‘If you’re happy, I’m happy.’
‘It’s perfect,’ Rita said.
If she said perfect one more time while referencing the monstrosity before me, I might actually combust.
Henry moved closer, warmth rolling off him like he hadn’t just been outdoors creating havoc.
‘Not so bad, is it?’ he murmured.
‘It is. Very bad.’
‘They’re happy.’ I followed his gaze to the clients, who did look happier than I’d seen them since they arrived.
‘They’re deranged.’
He leaned in, voice low enough to make me quiver. ‘It’s Christmas, Amanda. Maybe imperfection’s allowed.’
‘No, it’s really not.’
But when the children burst into giggles as Rita proudly lifted their lopsided wreaths, something in me softened. Atinybit. Enough that Henry caught it.
I scowled at him for good measure before sidling away from him.
‘Hot chocolate?’ I suggested, desperate for a distraction.
The children cheered.
Henry’s lips quirked.
And I guided them into the parlour, my head feeling utterly stuffed with cotton wool as I bounced between annoyance and relief. Of course, I was pleased that the clients were happy, but did it mean I was bad at my job? I’d always excelled in making events magical.
Yet, Henry had come in and managed it with little more than a fucking frin and a box of old stuff from the attic.
eight
HENRY
Freshly showeredafter putting Merv to stable for the night, I eyed my bed longingly. Entertaining six rambunctious children had taken it out of me. Still, it had been a good day. For the clients and me at least. Amanda had been throwing me daggers every time she had to walk past the newly decorated tree. I’d been trying to help keep her patrons happy, and somehow it had only made Amanda more prickly.
As I headed for the bed, a thought snuck in to ruin my pace. Had I locked the side door when I’d come in? While I was sure no ill would come to the house in the middle of the night, I didn’t want to let the Leadbetters down. With a sigh, I dried off and pulled on my ridiculous Christmas jumper with the giant sparkly H on the front, given to me the previous Christmas by Jean Harris when I’d joined her family for Christmas Dinner. It was loud and garish, and it saddened me that I could only wear it a few times a year during the holidays. The entire Harris clan, the local whisky distillery owners, had all been wearingmatching ones, and I’d never forgotten how welcoming I’d found it. Teamed with grey sweats and unlaced boots, I crept back downstairs to check the door, hoping not to disturb anyone.
All for nothing. The door was locked tight. Shaking my head, I made for my room, but paused as I neared the kitchen.
Something sweet and sugary filled my nostrils and had my mouth watering. But the kitchen should be closed. The chef had long headed home, ready for an early start.
I followed the aroma, like some sugar-scenting hound, straight into the kitchen.
Sweeping my gaze over the room proved fruitless. It lay empty and dark, but for the light about the range cooker. Had I imagined it.
Then a tiny metallic scrape sounded from beyond the kitchen counter. Treading lightly, I investigated.
Amanda Inglis sat on the kitchen floor in front of the ancient forest green Aga. Cross-legged and back slouched against a cupboard. Her hair balanced on top of her head in a squint and somewhat messy ponytail, while a red knitted cardigan sloped off one shoulder, revealing a dark vest top below. A vast, catering tray of sticky toffee pudding balanced on her knees, while a can of squirty cream sat beside her. I watched, transfixed as she sprayed a white blob onto the toffee sauce-covered sponge before shovelling a massive bit into her mouth.
She looked… unguarded. Soft around the edges in a way I’d not seen her. Like she’d left her barriers upstairs with her work clothes. My stomach clenched at the sight of her, and an urge to wrap her up and make her happy washed over me.
She took another bite. A slow one. Her eyes fluttered shut for half a second, like she was finally letting herself breathe. The warm orange light from the Aga lit up her pretty face, and a jolt of something hit me. Like I was intruding on something I wasn’t supposed to see.
My chest squeezed so hard it stole my breath.
