Kerry Barrett - Under The Mistletoe

I opened the door to a wall of icy air and felt the smile drop from my face. ‘You again?’ Oops. That sounded a bit rude. Terry thought Luke was okay, so perhaps I should try to see his better side. It wasn’t his fault that he’d made me realise not all men were as thoughtful and considerate as Adam.

‘Ten out of ten.’ Luke eyed Groucho’s sweater. ‘You going to invite me in? After all, I did ring the bell this time.’

‘Can I ask what for?’ It’s not as if this Luke owned the place; he couldn’t just call by for no good reason.

‘The chandelier bulbs blew during that storm, yeah? Of course, if you’d rather fix them yourself…’

‘Erm, okay,’ I muttered. He was wearing those light cords again with a blue shirt, under his unzipped anorak. The skin on his chest (what little of it I could see) was tanned and his profile straight and solid. Yet he didn’t seem the gym bunny type, like Adam, whose muscular shape was well-defined. Luke bobbed out of view for a moment, and then came in carrying a step ladder and toolbox.

‘What’s with the jumper?’ He nodded at Groucho.

Groucho barked and I released him to the ground. He rolled on his back, paws scrabbling at his stomach.

‘Think he’s trying to tell you something.’ Without asking, Luke bent down and pulled the jumper off.

‘Why did you do that?’ Honestly, forget my good intentions. He could have at least asked first.

‘He’ll overheat indoors, let alone be the laughing stock.’ He ruffled Groucho’s head. ‘That better, mate?’

Annoyingly, the little dog ruffed.

‘He has been taken out this morning, hasn’t he?’

‘There’s no need to check up on us,’ I said stiffly. ‘We found the list of instructions. It’s not rocket science.’

‘How about a cup of tea then, Jess?’ He leant forward towards me. Once more I smelt his musky aftershave that made the word “sex” pop into my head.

‘It’s Kimmy,’ I muttered.

‘Huh?’

Arghhh! This man really was soooo annoying!

‘I might put the kettle on,’ I sniffed, ‘if you have a look at the shower in my room. It’s dripping. Or leave me a large pair of pliers and I’ll unscrew it later. I reckon the washer’s damaged.’

He stared at me for a second. ‘No. It’s okay. I’ll take a look. Where are you sleeping?’

‘At the back of the house, on the left.’

‘Lily’s room.’ His face softened. ‘She suffered from insomnia; preferred her own space so she could do her embroidery in the night, without waking up Walter.’

Luke must have known the Carmichaels well. He made them sound more like relatives than former employers.

‘Milk, no sugar, thanks Jess,’ he beamed.

I glared, turned three sixty degrees and made my way back into the kitchen. Scraping my hair back into a ponytail, I ignored his irritating whistling. I seized some flour, sugar butter, eggs, rummaged around for a sieve and mixing bowl, then grabbed the fab silicone cupcake pan Jess had bought me for my last birthday. There was nothing better for stress than beating cake batter – apart from eating it of course, once it had been baked, iced and sprinkled. Mmm.

Three quarters of an hour later, six naked cupcakes stood on a wire rack, almost cool and waiting to be dressed. I’d mixed the batter with a generous dollop of mincemeat and was just finishing off the brandy buttercream icing, which I piped on top. Then I delicately added a green marzipan holly leaf and red berry to each one. Just as well I’d subbed our expenses money to pay for my baking ingredients. I grinned to myself. This was the kitchen I’d always dreamed of. Film crews could tape my latest series here: Kimmy’s Sixty Minute Meals (I wasn’t as quick as Jamie Oliver).

‘All done,’ said a voice behind me.

I turned around and to my annoyance my cheeks burned. He’d taken off his anorak, unbuttoned his shirt a little and had rolled up the sleeves. Determined to find a distraction from his appealingly toned skin, I focused on a scab above his eyebrow.

‘Um, your cup of tea, I forgot…’

‘Let me.’ He brushed past me to wash his hands before filling the kettle. He reached for the packet of tea bags and my eyes ran over his lean back. He was lankier than Adam; looked as if he kept himself in shape without really trying.

‘How’s your head?’ I said, when the drinks were ready. We sat down at the breakfast table and he helped himself to a cupcake. Deep breaths. Must be nice, because apart from anything else I wanted to quiz him and find out why some of the bedrooms – particularly the one where I’d seen the moon-face – were locked.

‘I’ll live.’ Luke shrugged. ‘You not having one?’

‘It’s lunch time.’

‘But you might have poisoned it; perhaps you still think I’m the Harpenden Ripper.’ He took a knife out of a nearby drawer and cut the cake into four. He offered me a quarter.

‘Thanks.’ Why did I say that? After all, I was the host and he was the guest. Although nothing made me happier than watching someone stuff their face with my cake. It made me feel like I’d won the lottery or magically fitted into a size ten.

‘Not bad.’ Crumbs fell from his mouth and I felt an inexplicable urge to run my finger along his top lip, which was covered with the brandy buttercream icing. Not that there was any need as, seconds later, he slowly licked it off with his tongue. I touched my throat. No surprise that he didn’t use a napkin like Adam. Good, reliable, straightforward Adam, who knew my name was Kimmy and didn’t break into houses to cavort around with headless dummies.

‘Lily made amazing cakes,’ he said. ‘A rich fruity one with brandy was one of her specialities.’

I took a bite and then another. Mmm, great, the sponge was lovely and light, despite the mincemeat. The sugar soon worked its magic and made me think that maybe Luke wasn’t so bad after all. Another bite. I mean, here we were, drinking together, making chit-chat…

‘Yes – I’ve heard about her secret recipe book that some of her so-called friends have been trying to get their hands on,’ I said.

Luke picked up another quarter, leaving me the slice with the marzipan holly.

‘So, Miss Cake-baker, what’s the story? Why are you really here?’

I almost choked. ‘Pardon?’

He lolled against the back of the stool. ‘We both know you two girls aren’t housesitters.’

‘And what makes you say that?’ I said airily, and tried to keep my cool.

‘For a start, you’ve picked holly out of the garden and, along with that gaudy tinsel, decorated the house. Then I spotted a framed photo of you and some bloke out on show, in your bedroom. The first day here you’re baking and worried about a slightly dripping shower as if you hope to stay here for a long time. Then there’s that god awful dog sweater.’ He took a swig of tea. ‘You’ve even bought potpourri for the lounge. All of these things say to me that you see Mistletoe Mansion as some kind of home, rather than a job. Housesitters don’t become attached like that. They bring the minimum amount of stuff and leave half of it packed.’

‘I’m… a bit of a homebird,’ I waffled. ‘What’s wrong with trying to make a place cosy, especially at this time of year? Anyway, what is this? Oprah?’ His eyes flashed as he grinned and for some reason part of me enjoyed the banter.

He smirked. ‘Bet the reason you’re here involves a man. That guy in the photo?’

‘I’m a professional woman.’ I cleared my throat. ‘This job is not some knee-jerk reaction to Adam and me… It’s just another contract.’

‘Whatever you say.’

‘And anyway… This place, I can’t explain it… it’s got a good feeling,’ I said and shrugged. ‘It doesn’t feel empty. It feels like a home.’