The Christmas Holiday: The perfect heart-warming read full of festive magic Page 2

  ‘Where do you want that?’ he asked, indicating the stepladder.

  ‘In the back, please,’ she said, and stepped outside to open her car. The snow crunched beneath her feet, and she was relieved that it hadn’t got too deep yet. ‘It fits in the footwell.’

  He slid it inside, then regarded the car gravely. ‘I’ll help you clear the snow.’

  His expensive-looking brogues were half submerged in it. Thank goodness she’d worn knee-high boots, Evie thought. ‘There’s no need,’ she said quickly. ‘I can manage.’ She just wanted to get away from him. She’d be home soon, she reassured herself, as she scraped snow off the windscreen.

  ‘Right. I’ll be off, then. My name’s Evie, by the way,’ she said, and held out her hand. ‘Evie Miller.’ It was a bit late for niceties, but it felt wrong to drive away without introducing herself, particularly as tomorrow her invoice would be winging its way to him.

  He looked at her hand, then shook it. ‘Jake Hartwood.’

  His hand was as cold as her own, but his grip was firm and strong. Close up, though, the stench of alcohol made her recoil. How sad that such a good-looking young man had turned out so embittered and unpleasant. He might have been attractive – if he’d had a different personality.

  Still, at least she’d stood up to him. In fact, she’d surprised herself. Why couldn’t she do the same with Tim? And her parents, for that matter?

  ‘Drive slowly and stay in a low gear,’ he warned, as she got into the car.

  ‘I’ll be fine. It’s not deep.’ She shut the door and looked at the long drive that snaked away into the snow-speckled darkness. In the doorway of the Old Hall the man and his dog watched as she started the car.

  ‘Low gear indeed,’ she muttered to herself, and pressed the accelerator. She couldn’t get away fast enough. Goodbye and good riddance to him and his sour-faced advice.

  The car moved quickly, and Evie smiled to herself. Thank goodness the snow wasn’t too deep … but as the car gathered momentum, her smile slipped. She was turning the wheel to no avail. And the car was heading not down the drive but to the right. It was difficult to see, but she thought she remembered a steep slope down into the gardens. She pressed her foot hard on the brake. The car simply lurched forward. She turned the wheel as the drive wound to the left, but nothing happened. She touched the brake again. Her pulse revved up in panic. She braked harder, but the car only skidded, and the steering wheel felt loose in her hand.

  ‘No!’ she murmured, gripping the wheel harder. The car was picking up speed as it moved downhill. Muttering a prayer and a curse, she tried again and willed it to cooperate. ‘Stop!’ she cried, stamping on the brake pedal, and lifting the handbrake in desperation.

  The car rolled faster. She yanked the wheel, pressed all the pedals, took it out of gear, put it back in – but still it gathered speed and slid uncontrollably. Her heart thumped crazily. Should she jump out and abandon it? No – she couldn’t afford to pay for the repairs if it crashed. Then again, she wasn’t in any position to prevent it crashing. She glanced back. Was Jake still watching? She couldn’t see – and, anyway, at that moment the car left the drive and plunged down the slope.

  Evie gasped as it stopped. She blinked.

  The car was wedged at an angle, but she was unhurt, thank goodness. She tried to reverse, but nothing happened. She tried to go forward – it was optimistic, but if she could just turn the car, perhaps it could climb the hill back to the drive. She wound the window down, looked out, then tried the accelerator again. The wheels spun and the car sank deeper into the snow. She closed her eyes in despair. She had to face it: she was well and truly stuck.

  Chapter Two

  Jake Hartwood’s face materialised through the snow. ‘Are you hurt?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she ground out.

  He stepped back to survey the crooked angle of the car. ‘Doesn’t look good.’

  ‘I don’t know what happened – the car just wouldn’t steer!’

  ‘You mean you weren’t aiming for the ditch?’ There wasn’t a trace of humour in his expression.

  ‘Ha-ha, Mr Funny.’

  She got out. He looked like the Grim Reaper, watching her through shadowed eyes.

  This just wasn’t her lucky night. First, she’d been knocked off her stepladder, and now she’d driven into a ditch. She’d always been accident-prone, but this took the biscuit.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she told him brightly. ‘I’ll walk home and come back in the morning to collect my car.’

  It was difficult to see, but she could use her phone as a torch. Hobbling, she set off, trying to shuffle through the snow, though it was deeper than it looked and her ankle made her unsteady on her feet.

  ‘You’re going to walk home?’ he called after her disbelievingly.

  ‘No, I’m going to build a snowman,’ she joked, and faced him. ‘Yes, I’ll walk. It’s not far.’

  At least, it hadn’t seemed far when she was driving to the Old Hall.

  ‘You live in the village?’

  She nodded and tried to move again. She couldn’t decide which was less painful: putting all her weight on her injured ankle or keeping the foot flat on the ground and trying to shuffle forward through the snow, which was like wading through wet concrete. Perhaps if she found a large branch she could use it as a walking stick …

  She took another step forward, but the ankle gave way and she collapsed into the snow.

  Oh, great. Dazed, she lay there, watching as snowflakes fired down at her, stinging her face and settling on her eyelashes. Now she’d really made a fool of herself.

  A pair of strong hands reached down and lifted her.

  ‘Thanks,’ she muttered, and brushed the snow off her coat. Her cheeks burned so hot she must be lighting up the place like a glow worm.

  ‘You can’t walk home,’ he said quietly. ‘The village is two miles away, it’s dark, and it’s still snowing.’ He glanced behind him. ‘I’d offer to drive you but I’m over the limit.’

  She followed his gaze in the direction of the garage. So that explained why she hadn’t seen another car when she’d arrived.

  He sighed. ‘You’d better come back inside.’

  It wasn’t the warmest of welcomes. She glanced at the house, then back at the drive. ‘Are you sure? I don’t want to be any trouble.’

  ‘We don’t really have any choice,’ he muttered. ‘This isn’t how I planned to spend my evening.’

  ‘Me neither!’ she snapped. And cursed him: if she hadn’t hurt her ankle she’d be halfway down that drive by now, marching off towards a hot bath and her own cosy bed.

  ‘No use standing about here in the cold.’ He scooped her up into his arms.

  She yelped. ‘What are you doing? Put me down!’

  ‘Why? So you can bury yourself in the snow again? In case you hadn’t noticed, the heating in the house isn’t working yet. I really don’t recommend getting yourself any wetter or colder than you already are.’

  She blinked hard. Her pride was really taking a bashing tonight, along with her ankle. If anyone else had offered to carry her, she would have appreciated the gesture as a chivalrous act. But she was certain that Jake Hartwood didn’t have a chivalrous bone in his body. He ploughed back up the hill through the snow – though, granted, he made a good job of pretending she wasn’t heavy. She kept her eyes focused on the hall’s front door because this was far too intimate and all types of awkward.

  Smoke barked as they approached. Once they were inside, Jake kicked the front door shut behind them and it closed with a loud clunk.

  ‘You can put me down now,’ said Evie.

  He shot her a stony look and continued down the hall. He strode past the dining room, and Smoke trotted beside them, still barking with excitement.

  ‘Put me down. I’m really heavy.’

  He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked, feeling the prickle of nerves as he passed door after door, tur
ning left, right, then left again. This house was a maze. It felt as if he kept going for miles, his shoes clicking on the parquet floor.

  ‘To the study,’ he said curtly. ‘The only room with a fire.’

  Finally, he stopped in front of a door, which had been left ajar. He shouldered it open and carried her over to one of two armchairs that faced the fireplace. While he dragged a footstool in front of her, Evie looked around. This room was notably warmer than the rest of the house, and the charred remains of a thin log in the hearth explained it. She could see why she had mistakenly believed that she was alone here: the room was tucked away at the back of the house. In daylight it probably had a beautiful view of the gardens and perhaps down the valley to Willowbrook village below. Clearly, it hadn’t been redecorated yet – the dark velvet curtains were worn and faded, and the panelled walls could have done with a lick of varnish – but it was cosy, and she understood why he’d chosen to hunker down in here rather than in one of the large reception rooms.

  Her panic subsided, but she’d do well to keep her guard up: she knew next to nothing about him.

  ‘Here.’ He pointed to the footstool. ‘Put your foot up.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, and removed her wet boots.

  He closed the door, then knelt in front of the fireplace and added more logs. The flames climbed eagerly, making Evie feel better. She held up her hands to warm them and watched out of the corner of her eye as he took off his wet shoes and socks, placing them near the fire. He opened a small overnight bag and pulled out a pair of dry socks. Evie surreptitiously eyed the bag. He obviously wasn’t planning to stay more than one night, and she wondered why he had come here. The fitted bookshelves and the desk behind her were empty: the place wasn’t ready to move into yet. Had he dropped in to check on the decorating?

  ‘Are you here on your own?’ she asked warily.

  He threw her a narrow-eyed look. ‘Yes.’

  He sat down in the other armchair. Beside him, on a small side table, were a bottle of whisky, half empty, and a glass. A couple of tiny melted ice cubes floated in the amber liquid. He refilled the glass and offered her some but she shook her head.

  This isn’t how I planned to spend my evening! he’d said. She wondered what kind of man locked himself away in a cold, empty house to drink alone.

  ‘I know – I’ll call a taxi!’ she said suddenly, brightened by the idea.

  He threw her a sceptical look but said nothing and sipped his drink while she fished in her pocket for her phone.

  The taxi company’s number was engaged. She tried again and again, until eventually the receptionist answered. ‘I need a taxi,’ Evie explained, ‘to collect me from the Old Hall and drive me to Willowbrook village.’ It wasn’t far, so she’d make sure she tipped the driver generously to make it worth his while.

  ‘I’m sorry. The gritters haven’t been out and the main road is impassable.’

  ‘Oh.’ Evie’s spirits plummeted again.

  ‘No luck?’ asked Jake, when she hung up.

  She shook her head. ‘The snow’s stopped everything.’

  Smoke moved restlessly between them, then finally settled beside her. She tickled his ears and noticed Jake shoot the dog another hard look. Silence crowded the room, making Evie uncomfortable. She wished she had her patchwork with her so at least her hands would be kept busy, but her sewing bag was in the car. If she was stuck here for the night, they couldn’t very well sit in hostile silence all evening.

  ‘So this is where you were when you heard me?’ she said, reaching for the end of her long plait and absently winding it round her fingers.

  ‘Smoke heard you,’ he corrected.

  At the sound of his name, the dog lifted his head and gave a small bark.

  ‘Shush, Smoke. It’s okay,’ Evie soothed.

  ‘I would happily have ignored an intruder, but Smoke wanted to investigate.’

  The implication that she’d interrupted his evening was loud and clear. She’d never met anyone so unashamedly antisocial.

  ‘You’re a good guard dog, then, aren’t you?’ she told the Dalmatian, and he tilted his head for her to scratch behind the other ear.

  She shifted in her seat, then winced at a shaft of pain from her ankle.

  ‘The strange thing is that as soon as he saw you he switched from guard-dog mode to wanting to play. I’m afraid he hasn’t yet learned that jumping on humans isn’t well received.’

  The corners of her mouth twitched at his words. ‘But you don’t know any better, do you?’ she told Smoke. Then, to Jake, she said pointedly, ‘he was just being friendly.’

  Unlike his owner Mr Arctic.

  Evie glanced around the room again, trying hard to look on the bright side. ‘This house is so beautiful, isn’t it?’

  He didn’t respond, but she didn’t let that deter her.

  ‘I heard it has incredible views, and it’s so steeped in history. You must feel privileged to live here.’

  His mouth pinched. ‘I should have bought somewhere new, which didn’t need so much work. It would have made moving in a lot simpler and quicker.’

  ‘Oh, but this way you have the chance to decorate and adapt it to your taste. When it’s finished, it will be exactly as you want it.’

  She dreamed of having the chance to stamp her style on a place like the Old Hall. Somewhere as big as this offered so much scope. You could try a different colour scheme in every room, and different looks. State-of-the-art modern in the bedrooms, for example, and maybe a Shaker-style kitchen. But this room begged for a traditional look, picking up on all the original features, such as the wood panelling and the stone fireplace.

  ‘In the meantime, however, I have no heating, no hot water, and the bother of workmen and people like you coming in and out.’

  He was glowering into his whisky glass, and she wondered when – if ever – he’d last smiled.

  ‘Well, at least the fire’s going again and it’s toasty in here,’ she said cheerfully.

  He choked on his whisky and looked at her in disbelief.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘So to recap. I was counting on a quiet evening by myself, but instead you’re here, having wreaked havoc in my newly decorated dining room, and we’re snowed in. But it’s all right because the fire’s burning and it’s “toasty in here”.’

  Her fists clenched. He sounded just like Tim: unkind and superior. ‘I was trying to look on the bright side. Things could be worse.’

  ‘Oh, great,’ he muttered into his glass. ‘And, to top it all, I’m stuck here with Pollyanna herself.’

  ‘What did you call me?’

  ‘Pollyanna.’

  Her patience snapped. He might be her client, but she’d be damned if she was going to let another man make her feel silly and small again. ‘You’d rather I was miserable and rude like you?’

  ‘I’d rather you weren’t here at all.’

  Her nails dug into the arms of her armchair, and she didn’t care if they left indents in the brown leather. ‘So would I. But my power to influence the weather seems to have momentarily failed me. And, believe me, if I hadn’t hurt my ankle I’d be halfway home by now. I’d rather have frostbite than spend the evening with you!’

  The dog whimpered, upset by their arguing, and as she reached down to give him a reassuring pat, she realised she was beginning to sound like her reluctant host: sarcastic, crabby and not nice at all. Being trapped here with him was stressful: it was making her behave out of character. She resolved to keep herself in check. She was a cheerful person normally. He might have intended ‘Pollyanna’ as an insult, but she was a firm believer that if you looked for the good in this world you were likely to find it.

  Although, right now, she was struggling to find anything good in him.

  Jake slanted her a sidelong look. ‘How bad is it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your ankle.’

  He sounded genuinely concerned. ‘I’m fine.’

 
It was throbbing badly, but she couldn’t bring herself to admit this – not to him.

  ‘Let me see.’ He got up and knelt beside her foot.

  Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘Why?’ Was he going to finish the job with a hammer, like the woman in that Stephen King film? No, of course not. He didn’t want her to stay here a moment longer than necessary.

  ‘Why do you think?’

  She blinked and frowned. ‘Well, it’s not because you care, so I really have no idea.’

  ‘I was trying to help.’ His lips pressed flat, before he reluctantly added, ‘I used to be a doctor.’

  ‘Used to?’ He motioned for her to roll up the leg of her jeans. For some reason – perhaps because it really hurt – she complied with his silent instruction. ‘Don’t tell me – your bedside manner wasn’t up to the job?’

  He didn’t respond. Instead he bent his head to concentrate on her ankle. His hands were disarmingly gentle, his fingers warm against her skin, and although she expected him to twist it or prod where it hurt, he didn’t.

  ‘Were you struck off?’ she asked, tensing at the thought.

  ‘No.’

  She relaxed a little, but now her curiosity was piqued. ‘Then why aren’t you a doctor any more?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ she said, smiling grimly at the prospect of being stuck with him for … Who knew how long? But since they were together they might as well fill the time. And she was genuinely curious, too. It took years to qualify as a doctor. Why would someone turn their back on such a hard-earned profession?

  He sighed. ‘Can you please stop talking and let me concentrate?’

  She shrugged and watched him more closely. His stubble gave him a roguish air, but his dark hair fell in endearing waves and he had a strong jawline. She was almost disappointed when he released her ankle and rolled the leg of her jeans down.

  ‘It looks like a simple sprain,’ he said.

  His eyes were blue, but one was darker than the other. Perhaps the dancing light of the fire was playing tricks.

  ‘Ice will take down the swelling. I’ll get some.’ He got up and walked steadily towards the door.