Page 70 of The Christmas Highland Lodge

I pinned on a professional smile and banished more thoughts of Blake’s smile. ‘I don’t suppose while you’re here, I could also interest you in taking a leaflet about the new luxury cabins which are now available to reserve after Christmas?’

Once the couple completed their booking with Blake, they wished us both a Merry Christmas and meandered off to browse the other stalls.

‘Well, Ms Grant,’ said Blake. ‘That was very impressive, especially when you managed to crowbar in a mention about the cabins as well.’

I let out a bark of laughter. ‘You can’t blame a girl for trying.’

And so we carried on in a similar vein for the remainder of the day, taking turns to entice, pitch and call over passing shoppers, pushing the ‘Treat your family and friends to a festive ramble and take a look at the new cabins’ aspect.

Blake managed to snare several more ramble reservations during the remainder of the morning, including two from a couple of the other stallholders who had happened to overhear us.

Then he took it upon himself to go and get us both some lunch. Ten minutes later he returned carrying two warm croissants filled with chicken, parmesan and salad, two caramel lattes and two apple and cinnamon muffins from Mrs Crill’s bakery. ‘Food for the workers.’

I savoured the succulent taste of the crumbly golden croissant and rewarded myself with a grateful mouthful of the hot, sweet latte.

Blake eyed me over the rim of his latte cup. ‘Good?’

‘Mm,’ I sighed. ‘More than good.’

Once we had devoured our lunch, we threw ourselves with abandon into the rest of the afternoon.

We double dipped, working in unison to ply Blake’s hiking services and extoll the virtues of Magical Occasions Cabins at the same time.

Children danced and skipped in the snow, wearing moustaches of hot chocolate and chattering away to their parents. Couples, clutching onto one another in the bitter cold, appreciated the lights and shared boxes of roasted chestnuts, while grandparents argued about what gifts their families would like.

From where Blake’s stall was positioned in the market, I could look down the run of shops and see Christmas Crackers, with its glowing windows.

A steady stream of customers had been going in and out, reappearing with the remnants of the bargain decorations.

I had done all I could. Now I had to focus on Magical Occasions Cabins.

Following another spell of Blake and me taking turns to beckon potential customers over, we managed to secure three more walking bookings for Blake after New Year and towards the end of January and two of the ladies who were selling the handmade Christmas cards reserved two of the cabins for the end of February for themselves and their husbands, to celebrate a milestone birthday.

The afternoon vanished and before we knew it the other market stallholders were packing up, the fairy lights on their stalls were dimming and disappearing and the snow was spiralling down from the darkening sky again.

The sound of Kirsty MacColl and The Pogues seeped away into the night, as our fellow stallholders wished us a good evening and crunched away to their vehicles.

I helped Blake clear away his leaflets, the drinking bottles, Jock the mannequin and remove the decorations, before packing them all up in the spacious boot of Blake’s silver four-by-four.

The street lamps of Craig Brae cast a soupy, comforting glow down onto the snow-encrusted pavements.

‘Fancy a drink before we call it a night?’ asked Blake, removing his bobbly hat to smooth down his dark layers. ‘I think we deserve one.’

I pointed to his car.

‘Don’t worry. I won’t be drinking and driving. I can come back in the morning to collect it.’

I snuggled deep into my coat.

What are you doing, Lottie? You should be making a polite excuse, before heading home.

I struggled to comprehend that this was the same guy who I detested up until the other week.

I opened my mouth to give an excuse. I should head straight home. Run a bath. Lose myself in some of my mandarin bubble bath. Keep my distance. My head was too slow, though. Before I could think about it any longer, my heart galloped ahead in the race to speak. ‘I’d like that. Thanks.’

We headed to the local pub just around the snowy corner. I insisted on buying the first round, seeing as Blake had bought me lunch.

He opted for a pint of Craig Brae’s own ale, Amber Mountain, which I recommended. ‘My dad loved it. He said it reminded him of the heather and local streams around here. He even used to say it tasted like them, but in a good way.’