Page 8 of The Secret Holiday Kiss

She skirted the green, and was about to pass the hotel, when she heard a blast of music. It had come from the narrow road that ran down the side of the hotel, and it was just a snatch of sound, there and then gone, but she recognized it because it was one of her all-time favourites: a pleasure she refused to call guilty. She remembered singing along to the song as a teenager, with her school friends Lisa and Verity, laughing and being dramatic, because that was the only way you could sing it.

‘Ain’t No Doubt’ by Jimmy Nail. His album was called The Nail File. Just thinking about it made her grin, and she found herself changing course, slipping up the side of the hotel, passing an open doorway emitting the sounds and smells of a busy kitchen. But the music hadn’t come from there.

Daisy kept going, walking up a slight incline, the narrow track in the shadow of the hotel. The song was still playing, just at a much more acceptable volume, and she followed it until she was at the back of the building. The road opened up into a patch of land, and she was suddenly standing in front of a striking, double-fronted, Norfolk flint house.

The cladding was so familiar to her, and even though the house didn’t have any windows or even window frames yet, the spaces where they would be were large, and she could imagine how much light they would let in. The top half of the gabled end was also exposed, and she assumed that would be glass, too.

At the front, there were the beginnings of a wide porch, and at the side, a low-level, combined flint and redbrick structure was the start of a single-storey extension. The house was the perfect mix of traditional and modern, a stunning home in the making.

The land in front of the house was cluttered with shrink-wrapped stacks of wooden planks and bags of cement, a cement mixer standing idle. It was clearly a work in progress, and Daisy’s limbs tingled with excitement, because this was where she came alive: a shell waiting to be transformed.

Who owned this house, and who was working on it? She looked around for the source of the music, and saw a navy van tucked behind the far side of the hotel. The side door was open, and a man was leaning into the body of the vehicle. Despite his posture, Daisy could see he was tall. He was wearing grey cargo shorts, his tanned calves bare despite the November cold, his wide shoulders in a dust-covered blue T-shirt. She couldn’t see his head, only the back of his neck, and she was about to say hello when ‘Ain’t No Doubt’ reached its last chorus and he joined in, his voice low and rough and surprisingly tuneful.

Daisy tried to keep it in, but she couldn’t. How many times had she sung, warbled, along to this song too? She laughed, and he stopped. Stopped singing, stopped searching for whatever he was searching for, his body going still.

And then, slowly, the man whose music had drawn her here like a siren, to this beautiful, hidden house ready to rise from the ashes, to the song from her past and a bolt of pure, nostalgic pleasure, turned to face her, and Daisy sucked in a surprised breath.

Chapter Three

Daisy should have gone back to the manor. She’d already met two people from her past and got embroiled in a discussion about dog walking with cheerful villagers. Harry was right, Mistingham was bustling, no longer the gloomy place of her memories, and now here she was, with Jimmy Nail and the bones of a gorgeous house and this … man.

‘Can I help you, or did you just come to laugh at my singing?’

‘I …’ She was usually good at a witty comeback or, at the very least, a scathing one. But this man, with his messy head of light brown hair, amused eyebrows raised to his hairline, his arms folded across his chest, enhancing the bulge of his biceps below the sleeves of his T-shirt – this man had somehow emptied her head. Something tugged at her, some flash of recognition, except that was how it had been all morning, with almost everyone she’d seen. ‘Whose house is this?’ It came out too sharply, as if she was criticizing him, as if she had a problem with the building site’s disarray.

The man leaned into his van, and the music – Belinda Carlisle now – fell to a low murmur. He faced her again, barely attempting to restrain his smile. ‘Why do you care whose house this is? Who are you?’ His voice was low and rumbly, with a hint of a Norfolk accent. Daisy had once had a strange hybrid of Norfolk and RP English from her parents, but had trained the Norfolk part out as soon as she could. But with this man, all it did was soften the hard edges, make his words more cajoling.

‘I’m Daisy.’ She held her hand out. ‘I heard the music. Jimmy Nail.’

He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the edges. They were grey, such an unusual colour. It made him look almost wolf-like. ‘One of the most underrated singers ever to grace the airwaves.’ He shook her hand with his large, rough one. It was unmistakably a tradesman’s hand, and yet Mo and Pete didn’t give her whole body shivers when she greeted them. ‘Avery,’ he said. ‘Foreman for the house build you’re so interested in.’

Daisy looked at it again. ‘It’s beautiful. I don’t remember …’ She frowned. Did she remember coming up here? She had explored the entire village when she was younger, because it wasn’t that big and she was a restless teenager, but scraping through her Mistingham memories wasn’t something she relished.

‘Are you OK?’ Avery asked her. ‘Are you spinning out?’

‘I am not spinning out. What part of this,’ she indicated her body, ‘looks like I’m spinning out?’

Avery’s gaze flickered over her, following the movement of her hand. ‘Sorry. You seemed to be glitching. Stuck. Like your brain and mouth were on different—’

‘I don’t need a hundred alternative descriptions. I’m fine. I just didn’t realize this house was up here, and it’s confusing me.’

Avery laughed. ‘Are you the village inspector?’

Daisy flushed. She could sometimes be a bit on the inquisitive side. ‘No, I’m just… interested.’

Avery stood up straighter. ‘Interested, eh? What part are you interested in?’

Daisy rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, give it a rest. The house is what I’m interested in.’

‘I know. I meant which part of the house? The location, the traditional style we’re working in, the owners? I didn’t think you meant me.’ He gave her a lopsided smile.

‘Sure you didn’t.’ Daisy folded her arms, her paper bag swinging in front of her. ‘Hang on. You said you’re working in a traditional style? You mean this isn’t an original flint house – one from 1820-ish?’

‘You actually are interested in the house.’

Daisy exhaled. Could he be any more infuriating? Why did she want to know, anyway? Was it because she was stuck in Mistingham and had one client and too much time on her hands? ‘Never mind.’ She turned, resolving to get away from this pointless conversation.

‘No, hang on.’ Avery was suddenly in front of her, hands held up to stop her. She appreciated that he hadn’t grabbed her. ‘Don’t run away. Not now you’re here.’