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But he wasn’t sure he was ready for whatever conversation she was about to start. At least, not if it was going in a bad direction. ‘Are you staying down here for Christmas?’ he asked, even though he knew the answer already.

‘Yes. If that’s ok?’

‘Of course. We’d love to have you.’ He sounded so formal – why the hell did he sound so formal?

‘We?’

‘Yeah. I’ll be there too. I wanted to spend Christmas with her before . . .’ He couldn’t bring himself to finish that sentence.

‘Of course.’ They exchanged a glance, both of them smiling a little at the way she repeated his words back to him.

She frowned. ‘I don’t know where to stay tonight, though. I didn’t know you’d be there and I’d kind of planned on crashing in Emma’s guest room again like last year. I didn’t think it through, I’m sorry.’

‘You’ll stay at Emma’s of course.’

‘Won’t you be there?’

What did that mean? That she didn’t want him there? They’d barely spoken since Ireland. It had felt wrong, to text her, after his little speech – because he meant what he’d said, he didn’t want to put pressure on her. He’d said his bit, and now it was up to her. He’d told himself he’d deal with it, either way. But he hadn’t realised that the waiting would be so difficult. And what if she decided she didn’t want to be with him, but didn’t clue him in on that? Which would be perfectly reasonable: she didn’t owe him anything.

He realised she was looking at him, a slight frown on her forehead. Right. She’d asked a question. ‘Ah, no. I’ve actually got my own place around here at the moment.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘I, ah, got a job. Well, it’s more of a volunteer situation, which is fine for now.’

‘Where? Doing what? Garden stuff?’

He felt his lips tug into a smile at the way she said that – garden stuff. ‘Yeah. At Buckland Abbey. It’s near my mum, actually. A bit of a drive from here but doable. I’m helping in the grounds. It’s not overly glamorous, but it’s a start, a way to get some experience.’

A start, to see if there might be a way to make his hobby his job – and if not, at least it had got him back to Devon. He’d wanted to come back here – not just for Emma, but for his mum, his brother and sister. He’d run away when he left for university, and he’d never allowed himself to come back. But after making the decision to quit his job, it had just felt right to move back here. He felt like he could breathe again, away from the claustrophobia of London, even if Theo had told him that he was ‘completely mental’ to give it all up.

‘That’s brilliant, Jack.’ She smiled at him, her green eyes lightening. He loved that smile. It gave him a pang, to look at it. What would happen, after Emma . . .? Would they stay friends, even if Holly didn’t want anything more? He wasn’t sure he could do that, but he hated the thought of his life without her in it. It felt wrong, after all that had happened.

‘Yeah. Yeah, it’s pretty cool.’

‘Anyway. I’d better go in, see Emma.’

He nodded. ‘Yeah. I’m going to go and grab some food, actually. But if you leave before me, there’s a key, underneath Emma’s . . . But you already know that.’

She smiled again. ‘Yeah. It’s a terrible hiding place.’

‘It really is.’

He cleared his throat. ‘Do you need anything, before I go?’ Holly shook her head and he rocked back on his heels. ‘I’ll, ah, see you tomorrow, then?’

‘Yeah. I’ll get the mulled wine on.’ She hesitated, like she might say something more, then turned from him, towards Emma’s room. He watched her go, that mane of hair rippling like flame. And he couldn’t help it – he was glad she was here. Glad that she’d be there for Christmas. Not just for Emma’s sake, but for his own, too. So if he could only have friendship from her, then that is what he’d take.

Chapter Thirty-four

‘You’re home!’ Holly was standing in the doorway of Emma’s cottage, arms spread wide as Jack and Emma got out of Jack’s car.

‘Don’t make a fuss, my girl,’ Emma grumbled as she crossed the gravel driveway, her steps looking stiff and painful.

‘It’s Christmas Eve, I’m allowed to make a fuss.’ She jumped up and down on the balls of her feet as she waited for Emma and Jack to make their way into the house. She was wearing a big white jumper over leggings, but it still wasn’t warm enough to combat the chill biting the air, one that brought a dampness which clung to her skin.

She only snuck a brief glance at Jack before ushering them both inside, then headed to the kitchen while Jack and Emma went into the living room. She’d done her best to make mulled wine, though it was nothing like the stuff in the pub, and was getting ready to cook a salmon dish for dinner, because that was one of the best dishes to make on Christmas Eve, according to BBC Good Food. She filled three mugs – no fancy latte glasses here – and managed to carry all three through at once.

Emma was on the sofa in the living room, her purple blanket tucked up around her. Jack was down by the fireplace, adding wood onto a low flame, already having got it going in the brief time she’d been out the room. He turned as she came in, and though he took the mug she offered, he was very careful not to touch her. What was that about? Had the whole waiting thing had a time limit on it?