Fiona Harper - Kiss Me Under the Mistletoe

Another glint! There!

Once again she found herself flattened against the wall. But this time she let out a groan and covered her face with her hands. It wasn’t a telephoto lens but a big, shiny spade that had reflected the light. Ben the gardener-guy’s spade. It was Sunday afternoon and he was here. Just as he’d been for the previous two weeks. Only she’d forgotten he’d be here in all her excitement about Jack coming.

Not that she ever really saw him arrive when he came. At some point in the afternoon, she’d become aware that he was around. She’d hear him whistling as he walked up to the top lawn, or hear the hum of a mower in the distance.

So why had she felt the need to slam herself against the wall and pretend she wasn’t here? This was stupid.

She stopped leaning against the wall and drew herself upright. There. Then she walked primly across the room and out of the door. No one was hiding. She was just walking around inside her own house, as she was perfectly entitled to do. Okay, she’d chosen a path across the room that had meant she couldn’t have been seen from the window, but that didn’t mean anything. It had simply been the most direct route. Sort of.

She found herself in the kitchen. It was in serious need of updating, with pine cabinets that had darkened to an almost offensive orange, but it had a fantastic flagstone floor and always seemed warm—probably because, in the now defunct chimney breast, there was an Aga. It looked lovely and spoke of families gathered in the kitchen sharing overflowing Sunday lunches, but after a more than a month at Whitehaven she still had no idea how to work it.

Well, that wasn’t strictly true. She knew how to boil the kettle. And, at this present moment, that seemed like a shockingly good idea. She filled the battered, thick-bottomed kettle with water, lifted the heavy lid on the Aga hotplate and left the kettle to boil.

She hoped Jack would love Whitehaven as much as she did. What was she going to do if he decided he didn’t like living in the depths of the countryside, far away from the flash London townhouse she’d shared with Toby? It was the only place he’d ever known as home. Well, that and the New York apartment. And the villa in Beverley Hills. Whitehaven was charming, but it lacked the gloss of her former houses.

She’d been getting what she needed out of the cupboards while she’d been thinking, and now discovered that she’d placed two teabags in two mugs. Something she’d done regularly in the early days after her split with Toby, but hadn’t done for months now.

Her first instinct was to put the teabag and mug back in the cupboard, but that urge was hijacked by another one.

She might as well make one for Ben. She gave a short, hollow laugh. It would be the nearest thing to payment she’d given him for all his hard work. The lawns were looking fabulous and, little by little, the shrubs and borders close to the house were starting to lose their wild look. Inside and out Whitehaven was regaining some of its former glory.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t intended to pay him. Just that she’d been heartily avoiding the issue. She’d acted like a diva herself that first week, and she didn’t know how to undo that all-important first impression. As if summoned up by her thoughts, she heard the crunch of footsteps outside. A moment later Ben passed the kitchen window, probably on his way up to the greenhouses.

A cup of tea seemed like a poor effort at a truce, but it was all she had in her arsenal at the moment. Boiling water lifted and swirled the teabag in the cup. Louise hesitated. Sugar, or no sugar?

On an instinct, she put one level spoon in the cup and stirred. He looked like a man who liked a bit of sweetness.

Another laugh that was almost a snort broke the silence. Well, she’d better have a personality change on the way past the herbaceous border, then. Especially if she was truly on a peace mission. At the moment she was the dictionary definition for the absolute opposite of ‘sweetness’. Meet Louise Thornton, sour old prune.

When Louise arrived at the greenhouse, she realised she had a problem. Two hands and two cups of tea meant that she had no spare hands to open the door, or even knock on it. But it had seemed stupid to leave her mug of tea in the kitchen. By the time she’d have delivered Ben’s, discussed paying him and walked back to the house, it would have been stone cold.

She peered inside the greenhouse and tried to spot him. The structure was long and thin—almost thirty feet in length and tucked up against the north side of the walled garden to catch as much sun as possible. Down the centre was the tiled path with wrought iron grates for the under-floor heating system. The side nearest the wall of windows was lined with benches and shelves, all full of plants, but on the other side, large palms and ferns were planted in soil at floor level.

Halfway down the greenhouse a leg was sticking out amongst the dark glossy leaves. She banged the door with her foot. The leg, which had been wavering up and down in its function as a counterbalance, went still.

She held her breath and tried to decide what kind of face she should wear. Not the suspicious glare he’d received on their first meeting, that was the sure. But grinning inanely didn’t seem fitting either. In the end, she didn’t have a chance to decide between ‘calm indifference’ and ‘professional friendliness’, because the leg was suddenly joined by the rest of him as he jumped back onto the path, rubbing his hands together to rid them of loose dirt, and looked in her direction.

She held up his cup of tea and then, when his face had broken into a broad grin, she breathed out. He was obviously really thirsty, because he practically ran to the door and swung it wide. She thrust the mug towards him, ignoring the plop of hot liquid that landed on her hand as she did so.

He took it from her, smiled again, and took a big gulp. ‘Fantastic. Just how I like it. Thanks.’

Louise took a little sip out of her own chunky white mug. ‘No problem. It’s the least I can do.’

Ben lent back against one of the shelves and took another long slurp of tea. He seemed completely at ease here. She tried to copy his stance, making sure she was a good five feet away from him, but she couldn’t work out what to do with her legs and stood up again.

‘Um … about money …’

Ben raised his eyebrows.

‘I can’t let you going on doing all this for nothing.’

He shrugged. ‘It started as a labour of love. I’m just sorry I haven’t been able to do more.’

He wasn’t making this easy. All she wanted to do was to work out what the going rate was and write him a cheque. She didn’t want him to be nice. Men who were nice normally had a hidden agenda.

She put her mug down on the only spare bit of space on the shelf nearest her and drew herself taller. Only, he didn’t make that easy either. Her five-foot-eight wasn’t too far away from his six-foot-plus height, but however much she straightened her spine, drew her neck longer, she still felt small beside him. But this was no time for weakness. She was the boss. She was in charge.

‘Well, if you could just let me know how much you’d routinely charge for this sort of job …’

He drained his mug and looked at her with a more serious light in his eyes. ‘I can’t say any of my “routine” work resembles this in the slightest.’

Louise crossed one booted foot in front of the other and a corner of her mouth rose. Oh, this was his game. Make it seem like he nobly didn’t want anything, but sting her with an exorbitant price when it came to the crunch. And, if he played this game well, she was probably supposed to be shaking his hand and thanking him profusely for being so generous when the moment came.