Page 5 of The Secret Holiday Kiss

She hadn’t replied to his email in all the drama of her ceiling leak, so instead, as she reached the end of the drive and stepped onto the road, she phoned the number at the bottom of his email signature.

‘Hello?’ His voice was deep and slightly accented. His mother, she remembered, was Danish, and he’d grown up between Copenhagen and London.

‘Lars? It’s Daisy Anderly. Apologies for not responding to you sooner.’

‘Daisy! Goodness. It is so wonderful to hear from you. What has it been, almost two decades? And yet, I have kept my eye on you.’

Daisy laughed because his tone was playful, even if the sentiment was a little alarming.

‘Your work I mean,’ he went on, as if he’d realized how it sounded. ‘Your portfolio is very impressive, and it reminded me of your dedication, your creativity, all those years ago. You were the first person I thought of when I put down the deposit on my new venture.’

‘Tell me about it,’ she said, keen to take the attention away from her. ‘It’s a café, you said in your email?’

‘Small and perfectly formed, on one of Norwich’s trendier streets, already full of independent shops and eateries. It was a teashop before I took it over, so there’s no change of use, and I have the building permissions secured so I’m ready to start its transformation. I want it to have a strong vibe, an instant draw so that it stands out from the competition, so I need the best. I need you, Daisy.’

She laughed, her cheeks warming at the compliment. Lars had always been charming, it was in his DNA, but after Stefan’s rejection and the divorce battle, every part of which had seemed to be about how she was no longer good enough for him, the knowledge that someone wanted her, even for her business skills, made her stand a little taller.

‘How about I come and see you next Monday?’

‘Next Monday would be perfect.’ He purred the last word, puurffect, and Daisy grinned.

‘Ten o’clock? Send me the address.’

‘I cannot wait, Daisy.’

By the time they hung up, she had reached the centre of Mistingham, which was admittedly only a ten-minute walk from the manor. It looked beautifully quaint, sprinkled in sunshine, with the dewy, glistening tips of trees and the light mist of a winter’s morning.

There was proud, elegant Mistingham Hotel, the dinky bakery with a queue outside already, customers chatting as they waited for their loaves and pastries, the smell of fresh bread hard to resist. The green with the village hall was just as Daisy remembered it, apart from the fact that the huge, beautiful oak tree, a favourite of her dad’s, was now supported by what looked like a wooden and metal cage, strong supports burrowing into the ground, holding up the biggest, gnarliest branches.

‘What happened to the oak?’ She said it out loud, to nobody in particular, but a man in a sky-blue parka, with dark hair and mischievous eyes, paused as he passed her.

‘It’s structurally unsound,’ he said, ‘according to the professional guy Harry got in. It’s old – like, hundreds of years – so it’s the ravages of time, but poor old Harry up at the manor is convinced it’s because he brought in an ice rink last Christmas. He says he got blasé, and now he’s paying the price.’

He was staring at her, and Daisy felt a tug of recognition. ‘Harry brought in an ice rink? That must have happened after the wedding.’

The man narrowed his eyes. ‘You’re his sister, Daisy. I remember you from school. Vaguely.’

‘Vaguely,’ she murmured. ‘And you’re …’

‘Jason.’ He shook her hand vigorously. ‘I run the ice-cream shop, Two Scoops. My husband, Simon, is in charge of Batter Days. You were at the wedding.’

‘I was, but I didn’t stay much longer than that.’

Jason grinned. ‘They were generous with the champagne that day. Some of their special occasion is a blur.’

Daisy smiled. ‘The free bar is always the best thing about a wedding.’

‘How long are you here for?’

‘A few weeks, maybe. I’m having some work done at home, so Harry and Sophie are letting me crash.’

Jason sucked air through his teeth. ‘Not sure they’ve got enough room for that,’ he said sombrely, then winked. ‘Good to see you again, Daisy. Mistingham’s doing pretty well for itself now. And might I recommend the ice cream and the fish and chips? Maybe not in that order.’

‘When we were little, the fish-and-chip shop wasn’t exactly the best.’

Jason walked backwards, away from her. ‘Soggy batter and grey, dubious-smelling cod. It’s seared into my memory. It’s not like that now, I promise you. I expect to see you there – or Simon will, anyway. Then he’ll tell me about it.’

‘Of course he will. See you later.’