Page 71 of The Christmas Highland Lodge

‘Are you working for the local brewery as well? You have one hell of a sales pitch when you get going. I’ll try it.’

I chose a glass of white wine and we took our drinks over to a wooden table and bench situated in the corner, close to the gothic-style fireplace that was spitting and snarling over some giant logs.

A Christmas tree blinked nearby and there were lantern-style lights swinging along the edge of the bar.

We recognised a couple of the other market stallholders, who were supping pints and relaxing by the bar as they perched on stools. They nodded and smiled back at us.

‘You were great today,’ said Blake across the table. He clawed off his hat and plonked it down beside him. His raven-black hair was sitting up in clumps on top of his head. He reached up one hand and smoothed it down. Even with hat hair, he was still handsome.

We slipped off our coats. The log fire continued to blaze fiery orange and someone had just chosen a Christmas song from the jukebox. Greg Lake’s ‘I Believe in Father Christmas’ started to play.

‘You were great too,’ I insisted. ‘Once you got into your stride, there was no stopping you! You could have sold igloos to Eskimos!’

He took a grateful mouthful of his pint and savoured it for a moment. ‘Oh wow! I understand why your dad liked this. It’s gorgeous.’

I relished the crisp, tangy taste of my wine. ‘Thank goodness for that. I would have felt awful if I’d recommended it and then you hadn’t liked it.’

I flashed Blake a quick look over the top of my wine glass. ‘So, what’s your opinion about Christmas now? Still detest it as much?’

Blake’s lips morphed into a small smile. ‘I’m still not a huge fan, but that Christmas Market wasn’t quite as painful as I thought it might be.’

I hitched my brows up. ‘Well, not a ringing endorsement, but it’s something.’

Blake took another sip of his beer and set it down on the mat in front of him. ‘You definitely made today much better than it would have been.’

My heart galloped a little faster at his words and I took another mouthful of wine, for something to do.

Right. Ok. Was Blake flirting with me? Talk about being out of practice with all this stuff! God, I was so rubbish at all of this.

If he was, I knew it was risky. Things could get messy.

And yet, sitting opposite him like this, in the cosy, amber warmth of the pub, gazing across into those intense, dark eyes of his, with his furling lashes and arching, black brows…

Oh God. Who was I kidding?

I didn’t want to leave even though the sensible part of my brain was ordering me to finish my drink and go home. I wanted to just stay here like this. Talking to him. Sharing banter. Joking backwards and forwards. One of us trying to get the verbal upper hand on the other. It was flirtatious. It was fun and I realised, my stomach fizzing, that I didn’t want the evening to stop.

‘Thank you,’ I grinned back at him. ‘I’m glad I made the experience not quite as painful as it might have been. You are now viewing Christmas as not quite as horrifying a proposition as dental treatment, so it’s a step in the right direction.’

Blake’s expression was deadpan from under his beard. ‘Now, let’s not get too carried away.’

I watched his fingers drum up and down the side of his beer glass. ‘So, have you always lived here?’ he asked me.

‘Yep. Born and bred in Craig Brae and I love it.’ I leant a little forward on the velvet-cushioned bench. ‘My parents are both from here too.’ I stole a glance around at some of the locals, lost in conversation and laughter with each other and nursing their drinks. ‘It’s not just the wildlife and the stunning scenery around here, although that’s a huge part of it. It’s the feeling of community that I also love.’

My cheeks glowed with enthusiasm. ‘I’ve lost count how many times tourists have said to me that it must be a privilege to come from here.’ I reached for my wine glass.

‘And you said your degree is in interior design?’

‘Yes. I studied at Glasgow School of Art. Then I worked for four years at a couple of department stores in the city.’ I told Blake about loving both jobs, especially at Canterbury’s department store, but that in time, the gloss wore off while working at Sanders. ‘My line manager was resentful over me taking the job, rather than his girlfriend getting appointed. I was coming up with all these fun, colourful ideas for displays and not getting the recognition I felt I deserved. Then, Mum happened to tell me about Vivian Sangster opening up her own Christmas-themed shop back here in Craig Brae and that she was looking for staff.’ I gave a shrug. ‘So, I came home that weekend, rang her up and she gave me an interview.’ I took a gulp of my wine. ‘She took me on as a retail assistant, while also taking Mum on part-time.’ I smiled at the memory, which in some ways seemed so long ago now. ‘She liked my suggestions for Christmas Crackers – display ideas, competition suggestions, that kind of thing – and after about a year, she appointed me shop manager.’ I hitched one brow up. ‘And the rest is history.’

Blake listened. ‘You’ve achieved a lot.’

‘Thanks. Well, I like to think so. My parents always taught me to never give up.’ Over in the corner, there was a burst of laughter from a couple of the ruddy-faced market stallholders. ‘So, what about you? What’s your story?’

There was silence from across the table. His broad shoulders stiffened. ‘Oh, there isn’t much to tell. I don’t have a story.’

‘Everybody has a story.’