Advent Calendar 20th December.
Love and Lies at the Village Christmas Shop
By Portia MacIntosh.
I sit up
in my bed and stare straight ahead, as though that might make my ears more
efficient. Did I just hear something or was I dreaming?
After a
few seconds I hear the noise that woke me again and realise it’s a knock at the
door.
I grab my
phone from next to me and look at the time. Uh-oh, it is 8.45, which means I’ve
overslept – I never oversleep.
I grab my
brown reindeer dressing gown (complete with antlers on the hood) and throw it
on over my nightshirt before dashing downstairs to answer the door, combing my
hair with my fingers and wiping sleep from my eyes as I hurry down the stairs.
As I
approach the shop front door, I can just about see Pete, the postman, on the
other side of the glass, which, now that I think about it, I maybe went a
little too heavy on with the spray snow. The white, frosty edges frame his
face, giving him this angelic white glow. I don’t suppose I look so festive
from where he’s standing; all he’ll be able to see is me hurrying across the
shop floor undressed, with my bed head hair, fumbling with my keys.
He waves
at me, all smiles, as I unlock and open the door.
‘Hello,
Ivy, sorry, did I wake you?’ he apologises as he clocks my dressing gown.
‘Hey, Pete.
I’m glad you did,’ I admit. ‘I need to open the shop in 15 minutes.’
‘It’s not
like you to sleep in,’ he says, handing me a parcel. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘Everything
is fine,’ I assure him. I don’t tell him that I was up late looking over my
finances, worrying a few years’ worth of wrinkles onto my face until I finally
dropped off some time after 3 a.m. ‘I was up late reading.’
‘Now that
I believe.’ He laughs. ‘Is that what’s in there?’
Is there
not some kind of law that prohibits postmen from asking you what’s in your
parcel? There could be anything in this box – what if I’d ordered some super
sexy lacy underwear or something? I mean, it is from Amazon, and it is book-shaped, but still. I’m not always so
predictable (I am).
‘Yep,
another book,’ I tell him. ‘Something to read while I’m working.’
‘Business
still quiet?’ Pete asks.
‘Yeah,’ I
say with a sigh. ‘It’s December 1st though, so things should pick up a little.’
‘I’ll be
in for a few bits,’ he assures me.
‘Thank
you.’
‘I’m sure
I had something to tell you,’ he says, hovering outside the door. I appreciate
that it must be uncomfortable, talking about my difficult livelihood –
especially for the man who delivers my bills. I usually enjoy his friendly
small talk, but today I just want to get back inside and get some clothes on.
Pete
furrows his brow for a second, visibly racking his brain until he has a
thought. The second it hits him his face relaxes again.
‘Oh, some
gossip for you,’ he starts, setting his bag down on the floor and taking his
phone from his pocket. ‘I saw a man in town today.’
‘A man?’
I gasp, faking shock.
Pete
laughs. ‘No, like…a mysterious man. He isn’t a local, and he doesn’t look like
a tourist. He’s walking around, wearing a suit, carrying a briefcase. Seems
like he’s scoping the place out.’
‘Hmm. For
what, I wonder.’
‘Indeed,’
Pete replies. ‘I snapped a photo of him, put it in the Facebook group. Just in
case he’s one of those white-collar criminals – you know, in case he steals
something or what have you.’
‘I don’t
think a white-collar criminal is just a criminal in a suit,’ I point out with a
laugh.
‘See,’ Pete
says, holding up his phone to show me a photo of a man in a suit, eyeing up a
building on Main Street. ‘He’s weird.’
He’s
gorgeous – but I don’t say this out loud. I study the photo for a moment, as my
head fills with fiction-worthy reasons why this mysterious man might be hanging
around town. The eligible bachelors in this town are few and far between. All
the good ones are taken. This guy is definitely not from round here – take it
from a single girl who knows.
‘Weird,’
I say in agreement, pushing all fantasies of handsome, mysterious strangers
from my mind. ‘Well, I’d better get on with opening up the shop.’
‘Yes, I
suppose the post won’t deliver itself,’ he says. ‘Not yet, anyway.’
I don’t
have the heart to point out that emails are pretty much that.
‘Same
time tomorrow,’ he says as he walks off down the path.
‘Yeah, if
I don’t sleep in,’ I joke. ‘Have a good day.’
I watch
Pete head for his van before he drives off. My lonely little shop is his only
stop here. The shop sits alone, on a quiet country road, outside the town. It’s
an old, stone cottage, which used to be a big house, sitting smack bang in the
middle of a massive, beautiful garden. Just like a house, it has a little gate
at the bottom of the garden, and a cute little pathway that leads up to the
shop doorway.
When my
mum took on the place, she converted the downstairs of the cottage into the
shop, with a kitchen at the back, and the upstairs became our living space. It
was strange, growing up above a shop when all my friends lived in big houses,
but come summer time, when I had this massive garden to play in, I didn’t think
twice about how cramped things were indoors.
I notice
a bill, hiding under my package. I shove it in my dressing gown pocket, to be
worried about at a later date – probably tonight, when I should be sleeping.
I unlock
the fire exit at the back of the shop before flicking the switch that turns on
every fairy light, every musical statue and snow machine. The things that make
the shop seem alive, even when there’s no real people in it.
I check
the shop floor to see if anything is out of place, or if any rubbish is lying
around, before turning the sign around on the door to say that we’re open…for
all the good it will do. I don’t tend to see any customers until the afternoon mid-week
– usually tourists in the middle of a hike, or, at this time of year, the
occasional local in need of some new decorations or wrapping paper.
I was
only standing in the doorway chatting for ten minutes and I’m positively
freezing. I’m almost always freezing, sometimes even in the heat of summer. I
don’t know how long it has been since my last summer holiday, but I’m pretty
sure it’s a double-digit number of years now. I don’t like to think about it;
it makes me feel old.
What I need
right now is a steaming-hot cinnamon latte, with a generous dollop of whipped
cream and a sprinkling of tiny golden white chocolate stars, to make it extra
festive. I’ll make myself a drink, warm up a little and then head upstairs to
throw some clothes on before the lunchtime rush which, yesterday, was a
whopping four people.
I plonk
myself down on the stool behind the counter and fire up the usual Christmas
playlist. The dulcet tones of Mud drift from the speakers, with ‘Lonely This
Christmas’ – not exactly the vibe I need this morning.
I take my
phone from my dressing gown pocket and load up the Marram Bay residents’ group
on Facebook. It’s a private group, strictly for locals and businesses in Marram
Bay and over on Hope Island, mostly used for selling things, announcements and
a good old gossip. People in small towns just love to talk – mostly about each
other.
Today’s gossip
du jour is the ‘mysterious man’ Pete was telling me about. I see Pete’s
paparazzi-style photo of a man wearing a suit, and carrying a briefcase, and
otherwise not doing anything at all unusual other than being
uncharacteristically good-looking. A glance at the comments tells me more about
the man. He’s been spotted all over town this morning, driving around in his
convertible Porsche – some reckon he’s a professional athlete buying one of the
mansions that sits just outside town, someone else swore blind it was Henry
Cavill, while someone else has corrected them that, no, it was in fact Jamie
Dornan.
It’s only
now that I’m thinking about it that I realise Henry and Jamie do actually look
quite similar and the thought of this man being a hybrid of the two is,
coincidentally, exactly what I asked Santa for this year – well, it would be,
if I were remotely interested in having a man in my life.
Hmm, no,
he’s definitely not a famous actor. I suppose he could be a sportsman. He’s got
the build for it, but I don’t know nearly enough about sports to recognise
anyone other than David Beckham.
Perhaps
he’s a prince, visiting from a sexy European country, looking for a woman to be
his queen, or maybe he’s a spy, deep under cover in Marram Bay for some Secret
Service operation… Perhaps I’ve just read too many books.
Speaking
of which, I unwrap my latest Amazon package to find a copy of Little White Lies, the latest Mia
Valentina romcom. I do feel guilty, buying books when money isn’t exactly
great, but the day I begrudge myself a £3.99 book (when reading is my favourite
thing to do) is the day I really need to think about selling a kidney.
You can’t
beat a good book, can you? The way it just drags you in, taking you into
someone else’s life, into their home, their relationship – into their
everything. It’s a sneak peek into something you don’t usually get to see, and
I think that’s why I love it so much. Whether I’m walking through the streets
in King’s Landing in A Game of Thrones
or being a fly on the wall in Nick and Amy’s house in Gone Girl, people are living a million lives far more interesting than
mine, and with books, I get to live them too.
I have my
coffee, I have my book, I’m all snuggly and warm in my dressing gown. I know
that I won’t have any customers until after lunch at least, because I never do,
so there’s no harm in starting my book and enjoying my drink before I head back
upstairs to get ready. One chapter turns into two, and before I know it my cup
is empty and I’m almost four chapters deep. I’ll finish this one and then I’ll
get back to reality.
‘Hello,’
I hear a man’s voice say in an attempt to get my attention.
I glance
up from my book to see him standing
in front of me – the mystery man, the athlete, the Henry Cavill-Jamie Dornan
hybrid, (almost) all I want for Christmas.
‘I’m so
sorry,’ I say. ‘Have you been here long? I used to do the exact same thing when
I was younger, just sit here behind the counter, lost in a book while my mum
did all the hard work.’
‘Am I in
your living room?’ he asks with a laugh.
I pull a
puzzled face as I close my book and place it down in front of me. It’s only as
I do that I notice the brown sleeves of my reindeer dressing gown and I
remember what I’m wearing.
‘Oh, God,
no, sorry,’ I babble. ‘It’s a long story. This is a shop and we’re open. I run
the place. I’m Ivy.’
I hope
down from my stool and walk around the counter to shake his hand.
‘Nice to
meet you, Ivy. I’m Seb.’
Seb holds
my hand for a few seconds as he peers over my shoulder.
‘Are…are
those antlers and a red nose on your hood?’ he asks with an impossibly cheeky
smile.
I feel my
cheeks flush the same colour as the nose on my dressing gown. ‘Yes,’ I reply
with an awkward laugh. ‘I wasn’t expecting any customers yet and it was cold…’
‘No, I
like it,’ he replies. ‘It’s cute.’
If it’s
even possible, my blushing intensifies.
‘So,
business is quiet?’ he asks, walking across the shop, picking up a snow globe
from the shelf before shaking it up and watching the flakes fall.
I can’t
help but stare at him – not watch him, really stare at him. Taking him in. Seb
must be over 6 feet tall, and he’s so muscular that I feel like an elf next to
him, my petite, 5’3” frame resulting in me not even coming up to his shoulders.
He has
perfectly neat, swept back dark hair, and a thick but short beard – combined
with his sexy blue eyes, his chiselled cheekbones and those gorgeous dimples
when he smiles are probably the reasons why people so easily mistook him for a
Hollywood actor.
‘It’s
picking up for Christmas,’ I assure him.
‘It’s a
strange thing, a Christmas shop that’s open all year round,’ he muses as he
strolls around.
‘It’s not
that,’ I insist, following him closely. ‘My mum opened the place up when I was
a kid and it was always heaving back then. I took over, after she died, and we
were busy for a while. It’s since satnavs became popular. This road used to be
the main way into town, so tourists would always pass the shop on their way in
or their way out. These days, satnavs lead everyone along the new road, so no
one even knows we’re here. We get hikers, and other shops let tourists know we’re
here, and they usually remember to stop by.’
‘Hmm,’
Seb says thoughtfully. ‘So, is it just you working here?’
‘You ask
a lot of questions,’ I point out.
‘I do,’
he replies. ‘It’s been said before.’
‘What do
you do for work?’ I ask.
‘At the
moment, nothing,’ he replies.
I raise
my eyebrows.
‘What?’
Seb laughs, and there are those dimples again.
I
suddenly remember what I’m wearing and tighten the belt of my dressing gown
self-consciously.
‘You do
nothing?’
‘Nope.’
‘How does
a man who does nothing afford a suit like that? And drive around in a Porsche?’
I ask suspiciously.
‘You’ve
got me, I’m a drug dealer,’ he says sarcastically. ‘No, I’m just between jobs
at the moment. Does this train work?’
Seb runs
his hand along the track until he reaches the miniature steam train that used to
run all around the shop.
‘Not
anymore,’ I admit. ‘It needs repairing.’
‘Shame,’
he says. ‘I like it.’
‘So, you’re
just taking a break in Marram Bay then?’ I ask.
‘Just
having a look around.’
‘Well, if
you need someone to show you the sights,’ I start, before my brain has chance
to catch up with my mouth and reality hits me. What am I saying? This isn’t me;
I don’t talk to men. Well, I do talk to men, most days in fact, but this isn’t
Pete the postman, this is a man man.
I don’t know what on earth I was thinking, saying that. There’s just something
about Seb that is drawing me in. I quickly backtrack. ‘I’m sure you don’t…’
‘I might
just take you up on that, Ivy,’ he replies with a big smile. ‘Do all your
customers get this kind of special treatment?’
‘What
customers?’ I joke.
Seb takes
the snow globe from the shelf and brings it over to the counter. ‘Is this
Marram Bay, inside?’
‘It is.
There’s a local guy who makes them – I buy them from him.’
‘I’ll
take it.’ He grins, placing it down in front of me.
I can’t
help but wonder if he actually wants the snow globe, or if he’s only buying it
because he feels sorry for me, for seemingly having no customers. I can
appreciate that, to an outsider, a Christmas shop that is always open might not
seem like the kind of place that would get much custom, but things will pick up in the run-up to Christmas.
Either way, I appreciate him buying something. Along with his cheeky smile, Seb
has a glimmer of kindness in his eyes, a glimmer that I can’t help but notice
twinkling when I look at him.
‘That’s
£9.99, please. Would you like me to wrap it up for you?’
‘That’s
OK, I’m going straight to my car,’ he says, before furrowing his brow. ‘How did
you know I drove a Porsche?’
‘What?’
‘You know
what kind of car I drive…’
‘Oh, just
a guess.’
Seb
laughs. ‘Is that your party trick? Guessing what kind of car people drive?’ he
asks.
‘Is it
even possible for anyone to be able to do that?’ I reply.
‘Sure,’
he tells me. ‘Hold out your hand.’
I place
my hand out in front me, which Seb takes in his hands, examining my palm. It’s
amazing, just how warm his hands are compared to mine.
‘Let’s
see…you drive…a Honda HR-V,’ he says.
Spooked,
I snatch my hand back.
‘A gold
one,’ he adds with a smug grin.
‘Ahh, you
saw it outside,’ I say, suddenly self-conscious that he’s seen my 1998 plate
Honda. It might be old, but it’s an amazing car that never lets me down. It’s
no convertible Porsche though, that’s for sure.
‘How
could I miss it?’ He laughs. ‘It’s the only car for miles.’
I step
out from behind the counter and walk Seb towards the door. He stops in his
tracks to say something to me, stopping when he notices the mistletoe hanging
above us.
‘How
seriously do you take Christmas tradition?’ he asks with an awkward laugh.
‘Pretty
seriously,’ I say cautiously. ‘I pretty much live Christmas every day…’
‘Hmm,’ he
replies.
There’s
an awkward silence between us, but only for a few seconds. I glance around the
room awkwardly until I notice Seb’s face just inches from mine. He plants a
quick peck on my lips, immediately seeming surprised at himself for doing so.
Maybe, as cool and as confident as he seems, he doesn’t do this sort of thing
often. I guarantee this sort of thing happens to me even less.
‘OK,
well,’ he says, a little flustered, but with a smile on his face. ‘See you
around, Ivy.’
‘Bye,’ I
call after him, running my fingertips over my lips, where Seb’s lips touched
them even if it was only for a second. As I sit back down behind the counter, I
look at my book. For the first time – maybe ever – something happened to me in
real life that was fresh out of a romcom, and I can’t quite believe it.
He said
‘see you around’ when he left – it would be great to see him around, but what
are the chances I’ll ever see him again? He’s not about to need another snow
globe anytime soon, is he? He’s got a posh, southern accent, and we don’t have
too many men like that in Marram Bay. We have farmers, fishermen – we even have
a guy who makes snow globes, but no well-spoken southern men in flashy suits.
Nope, I don’t think I’ll ever see him again. But if I do, I really hope
I’m not dressed as a reindeer.
***
If you loved this story, then you MUST read 'Love and Lies at the Village Christmas shop," because this is actually the first chapter!!
Find Portia MacIntosh here:
Happy Reading!
Love and Lies at the Village Christmas Shop
By Portia MacIntosh.
I sit up
in my bed and stare straight ahead, as though that might make my ears more
efficient. Did I just hear something or was I dreaming?
After a
few seconds I hear the noise that woke me again and realise it’s a knock at the
door.
I grab my
phone from next to me and look at the time. Uh-oh, it is 8.45, which means I’ve
overslept – I never oversleep.
I grab my
brown reindeer dressing gown (complete with antlers on the hood) and throw it
on over my nightshirt before dashing downstairs to answer the door, combing my
hair with my fingers and wiping sleep from my eyes as I hurry down the stairs.
As I
approach the shop front door, I can just about see Pete, the postman, on the
other side of the glass, which, now that I think about it, I maybe went a
little too heavy on with the spray snow. The white, frosty edges frame his
face, giving him this angelic white glow. I don’t suppose I look so festive
from where he’s standing; all he’ll be able to see is me hurrying across the
shop floor undressed, with my bed head hair, fumbling with my keys.
He waves
at me, all smiles, as I unlock and open the door.
‘Hello,
Ivy, sorry, did I wake you?’ he apologises as he clocks my dressing gown.
‘Hey, Pete.
I’m glad you did,’ I admit. ‘I need to open the shop in 15 minutes.’
‘It’s not
like you to sleep in,’ he says, handing me a parcel. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘Everything
is fine,’ I assure him. I don’t tell him that I was up late looking over my
finances, worrying a few years’ worth of wrinkles onto my face until I finally
dropped off some time after 3 a.m. ‘I was up late reading.’
‘Now that
I believe.’ He laughs. ‘Is that what’s in there?’
Is there
not some kind of law that prohibits postmen from asking you what’s in your
parcel? There could be anything in this box – what if I’d ordered some super
sexy lacy underwear or something? I mean, it is from Amazon, and it is book-shaped, but still. I’m not always so
predictable (I am).
‘Yep,
another book,’ I tell him. ‘Something to read while I’m working.’
‘Business
still quiet?’ Pete asks.
‘Yeah,’ I
say with a sigh. ‘It’s December 1st though, so things should pick up a little.’
‘I’ll be
in for a few bits,’ he assures me.
‘Thank
you.’
‘I’m sure
I had something to tell you,’ he says, hovering outside the door. I appreciate
that it must be uncomfortable, talking about my difficult livelihood –
especially for the man who delivers my bills. I usually enjoy his friendly
small talk, but today I just want to get back inside and get some clothes on.
Pete
furrows his brow for a second, visibly racking his brain until he has a
thought. The second it hits him his face relaxes again.
‘Oh, some
gossip for you,’ he starts, setting his bag down on the floor and taking his
phone from his pocket. ‘I saw a man in town today.’
‘A man?’
I gasp, faking shock.
Pete
laughs. ‘No, like…a mysterious man. He isn’t a local, and he doesn’t look like
a tourist. He’s walking around, wearing a suit, carrying a briefcase. Seems
like he’s scoping the place out.’
‘Hmm. For
what, I wonder.’
‘Indeed,’
Pete replies. ‘I snapped a photo of him, put it in the Facebook group. Just in
case he’s one of those white-collar criminals – you know, in case he steals
something or what have you.’
‘I don’t
think a white-collar criminal is just a criminal in a suit,’ I point out with a
laugh.
‘See,’ Pete
says, holding up his phone to show me a photo of a man in a suit, eyeing up a
building on Main Street. ‘He’s weird.’
He’s
gorgeous – but I don’t say this out loud. I study the photo for a moment, as my
head fills with fiction-worthy reasons why this mysterious man might be hanging
around town. The eligible bachelors in this town are few and far between. All
the good ones are taken. This guy is definitely not from round here – take it
from a single girl who knows.
‘Weird,’
I say in agreement, pushing all fantasies of handsome, mysterious strangers
from my mind. ‘Well, I’d better get on with opening up the shop.’
‘Yes, I
suppose the post won’t deliver itself,’ he says. ‘Not yet, anyway.’
I don’t
have the heart to point out that emails are pretty much that.
‘Same
time tomorrow,’ he says as he walks off down the path.
‘Yeah, if
I don’t sleep in,’ I joke. ‘Have a good day.’
I watch
Pete head for his van before he drives off. My lonely little shop is his only
stop here. The shop sits alone, on a quiet country road, outside the town. It’s
an old, stone cottage, which used to be a big house, sitting smack bang in the
middle of a massive, beautiful garden. Just like a house, it has a little gate
at the bottom of the garden, and a cute little pathway that leads up to the
shop doorway.
When my
mum took on the place, she converted the downstairs of the cottage into the
shop, with a kitchen at the back, and the upstairs became our living space. It
was strange, growing up above a shop when all my friends lived in big houses,
but come summer time, when I had this massive garden to play in, I didn’t think
twice about how cramped things were indoors.
I notice
a bill, hiding under my package. I shove it in my dressing gown pocket, to be
worried about at a later date – probably tonight, when I should be sleeping.
I unlock
the fire exit at the back of the shop before flicking the switch that turns on
every fairy light, every musical statue and snow machine. The things that make
the shop seem alive, even when there’s no real people in it.
I check
the shop floor to see if anything is out of place, or if any rubbish is lying
around, before turning the sign around on the door to say that we’re open…for
all the good it will do. I don’t tend to see any customers until the afternoon mid-week
– usually tourists in the middle of a hike, or, at this time of year, the
occasional local in need of some new decorations or wrapping paper.
I was
only standing in the doorway chatting for ten minutes and I’m positively
freezing. I’m almost always freezing, sometimes even in the heat of summer. I
don’t know how long it has been since my last summer holiday, but I’m pretty
sure it’s a double-digit number of years now. I don’t like to think about it;
it makes me feel old.
What I need
right now is a steaming-hot cinnamon latte, with a generous dollop of whipped
cream and a sprinkling of tiny golden white chocolate stars, to make it extra
festive. I’ll make myself a drink, warm up a little and then head upstairs to
throw some clothes on before the lunchtime rush which, yesterday, was a
whopping four people.
I plonk
myself down on the stool behind the counter and fire up the usual Christmas
playlist. The dulcet tones of Mud drift from the speakers, with ‘Lonely This
Christmas’ – not exactly the vibe I need this morning.
I take my
phone from my dressing gown pocket and load up the Marram Bay residents’ group
on Facebook. It’s a private group, strictly for locals and businesses in Marram
Bay and over on Hope Island, mostly used for selling things, announcements and
a good old gossip. People in small towns just love to talk – mostly about each
other.
Today’s gossip
du jour is the ‘mysterious man’ Pete was telling me about. I see Pete’s
paparazzi-style photo of a man wearing a suit, and carrying a briefcase, and
otherwise not doing anything at all unusual other than being
uncharacteristically good-looking. A glance at the comments tells me more about
the man. He’s been spotted all over town this morning, driving around in his
convertible Porsche – some reckon he’s a professional athlete buying one of the
mansions that sits just outside town, someone else swore blind it was Henry
Cavill, while someone else has corrected them that, no, it was in fact Jamie
Dornan.
It’s only
now that I’m thinking about it that I realise Henry and Jamie do actually look
quite similar and the thought of this man being a hybrid of the two is,
coincidentally, exactly what I asked Santa for this year – well, it would be,
if I were remotely interested in having a man in my life.
Hmm, no,
he’s definitely not a famous actor. I suppose he could be a sportsman. He’s got
the build for it, but I don’t know nearly enough about sports to recognise
anyone other than David Beckham.
Perhaps
he’s a prince, visiting from a sexy European country, looking for a woman to be
his queen, or maybe he’s a spy, deep under cover in Marram Bay for some Secret
Service operation… Perhaps I’ve just read too many books.
Speaking
of which, I unwrap my latest Amazon package to find a copy of Little White Lies, the latest Mia
Valentina romcom. I do feel guilty, buying books when money isn’t exactly
great, but the day I begrudge myself a £3.99 book (when reading is my favourite
thing to do) is the day I really need to think about selling a kidney.
You can’t
beat a good book, can you? The way it just drags you in, taking you into
someone else’s life, into their home, their relationship – into their
everything. It’s a sneak peek into something you don’t usually get to see, and
I think that’s why I love it so much. Whether I’m walking through the streets
in King’s Landing in A Game of Thrones
or being a fly on the wall in Nick and Amy’s house in Gone Girl, people are living a million lives far more interesting than
mine, and with books, I get to live them too.
I have my
coffee, I have my book, I’m all snuggly and warm in my dressing gown. I know
that I won’t have any customers until after lunch at least, because I never do,
so there’s no harm in starting my book and enjoying my drink before I head back
upstairs to get ready. One chapter turns into two, and before I know it my cup
is empty and I’m almost four chapters deep. I’ll finish this one and then I’ll
get back to reality.
‘Hello,’
I hear a man’s voice say in an attempt to get my attention.
I glance
up from my book to see him standing
in front of me – the mystery man, the athlete, the Henry Cavill-Jamie Dornan
hybrid, (almost) all I want for Christmas.
‘I’m so
sorry,’ I say. ‘Have you been here long? I used to do the exact same thing when
I was younger, just sit here behind the counter, lost in a book while my mum
did all the hard work.’
‘Am I in
your living room?’ he asks with a laugh.
I pull a
puzzled face as I close my book and place it down in front of me. It’s only as
I do that I notice the brown sleeves of my reindeer dressing gown and I
remember what I’m wearing.
‘Oh, God,
no, sorry,’ I babble. ‘It’s a long story. This is a shop and we’re open. I run
the place. I’m Ivy.’
I hope
down from my stool and walk around the counter to shake his hand.
‘Nice to
meet you, Ivy. I’m Seb.’
Seb holds
my hand for a few seconds as he peers over my shoulder.
‘Are…are
those antlers and a red nose on your hood?’ he asks with an impossibly cheeky
smile.
I feel my
cheeks flush the same colour as the nose on my dressing gown. ‘Yes,’ I reply
with an awkward laugh. ‘I wasn’t expecting any customers yet and it was cold…’
‘No, I
like it,’ he replies. ‘It’s cute.’
If it’s
even possible, my blushing intensifies.
‘So,
business is quiet?’ he asks, walking across the shop, picking up a snow globe
from the shelf before shaking it up and watching the flakes fall.
I can’t
help but stare at him – not watch him, really stare at him. Taking him in. Seb
must be over 6 feet tall, and he’s so muscular that I feel like an elf next to
him, my petite, 5’3” frame resulting in me not even coming up to his shoulders.
He has
perfectly neat, swept back dark hair, and a thick but short beard – combined
with his sexy blue eyes, his chiselled cheekbones and those gorgeous dimples
when he smiles are probably the reasons why people so easily mistook him for a
Hollywood actor.
‘It’s
picking up for Christmas,’ I assure him.
‘It’s a
strange thing, a Christmas shop that’s open all year round,’ he muses as he
strolls around.
‘It’s not
that,’ I insist, following him closely. ‘My mum opened the place up when I was
a kid and it was always heaving back then. I took over, after she died, and we
were busy for a while. It’s since satnavs became popular. This road used to be
the main way into town, so tourists would always pass the shop on their way in
or their way out. These days, satnavs lead everyone along the new road, so no
one even knows we’re here. We get hikers, and other shops let tourists know we’re
here, and they usually remember to stop by.’
‘Hmm,’
Seb says thoughtfully. ‘So, is it just you working here?’
‘You ask
a lot of questions,’ I point out.
‘I do,’
he replies. ‘It’s been said before.’
‘What do
you do for work?’ I ask.
‘At the
moment, nothing,’ he replies.
I raise
my eyebrows.
‘What?’
Seb laughs, and there are those dimples again.
I
suddenly remember what I’m wearing and tighten the belt of my dressing gown
self-consciously.
‘You do
nothing?’
‘Nope.’
‘How does
a man who does nothing afford a suit like that? And drive around in a Porsche?’
I ask suspiciously.
‘You’ve
got me, I’m a drug dealer,’ he says sarcastically. ‘No, I’m just between jobs
at the moment. Does this train work?’
Seb runs
his hand along the track until he reaches the miniature steam train that used to
run all around the shop.
‘Not
anymore,’ I admit. ‘It needs repairing.’
‘Shame,’
he says. ‘I like it.’
‘So, you’re
just taking a break in Marram Bay then?’ I ask.
‘Just
having a look around.’
‘Well, if
you need someone to show you the sights,’ I start, before my brain has chance
to catch up with my mouth and reality hits me. What am I saying? This isn’t me;
I don’t talk to men. Well, I do talk to men, most days in fact, but this isn’t
Pete the postman, this is a man man.
I don’t know what on earth I was thinking, saying that. There’s just something
about Seb that is drawing me in. I quickly backtrack. ‘I’m sure you don’t…’
‘I might
just take you up on that, Ivy,’ he replies with a big smile. ‘Do all your
customers get this kind of special treatment?’
‘What
customers?’ I joke.
Seb takes
the snow globe from the shelf and brings it over to the counter. ‘Is this
Marram Bay, inside?’
‘It is.
There’s a local guy who makes them – I buy them from him.’
‘I’ll
take it.’ He grins, placing it down in front of me.
I can’t
help but wonder if he actually wants the snow globe, or if he’s only buying it
because he feels sorry for me, for seemingly having no customers. I can
appreciate that, to an outsider, a Christmas shop that is always open might not
seem like the kind of place that would get much custom, but things will pick up in the run-up to Christmas.
Either way, I appreciate him buying something. Along with his cheeky smile, Seb
has a glimmer of kindness in his eyes, a glimmer that I can’t help but notice
twinkling when I look at him.
‘That’s
£9.99, please. Would you like me to wrap it up for you?’
‘That’s
OK, I’m going straight to my car,’ he says, before furrowing his brow. ‘How did
you know I drove a Porsche?’
‘What?’
‘You know
what kind of car I drive…’
‘Oh, just
a guess.’
Seb
laughs. ‘Is that your party trick? Guessing what kind of car people drive?’ he
asks.
‘Is it
even possible for anyone to be able to do that?’ I reply.
‘Sure,’
he tells me. ‘Hold out your hand.’
I place
my hand out in front me, which Seb takes in his hands, examining my palm. It’s
amazing, just how warm his hands are compared to mine.
‘Let’s
see…you drive…a Honda HR-V,’ he says.
Spooked,
I snatch my hand back.
‘A gold
one,’ he adds with a smug grin.
‘Ahh, you
saw it outside,’ I say, suddenly self-conscious that he’s seen my 1998 plate
Honda. It might be old, but it’s an amazing car that never lets me down. It’s
no convertible Porsche though, that’s for sure.
‘How
could I miss it?’ He laughs. ‘It’s the only car for miles.’
I step
out from behind the counter and walk Seb towards the door. He stops in his
tracks to say something to me, stopping when he notices the mistletoe hanging
above us.
‘How
seriously do you take Christmas tradition?’ he asks with an awkward laugh.
‘Pretty
seriously,’ I say cautiously. ‘I pretty much live Christmas every day…’
‘Hmm,’ he
replies.
There’s
an awkward silence between us, but only for a few seconds. I glance around the
room awkwardly until I notice Seb’s face just inches from mine. He plants a
quick peck on my lips, immediately seeming surprised at himself for doing so.
Maybe, as cool and as confident as he seems, he doesn’t do this sort of thing
often. I guarantee this sort of thing happens to me even less.
‘OK,
well,’ he says, a little flustered, but with a smile on his face. ‘See you
around, Ivy.’
‘Bye,’ I
call after him, running my fingertips over my lips, where Seb’s lips touched
them even if it was only for a second. As I sit back down behind the counter, I
look at my book. For the first time – maybe ever – something happened to me in
real life that was fresh out of a romcom, and I can’t quite believe it.
He said
‘see you around’ when he left – it would be great to see him around, but what
are the chances I’ll ever see him again? He’s not about to need another snow
globe anytime soon, is he? He’s got a posh, southern accent, and we don’t have
too many men like that in Marram Bay. We have farmers, fishermen – we even have
a guy who makes snow globes, but no well-spoken southern men in flashy suits.
Nope, I don’t think I’ll ever see him again. But if I do, I really hope
I’m not dressed as a reindeer.
***
If you loved this story, then you MUST read 'Love and Lies at the Village Christmas shop," because this is actually the first chapter!!
Find Portia MacIntosh here:
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