By the time I made it back to my abandoned suitcase, my blood rushed and my face heated.
Henry was smiling at me, framed by the gawdy tree, like we were in a Christmas advert. 'Tea?'
'No, thank you.'
'Coffee?'
'No.'
'Mince pie?'
'Absolutely not.'
He frowned. 'You don’t like mince pies?'
'I don’t like Christmas food,' I said crisply. 'Or Christmas music. Or tinsel. Or?—'
He looked genuinely appalled. 'You don’t likeChristmas?'
I adjusted my scarf. 'Professionally, I love Christmas. Personally, I find it… tiresome.'
'Tiresome?'
'Yes. And sticky. And full of people who demand cheerfulness from everyone around them.'
'Ah, people like me.'
I blinked at him. 'What?'
'Coming at you with cheer, mildly sticky. Tiresome, some might say. You were describing me, weren’t you?'
I opened my mouth, then shut it again.
He took a step closer, that smile never faltering. 'You’ve got the look.'
'What look?'
'Of a grinch.'
'I—excuse me?'
'You’ll come round,' he said, maddeningly confident. 'Just like he did. Bit of mulled wine, a kiss under the mistletoe. Boom. Spirit of Christmas.'
I stared at him. 'I’m not kissing you.'
He laughed, the sound rich and warm and infuriating. ‘I never said you would be, but nice to know you thought of me first.’
'So funny,' I said, fighting the urge to strangle him. 'Can you show me to my room, please?'
‘Of course,' he said brightly, turning on his heel and walking straight into a hanging wreath.
The entire thing came down like an avalanche.
‘Oh, for fuck sake.’ I lunged to grab it, but the ribbon loop caught on my wrist.
He tried to catch the garland at the same time, meaning we both ended up in some kind of festive tug-of-war. I glared. He laughed.
I tried to stop the redness flushing into my cheeks. But I saw his eyes snag there as he unhooked the holly from my coat.
