‘We could?’
‘I have to take over my father’s business next year and I don’t know what to do with it. I need to find some Christmas spirit. That’s what I came here for, and I can’t think of anyone more full of Christmas spirit than someone with your taste in jumpers. I don’t “get” Christmas, Nia. I don’t understand why so many people love it. And you do. I need someone like you in my life.’
No matter the context, I can’t deny it’s nice to hear that. Most of the men in my life have said the exact opposite.
‘And I know a little bit about retail and I can’t help but notice that your shop doesn’t exactly stand out. Let me help you save it – and make sure you’re one of the chosen few who come back next year, and in return, show me why Christmas means so much to you. Help me understand why it’s important to people, why it matters so much, because I don’t think I can do what’s required of me next year without some help.’
‘You want me to un-Grinch you?’
He starts singing, ‘Un-Grinch my heart,’ to the tune of the Toni Braxton classic “Unbreak My Heart”. ‘Say you’ll mistletoe me again.’
I get so lost in the fit of giggles that I snort and it doesn’t even matter because he’s laughing so much too, even though it must be painful. How is it possible that one man can be so simultaneously adorable and as irritating as finding a paintbrush bristle in dried paint and having to sand the whole item down and start again?
It takes a few minutes for me to be able to breathe again, and I’m not sure if he’s quiet because he’s trying not to pressure me or if he’s trying not to die because laughing seems like one of his most painful activities.
‘Well, I’ve never been afraid of a challenge.’ I glance down at his tousled dark hair still on my shoulder. ‘A really challenging challenge.’
‘Oh, thanks,’ he says with another laugh.
‘I’ve got my family coming for Christmas for the first time,’ I say as I think about it, even though I can’t imagine ever turning down a chance to turn a Christmas hater into a Christmas lover. ‘Usually my mum hosts but she’s got high blood pressure and her doctor’s told her to avoid stress, so I said I’d do it, and then Mum said, “Oh, brilliant. Your brother’s bringing his new girlfriend and those cousins we haven’t seen for five years are coming,” and long story short, I’m hosting Christmas for five extra people including distant relatives who weren’t happy that Grandma left her cottage to me and are probably coming to inspect it and make sure I haven’t wrecked the place yet, and my brother’s new girlfriend who he met while travelling and who doesn’t speak a word of English, and it has to live up to my mother’s expectations. And she shops in Waitrose. I shop in Aldi. I need all the help I can get.’
‘And you enjoy this?’
‘Yeah. I mean, when I agreed I thought it’d just be me and Mum and maybe my brother if he was back from his travels, but unexpected guests are part of Christmas.’
‘And you think I can help?’
‘I have everything to do. I haven’t even got a tree yet, never mind food shopping, baking, or present wrapping. The only thing I’m ahead on is gift shopping thanks to the traditional Black Friday “it’s three weeks until Christmas and I’ve got nothing for anyone” panic and spending most of the day online shopping in the sales.’
‘You’ve never heard of gift vouchers?’
‘You can’t give people gift vouchers for Christmas! You’re supposed to think about what they’d like and put some thought and love into each gift.’
‘What if the thing they’d like is gift vouchers? Or cash?’
I make a noise of horror. ‘No! Cash is even worse. At least with a gift voucher, you’ve given some thought to a shop they might like.’
‘I clearly have a lot to learn,’ he says with a laugh. ‘So, it’s a deal then? I’ll help with your shop and you help me find some joy in the festive season?’
I rest my head against his gently again and nod.
He’s still holding our hands up and his fingers tighten around mine again. ‘It’s a deal. I’d say shake hands but we’re already shaking hands.’
‘We seem to do that a lot,’ I mumble.
He rests our joined hands back on his thigh but makes no move to detach himself. Instead his middle finger rubs mindless circles on the back of my hand. ‘So how does that work then, if your brother’s girlfriend doesn’t speak English?’
‘That remains to be seen.’
‘I’m not sure if he’s an idiot or a genius. Maybe my relationships would’ve been better if we hadn’t been able to communicate.’
‘Maybe mine would’ve been better if we had.’
He laughs a gentle laugh of sympathy that makes me feel more connected to him than our joined hands and his head on my shoulder.
I lose track of how long we sit there. Everything’s quieter than the normal after-closing hours of Nutcracker Lane because down here in the storage room, the noise of the weather outside is muted and the only sound is each other’s breathing, and for the first time in months, I’m just concentrating on the weight of him beside me and the feel of his fingers between mine, and not on how many more reindeer I have to cut with my wood cutter, how many sheets of MDF I need to buy, or if I’ve got enough white paint to cover sixteen snowmen or the right shade of orange for a penguin’s beak.
All the talk of the Grinch makes me start humming “Where Are You, Christmas?” from the Jim Carrey film under my breath and I love the feel of his face shifting into another smile through my jumper.
‘You’ve started my un-Grinching early.’ He sounds half-asleep.
‘I’d sing but you’re already in enough pain without adding burst eardrums to the mix.’
‘You can if you want. I’m pretty sure I won’t remember this in the morning. Actually, I hope I won’t remember it in the morning, given some of the things I’ve admitted out loud tonight.’
I squeeze his hand, which is inexplicably still in mine. In any other circumstance, I’m pretty sure this would be weird, but it feels completely natural with him, and I could quite comfortably sit here until we both fell asleep, even though the box of whatever decorations we’re sitting on is getting increasingly uncomfortable and I’m fairly sure I’ve got a nutcracker’s sceptre digging in my backside.
‘Hey, do you have to drive home tonight?’ It’s ages later when the thought occurs to me.
‘Yeah, but I’ve got a few hours of work ahead of me yet. I’ll be fine by the time I’m done.’
‘No.’ I’ve completely lost track of time as we’ve been sitting here and I’m surprised it’s past 10 p.m. when I check my watch. I pull my hand out of his and push gently at his arm so he knows he’s got to move, then I stand up and stretch my legs out, fold my arms and give him my most authoritative look. ‘Just no. Come on, I’m within walking distance – you can come home with me.’
He blinks up at me. ‘I’m not good company. You barely know me and you want me at your house?’
‘Nope.’ I shrug. ‘But you’re not getting behind a wheel in that state – you’ve already been in enough accidents lately, and you’re not staying here working for God knows how many more hours.’
‘I’m not?’
I shake my head.
‘Prevent other shopkeepers from working – one way to get rid of the competition, I suppose.’
‘You can barely stay upright. How much work do you think you’re going to get done in that condition?’ I ask with a raised eyebrow.
He looks down at himself. ‘Fair point, well made.’
‘Good.’ I give him a satisfied nod. ‘I’ve got a veggie hotpot with cheesy dumplings in the slow cooker. When did you last have a proper meal?’
‘Last night.’
‘A proper homecooked meal? Which you cooked to perfection with your one arm?’ I raise the other eyebrow. He does not look like he regularly eats well. He looks like he’s struggling with the injuries more than he’ll willingly let on.
�
�Well, no, a Big Mac. But it was a meal and it was cooked.’
I let out another snort. I really am going to have to stop snorting in front of him. He’s going to think there’s pig in my DNA at this rate. ‘Well, Big Macs don’t come with cheesy dumplings. If that doesn’t sway you, nothing will. Can you move yet?’
‘We’ll find out …’ He shifts minutely, edging himself upright.
I hold my hand out to pull him up like I did in the shop yesterday and he grins as he slips his hand into mine again and stumbles to his feet.
‘I’m fine,’ he says eventually, squeezing my hand once before letting it go and stepping back.
I miss the feel of his hand in mine as he moves carefully, stretching slightly and stamping his feet to get feeling back into them. He pulls his black T-shirt down and readjusts the sling while I pick up the nutcracker he dropped hours ago and go to put it back in the box.
‘Keep it,’ James says. ‘I won’t sell him. Or his family.’
I look at him questioningly, and he continues. ‘Because you like him. We’ll find the rest of them and put them out somewhere. Where they’re meant to be.’
‘Thanks. That’s really nice of you.’ I straighten the nutcracker’s white beard and brush his hair down.
‘Maybe I’m not a lost cause after all.’
I grin at him because underneath his sarcasm and quick wit, there’s a softness there too, and I like his kindness and willingness to listen to me talking about Nutcracker Lane tonight, even though he hates Christmas and isn’t going to think about this place again once the festive season is over.
As we walk out of the storeroom and along the corridor, he dodges past me and pulls the door open, and I look up at him with a smile and meet his pale brown eyes as he stands back to let me go through first.
A real Prince Charming.
Chapter 4
‘It’s freezing tonight.’ James holds the entrance door open and lets me through before closing it behind him and pulling his oversized hoody tighter.
I shiver as we step out onto the walkway surrounding the car park. Our car park is on the opposite side of the building to the car park for the nutcracker factory, and now there’s just one solitary car left in it, parked in the end space near the point where I shortcut across the border. It must be his. ‘Can you still drive?’
‘Yeah, without the sling on. Thankfully it’s an automatic and I’m right-handed.’
It’s parked under a lamppost so I can tell it’s blue and looks like a sensible sort of car, and nothing like the flashy and impractical sports car I’d imagined him driving.
There’s a little path through the stubby green bushes and the earth under our feet is crunchy and iced over as I take my usual route across the border and make sure he’s following me.
He’s got his hand shoved into his pocket and his black hoody zipped up to his chin, and his breath appears in front of his face every time he exhales. He’s careful on the uneven icy ground of the border, and he puts his hand out for balance as we start down the hill, taking care with each step, and I’m not sure if he’s just being careful in the dark, with the ice, or if he’s still in more pain than he’s letting on, or maybe all three.
I know I shouldn’t touch him again, I’ve already got far too close to him tonight, but it seems wrong not to hold my hand out, and when I do, instead of taking it, he loops his right arm over my outstretched hand so my arm is hooked through his and he squeezes it against his good side.
Neither of us speaks, and I breathe into my scarf to avoid looking up at him because it should feel weird to walk arm in arm down the street with a man you barely know, but it doesn’t.
I love walking home in the dark at this time of year and seeing all the Christmas lights twinkling from every house. All of my neighbours make an effort with their festive decorations, and each house has lights twinkling from porches and roofs; some have twinkly trees outside and others have left their curtains open to show their inside trees and star silhouettes in the windows.
We turn the corner where Stacey meets me every morning and start walking along the narrower street towards my cottage.
‘Why can I already tell which one is yours?’ James says, but he doesn’t sound insulting about it.
I stop at the little wooden gate and unlatch it, letting my arm slip out of his as I pull away to dash up the garden path and unlock the door to let us in out of the cold, while frantically trying to remember if I’ve left bras hanging anywhere or knickers drying on the clothes airer. It’s been a long time since I’ve invited a man home, and he’s suffering enough tonight. He doesn’t need to come face-to-face with my underwear too. When I turn around to invite him in, I’m surprised to see he’s still standing at the gate, looking up at my house with an expression of awe.
‘Your house looks like it should have gumdrops on the roof.’
‘And now I know those painkillers really do make you loopy,’ I say even though it’s impossible not to grin at him. I don’t have many Christmas lights outside, just one string stapled along each angle of the roof, and a string of candle-shaped bulbs wound through the picket fence separating me from my neighbours on either side of the narrow front garden, and I’m suddenly glad I’ve got them on a timer that’s set to come on from five until midnight every night, even though my mother is keen to point out that I’m wasting electricity if I’m not home. I’ve been working late so often lately, and in the last couple of weeks – since it got close enough to Christmas to be socially acceptable to have lights up – it’s made me happy to come home to the multicoloured twinkling bulbs, and I don’t want to be the only house on the cul-de-sac not lit up after dark.
He’s still dawdling so I duck inside to switch the heating on, kick my shoes off, and then go back to the doorway.
‘It’s like a picture-perfect little Christmas cottage. I’m not sure if it looks like it should belong in a snowglobe or like you live alone in the middle of the woods and leave trails of breadcrumbs out for unsuspecting children.’
I laugh out loud and quickly clamp my hand over my mouth for fear of waking any neighbours who have gone to bed early.
At least he looks suitably guilty for making me laugh as he wanders up the paving slab path, his fingers trailing over the holly bushes glistening with frost and leaving lines through the ice covering the wooden railing on the steps up to the door.
I stand back to let him inside while I go through to the living room, turning on the lights and the candle warmer, and wishing I already had my tree up because that always adds to the cosiness of any room. I throw a firelighter into the wood burner and add a couple of logs as it starts to burn, and then squeeze back past him as he’s holding on to the wall inside the door and toeing his boots off. I go into the kitchen to check on the slow cooker and inhale the warm, homely scent of the veggie hotpot cooking.
‘Wow,’ he says from the living room. ‘Do you have anything that isn’t festive? Is there any one thing in your whole house that doesn’t have some formation of reindeer and snowflakes on it?’
‘Not at this time of year,’ I call back cheerfully. I have a chest upstairs that my grandma left full of hand-knitted Christmas blankets she’d made or bought over the years, along with throws and cushion covers. Even the doormat has snowmen on it. ‘It’s only once a year, I like to make the most of it. It’s nowhere near finished yet.’
‘Not finished,’ he mutters. You wouldn’t expect to be able to hear someone rolling their eyes from another room, but surprisingly I can.
I take the lid off the slow cooker and give the hotpot a stir until I’m satisfied I haven’t brought him back here to accidentally poison him. I fill the kettle, and when I go back to the living room, he’s looking at my nutcracker collection on the window ledge.
‘Have you got enough?’ He’s holding a medium-sized soldier with a furry hat and a sword and moving the lever in its back up and down to open and close its mouth.
‘They were a thing. My grandma found one
she thought looked like my granddad and bought it for him the first year they were married, and ever since they bought a new one every year. When he died, it became a tradition for me and her to walk up to Nutcracker Lane on opening day and choose a new one from the factory outlet shop to add to the collection every year.’
He puts the soldier back in the space it came from, being careful not to knock any of the others in case they fall over and we have a nutcracker domino effect on our hands. He picks up the little wood-coloured one he gave me yesterday and holds it out questioningly. ‘No dart holes?’
I give him an offended look. ‘I haven’t had time to get one yet this year so he’ll do for now. Opening day is different on Nutcracker Lane when you’re working there. I didn’t have a chance to go across to the factory outlet where they sell them.’
He puts it down and picks up another short, stumpy one with a glossy green sceptre and a glittered red jacket. ‘I used to make these.’ He sounds lost in thought.
‘You used to make Christmas decorations?’ I say, not intending for it to come out quite so disbelievingly.
‘Only for crackers. The really tiny squat ones that are chiselled from one piece of wood and covered in glitter paint. A long time ago now.’
‘Do you work with your hands much?’ I think about how he said he was going to fix the nutcracker I broke yesterday and how he mentioned mending the snow machine, and his talents when it came to repainting the shop sign.
‘I used to, but not anymore. Now I just sit in an office and stare at my computer, with numbers and figures blurring on the spreadsheet before my eyes.’
Before I have a chance to question him, he puts that nutcracker down and picks up a snowglobe, a clay Christmas tree inside with a tiny model of a young girl in a pink coat beside it.
‘My granddad made that for me. He’d never made one before but he knew I liked snowglobes and he wanted to give me something special. I was surgically attached to my pink coat at the time.’
The Little Christmas Shop on Nutcracker Lane: The perfect cosy and uplifting Christmas romance to curl up with! Page 9
