoulder. ‘Can I lean on you?’ he mumbles, completely missing the fact that he already is. ‘You can yell at me if I fall asleep then; it’s only going to hurt more if I hit the floor.’
I instantly stiffen because it’s been a heck of a long time since I had a man get quite this close, but he lets out a long, slow breath, and everything gets heavier as he relaxes, and after a few moments, I realise I don’t actually mind. At all. I concentrate on the spot of heat where our arms are touching.
I love how open he seems tonight. Yesterday I thought he was so uptight that we’d never be friends, but he seems different now. I know I’ve caught him at a bad moment – hurting, vulnerable, and without his walls up, but there’s something even more endearing about him tonight. Yesterday I thought he was so much of a Disney prince that he could’ve stepped out of an animated film. He seemed sarcastic and untouchable, and even though I could see there was something more than a broken arm bothering him, he’d never admit it.
But now when his head’s leaning heavily on my shoulder, his floppy hair is smooshed up in several different directions, and the dark circles under his eyes make it obvious that he hasn’t been sleeping even without him telling me, he seems even better than a Disney prince – he seems like a real guy who isn’t as infallible as he’d have people believe. And it’s all down to a nutcracker yet again. Nutcrackers keep showing up in our lives.
He’s still got his mug of tea in his right hand and he manages to sip it without moving his head from my shoulder. ‘Thank you for the cup of … well, it couldn’t really be called tea … but it’s the best cup of liquefied sugar I’ve ever had.’
‘I don’t usually drink tea like this. You know why I made it sweet.’
‘To give me such a sugar rush that I forget about the pain?’
I try to hold back the laugh because I don’t want to shake him when he’s leaning so heavily against me. ‘Obviously.’
He rests the cup on his thigh, still holding on to the handle with his good hand, and I get one of my hands behind my head and pull my hair out from where it’s trapped under his head. My grown-out bob cut is over my shoulders now and the longest layers have almost reached my armpits, and I can feel my head being pulled down by the weight of him against me.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbles, shifting just enough to let me free my hair. I was worried about moving in case he thought I didn’t want him there, but I’m glad when he settles his head back on my shoulder. He can stay there all night, frankly. It’s been a long time since I had a man this gorgeous sit this close. I’ve kept all men at arm’s length since Brad. Even when I’ve been in relationships, I’ve never let my guard down, never truly been myself, never allowed anyone to get close enough to hurt me like Brad did. Never really relaxed with anyone.
But there’s something so calming about him being so close, still doing the four-second breathing technique, and I find my breathing falling into sync with his and feel myself relaxing too, surrounded by the heady scent of his cologne. He smells so delicious that I’m half-tempted to lick his neck just to make sure he doesn’t taste as good as he smells. But that would be a bit too weird, even for me. He smells of nutmeg and cloves and something orangey – it’s a surprisingly Christmassy cologne for someone who hates Christmas so much.
He takes another sip of tea and rests the cup on his knee again.
‘What’s your story then?’ I murmur, afraid that speaking in my regular voice will break the calm quietness that’s settled over us.
He groans. ‘When I said you could take advantage of me, I meant my credit card’s in my wallet, the PIN is 7829, and I won’t remember this in the morning. Please don’t make me talk as well.’
I’m not sure whether to laugh or snort and end up doing a disturbing mix of both. ‘Did you seriously just give me your card number?’
‘I don’t know. Did I?’
‘It’s a good thing I’m not interested in robbing you blind then, isn’t it?’ I lean my head to the side so it rests against the top of his. ‘Tell me, Grinch. How does someone who hates Christmas end up working in a Christmas decoration shop in a Christmas village in the most Christmassy part of Wiltshire?’
He lets out a long sigh and I can almost hear him resigning himself. ‘My father runs a festive business and next Christmas, I have to take over. He’s handing me the reins, so to speak.’
‘You? Running a Christmas business?’ I say in surprise, trying to ignore how much I want to laugh at the pun. ‘It’s not delivering toys, is it? In a sleigh? On Christmas Eve? He’s not literally handing you the reins? Because there have been movies about Christmas-hating children having to take over from Santa
Claus fathers …’
He laughs too. ‘No. It’s …’ He goes quiet for a moment before he speaks again. ‘It’s Christmas crackers. You know, the pull, bang, party hat, joke things. It started with those and then branched out into seasonal decorations and accessories for other celebrations throughout the year. He and my mum built it up from scratch decades ago and it’s been their baby for as long as I’ve known. My parents have put every waking hour into it for over forty years, and now it’s my turn.’
‘They’re retiring?’
He hesitates again and lets out a long breath. ‘Yeah. Well, my dad is, and my mum won’t be able to do it on her own, so it’s time for me to step up and take over.’
‘That doesn’t sound like your ideal job.’
‘I’ve only known you for a day and you already know me too well.’
‘It was the overflowing Christmas cheer in you that gave it away. You don’t want to take over?’
‘Of course I don’t. I despise Christmas. It’s bad enough that I already work there, but I’m in the office. Sales and distribution, figures, that sort of thing. I don’t have to get involved in the Christmas stuff.’
I can’t see his face but I can hear the scorn in his voice. ‘So that’s where the bad jokes come from.’
‘Oi. My jokes are class. Why can’t penguins fly?’
I grin because I know this one. ‘Because they’re a chocolate biscuit?’
‘Because their feet can’t reach the plane pedals.’
I try not to laugh. I really try because he seems so earnest, but it gets the better of me and I end up cackling so hard I’d make any witch jealous.
‘You seriously work for a Christmas cracker company?’ I say when I’ve recovered some dignity.
‘They’re just a thing I have to sell. I shut myself into my office and persuade distributors to take on a product. Actually running the whole company is so much responsibility. My mum and dad love Christmas, it really matters to them, and their whole company is based on their love of it and bringing people together, and all that fun stuff you probably love too. And I just … don’t. I don’t care about Christmas. And I’m not sure what to do about it. I’m not sure what to do with it. I can’t let the company die because it means so much to my parents. They’ve put their whole lives into it and I don’t want to let them down, but honestly, if I hear one more person “donning now their gay apparel” it’s going to make me want to deck someone with a bough of holly.’
The Little Christmas Shop on Nutcracker Lane Page 7
