Page 68 of The Christmas Highland Lodge

Blake opened the flaps of the cardboard box. ‘Have you been raiding your own business?’

‘It won’t be our own business for much longer. Just a couple of weeks now.’

Blake’s dark eyes glittered with sympathy. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Oh, don’t be. It is what it is.’

He gave me a considered look. ‘Are you starting to come to terms with the closure of Christmas Crackers?’

I gazed over at him and thought about what I had been able to achieve in such a short space of time with the lodges. ‘Do you know what? I think I finally am.’

I pointed to the box of decorations I had brought from the shop. ‘Come on then. Take a look. We need to get cracking.’

I watched him set the box of decorations down on the stall table. He delved a hand inside and pulled out a sweet little Robin, made out of pinecones and a length of green tinsel.

‘I’m sorry but we’re really starting to run low on stock, so I just had to grab what I could.’

Blake shook his head. ‘No need to apologise.’ He stared at me. There was a charged silence. ‘You seem to be making a habit of helping me out.’

My cheeks reddened. ‘That’s what we do around here,’ I babbled. ‘Community spirit and all that. Anyone who needs a hand, we all try to be there for one another.’

Our eyes stayed locked for a few more seconds.

‘Anyway,’ I announced, ‘I thought the pinecone animals and the green tinsel tied in well with the outdoorsy aspect of what you do.’

‘It does,’ agreed Blake. ‘Thanks.’ He admired the little cone robin, before setting it down and fishing about inside the box again. This time he produced a couple of wooden foxes positioned back-to-back, each clutching a Christmas gift for one another.

I watched his long fingers trace over the pinecone and wood, caressing it. I found myself swallowing a bloody great lump in my throat.

Lottie Grant, for goodness’ sake, get a grip of yourself!

What do you know about him? asked a small voice in my head. What has he told you about himself?

It was true. All I knew about his background was what I’d read on his website and that concentrated on his mountaineering career.

Like it said on the internet, Blake was protective of his private life. Guarded even. Any time I thought I might be finding out a little about him, he would haul the shutters down.

We busied ourselves setting out the ornaments across the stall, before wrapping and winding the poles of the stall in the green tinsel and sitting the little battery-operated string of white fairy lights along the edge of the stall table and across the canvas canopy.

It looked so much prettier and eye catching.

We waited.

The improvements to Blake’s stall attracted more attention, but he was still lacking any concrete expressions of interest, let alone bookings. Of course, he had the reservations from the cabin occupants up at Rowan Moore House over Christmas, but I knew he couldn’t rely on those to sustain him forever. Like the cabins, Blake needed a steady influx of clients, otherwise his business would be over before it even got started.

There was far too much surrounding competition from extravagant handbags and fresh baking. The market visitors were too occupied with the other stalls to take any notice of Blake’s efforts.

I turned over one of Blake’s glossy leaflets in my hands. He had put a lot of work into it. It featured stunning colour photographs of Loch Strathe, the woodland that surrounded us and the swell of the hillsides. I pointed at the leaflet in my hand. ‘I love going for walks but at this time of year… well, there’s something so calming and recharging about a walk – even a short one – on Christmas Day and Boxing Day. Gets you out of the house…’

I studied the pictures again that Blake had included on his leaflet, of the breath-taking mountain ranges, smudged with purple light from a sleepy sunrise.

A possible marketing angle pushed its way to the forefront of my mind. Might it garner some interest? It could do. We couldn’t stand about here like this, watching locals, visitors and tourists sally past, ignoring us. It was worth a shot, anyway. Anything was. And putting forward a suggestion like this to the stressed, busy public in the runup to Christmas might encourage them to book a relaxing ramble with Blake. It would be something to look forward to; one thing less to worry about – a pre-planned outing that you could brag to your relatives and friends that you had the foresight to arrange, in between all the Christmas shopping, food-buying, present-wrapping and general silliness of the season.

I whirled round, my excitement growing. I could do this. I had taken on the lodges, so this would be a breeze. I hoped it would work. Would it work? ‘Blake, can you pass me Jock’s Santa hat please?’

‘He’ll get cold.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘I’m sure he’ll cope for a little while.’