Page 63 of The Christmas Highland Lodge

I gestured for him to return the bulging contents of the carrier bag.

Blake eyed me. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Mum can use them.’

Blake flicked me a look from under his fencing brows. He peered into the bag again and then back at me. ‘No, it’s ok,’ he said after several seconds. ‘Now that I’ve clocked all this lot, I’m hungry, so good luck trying to take them back.’

‘You’re just saying that.’

‘No, I’m not. I’m surprised you haven’t heard my stomach rumbling from over there.’

I smiled.

The silence crackled between us.

He waggled the full carrier bag. ‘This is very kind of you, even though I might spontaneously combust at the sight of tinsel.’ He paused. ‘Please let me pay you for all of this.’

‘Not at all,’ I replied, flapping my gloved hand around.

Blake rolled his eyes. ‘Has anyone ever told you that as well as being impulsive, you also have rather a stubborn streak?’

‘Yes. Once or twice. But I think that’s very hypocritical coming from you.’

‘I can’t argue with that.’ He studied me with a quiet look of bemusement. ‘Well, thank you again.’

‘You’re welcome.’ I gestured to the bag again, feeling even more self-conscious. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it.’

Blake took a step closer to me. ‘And where do you think you’re going? You are not depositing all this stuff on me and then taking off.’

My mouth dropped open and I closed it shut. All this had seemed like such a wonderful and fun idea earlier, scooping anything remotely Christmassy into my basket, but now…

Blake pointed to the carrier bag in his hand. ‘You can help me put up the tinsel and the lights. The mince pies and the Yule log can be a reward for us to enjoy after all our hard work.’

‘Are you sure?’ I gave him a tentative look.

‘Do you mean am I sure about converting my respectable business into a tinsel-filled hell? No. I’m not. But seeing as you’re here and we have all this lot, it would be a shame to waste it.’

Blake lifted out the miniature Christmas tree next and didn’t say anything. He placed it on top of his semi-circular reception desk. ‘You don’t happen to have brought that elf outfit too, by any chance?’

‘No, I bloody well haven’t,’ I laughed.

Blake examined the little tree and dived back inside the carrier bag for the yule log. A slow flicker of a smile enveloped his mouth. ‘Shame. That hat with the bell is rather sexy. Oh well, you can’t have everything.’ He jerked his dark head. ‘Come on then, Ms Grant. Tell you what, let’s have a cuppa first and some of these goodies and then you can help me transform this place into a fairground attraction? No point working on an empty stomach.’

I tucked into a generous slice of the yule log, while Blake devoured one of the crumbly mince pies, washed down with a mug of builder’s tea each.

I eyed him over the rim of my mug as we sat beside one another behind his reception desk. My imagination started to create tentative images again of what he might look like clean-shaven… I bet he would look gorgeous without his beard, but with a smattering of stubble…

I jerked my thoughts away. For heaven’s sake Grant, what is the matter with you?! Not this again! What did it matter if Blake had a beard or not?

‘So, when did you develop this fascination for Christmas? Have you always loved it?’

Blake’s voice interrupted me and made be blink into my mug. I set it down beside me. ‘It was my dad’s fault. He was one of those people who would litter our front lawn with blow-up Santas, lit-up reindeer… You name it, Dad would buy it.’ I gave a fond smile. ‘I don’t know who used to get more excited over Christmas, him or me.’ I laced and unlaced my fingers together. ‘My paternal grandparents were very religious and anti-Christmas frivolities, so when I came along, he told me that gave him the perfect excuse to behave like Chevy Chase in National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.’

Blake sat forward, listening.

‘My father told me on more than one occasion that when he was growing up, Christmas was a much more staid, low-key affair. Any presents his parents did give him, he wasn’t allowed to open until after the Queen’s speech at three o’clock.’ I shifted in my chair, smiling at the warm memories of my dad. ‘He always used to tell me that there was never any Christmas music permitted from the likes of Slade or Mud. It was strictly traditional Christmas carols.’

Blake studied me as I talked. ‘I think that after the non-event Christmases he had with my grandparents, he was determined that if he ever had kids of his own, he would go full-on Christmas lights, garish decorations, party hats… “The whole nine yards,” as he put it.’