Jane Linfoot - Christmas Promises at the Little Wedding Shop - Celebrate Christmas in Cornwall with this magical romance!

‘Poor boy.’ Jess sounds more sympathetic than cross. ‘He’s an only child, living at home. If he doesn’t get his own way, he get his tripod in a twist every time. Apart from that, he’s usually second to none.’

He might have sounded objectionable, but at least he reminded me why I work with objects not people. What’s more, I’m secretly glad there’s someone else my age who hasn’t got their independent accommodation a hundred per cent sorted. And I’m inwardly cheering that he’s left so fast. All in all, if I had to meet Jules at all, it couldn’t have gone better.

I knock back both my drinks to celebrate, and beam at Poppy. ‘Time for a Festive Margarita, then?’

She grins at me. ‘That’s more like it. Rafe and Bart and Immie will be here soon. Let’s see who we can find to introduce you to in the meantime.’

Considering I wasn’t up for a party, the next few hours fly by. And the funny thing about Champagne cocktails is, they slip down so easily it’s hard to keep count. By the time I head off up the stairs, with the excuse that I can’t go to Jaggers and keep a clear head for the shoot tomorrow, my legs are feeling strangely wobbly. As I cross the hallway, I decide to run my own sobriety test. I’m staring so hard at my leopard print pumps as I try to walk in a straight line along a floorboard, I completely miss that there’s someone hurrying towards me. The first I know is when I canon into a denim-shirted torso.

‘Shit, I’m sorry …’ Seeing how fast that came out, I can’t be so drunk.

The jeans I’m staring down at are soft and worn, and run down to scuffed boots. Then I spot the poppers stretched tight across a pretty ripped chest. However well I was sticking to my floorboard, the way I’m wanting to rip open those poppers has to be a sign of too much fizz. Then I take in a fist full of mistletoe. As I blink and breathe in a guy who smells fab, half of me thinks I’m dreaming. The other is almost ready to swoon and take advantage.

‘Holly Berry Pink Cheeks? Why aren’t you at the party?’

I jolt and lurch away. ‘Rory?’ If I’d had another freezing wave crash over me, I couldn’t have sobered up any faster. As it is, from the jangling of sleigh bells and the white pine twigs sticking in my ear, I seem to have landed mostly in the Christmas tree. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

His lips are twitching. ‘I get invitations to all the best parties. I like to drop by and check my Champagne’s going down okay.’ Then he lets his smile go. ‘If you’re typical, it looks like everyone’s had plenty tonight.’

Now I’m sober and indignant. ‘What the hell kind of player walks round parties clutching a handful of mistletoe?’ I’m dying inside because I even thought of leaning in back there.

His face creases as he laughs again. ‘One who makes sure Jess has every detail in place in the shop before she leaves for her holiday.’ He looks at the bundle in his hand. ‘I’m not so much a player, more her mistletoe supplier.’

What’s mistletoe got to do with a wine and beer seller? If I’m not keeping up here, it’s nothing to do with the booze. ‘So you’re not …’

‘Out to snog you in the stairwell?’ His laugh is very low this time. ‘Not unless you order that specifically. We like to go the extra mile for our customers, wherever it takes us.’ His face splits into the broadest grin yet.

‘As if …’ I’m shaking my head hard enough to rubbish that reply and fan my burning face at the same time. ‘Great, I’m delighted for you. I imagine you’ll have lots of very happy customers.’ I’m not only talking bollocks, but I’m also sinking backwards into the tree branches. They’re springy like a cushion, but any minute now I’m going to reach the point of no return and topple over. And probably take the tree with me.

‘We import the mistletoe from Normandy along with our festive cider, to give away with our Christmas orders. That’s the kind of detail Huntley and Handsome customers appreciate.’ Rory suspends his mission statement for long enough to frown at me. ‘Are you sure you’re okay there, Holly Red?’

Before I have time to answer, an arm slides round my back. Next thing, I’m out of the tree and vertical enough to protest loudly as I push him away. ‘Hey, no need to wade in. I was totally fine there. Thanks all the same.’

He blinks and shakes his head. ‘Sure. So how about the stairs? It’s a long way up to the attic.’ And bugger that his dimples are there now too. ‘If you need a hand, I’m always happy to help. After throwing barrels of beer around, carrying you will be a doddle.’

I’m skimming over how he knows where I’m heading, because I’m desperate to cut him off before he gets to point out it’s happened before. I make a lunge towards the stairs, and once I grasp the handrail I feel much steadier.

‘Only a few flights up.’ And thank Christmas I’m in flats, not heels. Getting carried home by Rory isn’t something I want to remember, or repeat.

There’s that laugh again. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time. Just saying.’

Forget kicking myself for knocking back so many Christmosas, I’m actually cursing for having come down at all. As for Rory raking up the past, I’m furious enough to want to wring his neck. Which in the end is good, because suddenly my legs spring to life. Before I know it, I’m looking down at him from the enviable position of the first landing. There should be some snappy last word I could come out with, but in the end all I manage is a wave.

His voice comes floating up the stairs after me. ‘Take care up there. See you later, Red Cheeks.’

I’m crawling into bed when I finally mumble a reply. ‘Not if I see you first, mate.’

I had every reason to stay in my attic flat before. But Rory Sanderson just gave me a hundred more.

Sunday, 3rd December

At Brides by the Sea: Snowflakes, wind cheaters and yoga for mums

‘Sorry, there’s no leopard ones, but you can have a monkey, a zebra, a lion or a cat.’

It’s Poppy, and she’s talking about the cupcakes she’s been making while Jess and I have been busy downstairs. It’s no surprise that Jess doesn’t do hangovers. So we started early and moved straight on from helping the crack team clearing up in the basement to poring over the appointments book in the White Room. Jess talking me through every bride booked in for December is ideal displacement activity for both of us, because, realistically, Sera, Poppy and Lily are going to be in charge at the shop. But it keeps my mind off the engagement shoot – or more specifically Luc – and hers off her impending departure.

As I pore over the box Poppy pushes towards me and see the perfectly iced cake tops, my mouth waters. ‘I’ll have an orange cat, please. Which lucky person’s ordered these?’

‘A lion for me.’ From the way Jess strides across the room to take one, she’s momentarily forgotten her holiday wobbles. And Poppy still hasn’t answered my question.

‘Mmmm, totally delish, there’s zest in the icing too.’ It’s only when I open my eyes again, after peeling back my paper case and taking a bite, then letting the tangy icing melt on my tongue, that I realise Poppy’s hesitating. ‘Aren’t you having one, Pops?’ She eats for England, even when she’s not pregnant. I’d have put money on her going for a chocolate monkey first. Then a zebra.