HELEN BROOKS - His Christmas Bride

‘I can’t wear these when you haven’t even worn them yet,’ Blossom protested. ‘What if I spill something down the cardy?’

‘When you’ve been an absolute angel, shooting down here and looking after everyone for days on end? I think so,’ Melissa said firmly. ‘Ooh, and I’ve some gorgeous nail varnish, “opal fire”, to set those mules off. Twinkling toes and all that.’

‘Melissa, this isn’t a date.’ If she had been feeling panicky before her sister had come in, she felt a hundred times worse now.

‘I know, I know,’ Melissa said soothingly. ‘But you can’t go out with a man like Zak and look anything less than perfectly turned out. Not with the sort of women he’s seen with.’

Funny, but that didn’t help.

At eight-twenty-five Blossom was ready. She had sent Melissa downstairs a long time before this; her sister had been in danger of reducing her to a gibbering wreck.

Blossom stood staring at herself in the bedroom mirror. She couldn’t remember the last time she had taken such trouble with her appearance, but it had been worth it. The divorce had robbed her of her self-confidence so badly she’d only wanted to melt into the woodwork when she’d gone out since then. And that wasn’t like her. From a child she had always been the chatty, adventurous one, probably to compensate for not matching up to Melissa in looks, although she hadn’t realised this until all the heart searching since Dean had left her. But tonight she didn’t look too bad. Pretty good, in fact. Passable, at least.

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