“I like it because I know there’s nothing in it that’s going to hurt me,” I say in a rush. “No one’s going to die, or even suffer, particularly. There’s always going to be a happy ending. I … I appreciate that.”
I don’t tell him that books with happy endings are the only kind I’ve been able to read since Mum died. That when I pick up something new, I always flick quickly to the end to make sure there are no dead mothers, abandoned children, or other unbearable plot twists waiting to ambush me. And it doesn’thaveto be a trashy romcom, but itdoeshave to be a book that won’t hurt me; which can be surprisingly difficult to find. Whoever it was who started that rhyme about how sticks and stones can break your bones, but words can never hurt you had obviously never read the scene inBlack Beautywhere Ginger dies, had they?
I don’t tell him any of this, but he’s watching me as if he already knows — or at least suspects — that there’s more to this than I’m telling him.
“Well, I think we can all appreciate a happy ending,” he says softly. “Don’t we…?”
“Holly,” I tell him, answering his unspoken question. “Holly Hart.”
“Holly?” His eyes do the twinkly thing again. It’s very distracting. “That’s quite a name for someone who is definitely not a scary Christmas Person.”
“My Mum loved Christmas,” I find myself telling him. “It was her favorite time of year. So she named me Holly, even though I was born in July.”
“Was? She’s not around anymore?” The smiley eyes crinkle with concern, but for some reason his sympathy doesn’t make my barriers instantly go up, the way it does with other people. Somehow, I feel like I can talk to him about Mum without wanting to cry.
“She died,” I say quietly. “When I was 19. She had cancer.”
He absorbs this fact silently, giving it time to sink in.
“And that’s why you want to read books with happy endings,” he says matter-of-factly. “Makes sense.”
I nod silently, because it does, and he’s the first person who’s understood that without trying to make me feel stupid or uneducated because I refuse to readThe Boy in the Striped Pajamas, and will never forgive Louisa May Alcott for killing off Beth March.
“Well, Holly, I’m very pleased to meet you,” the American says now, holding out his hand for me to shake. It’s warm and soft, and it wraps around mine for just a little longer than is strictly necessary, making me momentarily forget everything else.
“I’m Elliot, by the way,” he adds, letting go at last. “Elliot Sinclair. My mom likes Christmas, too, but not enough to give me a festive name, unfortunately. I kind of wish she had, actually. I could really see myself as a Gabriel, say. Or maybe a Rudolph.”
Our eyes meet, and we both burst out laughing. I can still feel the touch of his hand on mine, even though his are tucked safely back in his pockets by now.
“So, do you live near here?” he asks, suddenly shy. “I guess you must do if your family owns this place?”
“Very near,” I tell him, my heart doing a little dance of excitement. “Right above the shop, actually. With my Dad.”
“Right. So I guess that means I might see you around?” he says casually. “I’m staying at The Rose Tavern. Do you know it? What am I saying? Of course you know it. You live here!”
“Itisthe only hotel in the village,” I confirm, charmed by how adorably flustered he is. “Although I only know it as a pub. I don’t know anyone who’s actually stayed there.”
“Oh, you’re missing out,” he grins, recovering himself. There’s at least three rooms for hire upstairs. Only one bathroom, though. That was … unexpected.”
He smiles good-naturedly, not remotely troubled by the spartan accommodation at The Rose, which is the kind of place where you wipe your feet on the wayout, rather than on the way in. My disappointment at the confirmation that he definitely isn’t from around here is tempered slightly by the knowledge that he’s almost definitely trying to ask if he can see me again.
Or Ithinkhe is, anyway.
Ishe?
“So, do you ever go to that pub?” Elliot asks hopefully.
“Not really,” I admit. “I do go to the café next door most days, though, on my lunch break. They do a really nice ploughman’s lunch. Or sometimes I’ll have a jacket potato, or a toastie. Those are nice, too.”
I stop, realizing I’m rambling. I don’t think Elliot’s interested in the toasties at The Brew, somehow — which, to be honest, aren’t eventhatgood.
“Right!” Elliot’s face brightens. “Funnily enough, I was just thinking it’d been a while since I had a decent ploughman’s lunch.” He pauses. “What exactlyisa ploughman’s lunch, again?”
I chuckle.
“You’ll have to order one to find out,” I say teasingly.
“Maybe I will,” he replies, smiling back at me. “And maybe I’ll bump into you when I’m doing it? I feel like we owe it to these guys to at least get to know each other.”
