Page 66 of The Christmas Highland Lodge

‘Swinging from what?’ I snorted.

‘Exactly.’

Once our laughter subsided, I gave Mum and Orla a hug each. ‘We’re going to go out for a slap-up Christmas lunch when things have calmed down a bit. If Vivian is still in Craig Brae, I’ll invite her too.’

I was pleased to have a chorus of enthusiastic responses to my suggestion.

‘And don’t forget there will be a bonus in your pay packets at the end of the month as well,’ I confirmed. ‘It should make things a little easier for a bit.’

I turned to Orla. ‘And how is the job hunting going?’

She rolled her light-green eyes. ‘Not well at the moment, but it’s almost Christmas. At this time of year it’s to be expected, but I’m sure I’ll get something. Once the New Year comes, I’ll have more luck.’ She forced out a smile.

‘Well, if you like, I’ll keep my eyes and ears open up at the lodges and let you know if anything comes up?’

Orla nodded. ‘I’d appreciate it, Lottie. Thanks.’

Mum beamed up at me with pride. ‘You would have done such a sterling job as the owner of Christmas Crackers, sweetheart.’

I gave a shrug and started to make my way towards the store room to collect more baubles and tinsel to set out on the shelves. ‘I would have loved that, but nothing stays the same.’ Pictures of the snow-capped, illuminated lodges filled my head and a squiggle of excitement took over my stomach. For the first time, the gnawing despondency of not getting Christmas Crackers wasn’t at the forefront of my thoughts. ‘Anyway, onwards and upwards.’

* * *

The Craig Brae Christmas Market was well underway.

There had been a fresh flurry of snow earlier that Saturday morning and all the stalls and canopies were laced with it.

The businesses that had rented a stall were set out down the length of the main street, which was temporarily closed to traffic to accommodate it.

Canvas flapped and rippled in the brisk December wind. There was the enthusiastic sound of Christmas songs blasting out of a few of the stalls. The council decorations shimmered down onto the market.

Everything from handmade Christmas cards and crafted soaps in a variety of delicious festive scents, such as pine and berry, to Christmas-inspired jams, marmalades and chutney, hand-painted puzzles and jigsaws, vied for people’s attention. Susie, who made and sold her scented candles, had a stall there too.

I clutched more fliers I’d printed off, extolling how wonderful the cabins were and proceeded to smile and chat with the locals and visitors, in the hope of persuading them to take a leaflet and book the cabins next year.

My feet crunched on the snow. There was the tantalising, cosy aroma of roasted chestnuts and hot chocolate and the warm and spicy scent of mulled wine emanating from a couple of mobile kiosks.

I spotted Blake and my hand shot up to fluff up my loose hair under my sparkly pink beret. Leave your hair alone, I moaned inwardly. Then my stomach did that weird, wriggly thing again. I felt irritated with myself and tried to ignore it.

I meandered over to a stall selling picture frames and snow globes. I picked up one of the globes containing a sweet little cottage surrounded by swirling snow.

Blake’s stall was the next but one down. He was chatting to a young couple with a shaggy champagne-coloured dog and hadn’t spotted me.

He was wearing a black woollen hat and a long checked coat with the collar turned up. A thick grey and white scarf was knotted around his neck. He looked casual, but very attractive. Stylish even.

I found myself screwing up my eyes and trying to visualise him without his beard again. This was turning into a popular pastime of mine. Perhaps the authorities should turn it into an Olympic sport? If they did, I would be a gold medallist for sure. What was Blake’s jawline like? Did he have a cleft in his chin, like Henry Cavill?

Ok. I was thinking about this way too much. I needed to get out more or start a range of new hobbies.

I dismissed any more thoughts about Blake minus his beard and waited until the couple and their dog wandered off.

I gave my coat an ineffectual tug and set my shoulders as I approached his stall.

Blake turned. His dark eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘Hey.’

‘Hi.’

I indicated to his stall layout as Christmas market visitors drifted up and down. There were leaflets about his hiking and rambling tours fanned out over the stand table, as well as several of the trendy drinking bottles Blake sold. There were also some of the protein bars and energy drinks he stocked. He had even brought one of his torso mannequins with him and he’d stuck a Santa hat on it.