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Ooh, flying sounds far too scary. I’ll take the invisibility cloak.

Fantasy Man:

Dreams are free, you know. It’s OK to go large.

Well, maybe they wouldn’t always agree.

Book Girl:

Busy day tomorrow, so I’d better log off and finish my beans. Then an early night for me. Thanks for being there. (Your words help more than you know.) X

Fantasy Man:

Now that’s a wild night. (And you’re welcome. Right back at you.)

Sweet dreams, Book Girl. Hope they bring you what you wish for. X

Chapter 10

23 days until Christmas

‘Ready for anything,’ Noémi whispered to Wanderer as she gave the fish her customary morning fuss from the other side of the spherical glass. ‘Dreaming big. Definitely not wearing Crocs.’

Conscious that it was her elf neighbour’s ‘grand shop opening day’ (whatever that meant), she’d dressed to feel vaguely confident in a knee-length woolly dress, hair in a bun pierced with pencils. Not that she’d be setting a sensible winter boot anywhere near his stupid celebration, but she did need to investigate the competition, and perhaps someone needed to shove a book under his nose. And up his …

Noémi shook her head. That would be a waste of good paperbacks. She checked the clock. Where were her trusty staff? Her stomach was wriggling with nerves, because she didn’t like confrontation. Oh, for the simpler times when he’d been the stranger with the chocolatey eyes. She blinked a few times. How had she noticed the colour of his eyes from so far away? She shouldn’t have been so charmed by them.

She moved to the bay window and opened the shop’s book-patterned curtains.

What in the name of figgy pudding was that?

Noémi blew out a long huff that made her fringe flap. She couldn’t work out what was going on, other than it involved a man in angel wings, a whole lot of safety signs, and far too much commotion. Was he planning to dig up the road, dressed as a divine messenger? Whatever it was, it looked hazardous. Her legs started to tremble.

She didn’t need him to turn around to know it was her new neighbour – because who else would have half of the village buzzing as if chocolate coins were falling from the clouds? This time his hard hat bore a halo, rather than elf ears. When he spotted her, his eyebrow quirked, as though wondering why she hadn’t joined his circus of merry mayhem.

Noémi felt herself redden, her fingers gripping the curtain as though she was strangling a rubber chicken. Why did everything about this man’s presence make her world spin? Her blue casement window wasn’t Doctor Who’s time-travelling TARDIS. Though maybe the parallel universe had come to her.

And why was he still staring? Was he beckoning her? Something in her belly flipped, like she’d just sped over a bridge and wasn’t ready for the drop.

‘Bizarre,’ she muttered.

Scanning the street, she could see at least one of her staff members, when he should be in the shop. And why wasn’t this neighbour conducting his grand opening indoors, instead of commandeering the whole avenue with his cones? Daniel caught her eye, and she noticed he was carrying two cardboard coffee cups. He waved one at her. She gave a small huff. Well, it would be rude not to accept her morning latte, and it was in her interests to find out what the hell was going on.

It was time to meet her nemesis – even if Daniel had already warned her not to talk like she was living in a comic book. She stomped outside.

‘Top o’ the morning,’ her angel-dressed neighbour sing-songed in what she was sure was an exaggerated Irish accent. She tried to look fearless while arriving in front of him.

Why was he pretending to be a leprechaun, and where was she meant to look, when confronted with a man in tight white Lycra, covered only by a tiny tutu? He certainly knew how to attract a crowd. She focused on his face, because other people’s pecs were none of her business.

‘Are you here for the ride of your life?’ he asked, with a lopsided grin.

Her eyes widened. ‘I beg your …’

He doffed his hard hat like he was trying to be a gent, then promptly dropped it. ‘Oh, bloody hell,’ he muttered, ducking to grab it and knocking over a table of flyers with the back of his netted skirt. ‘Shite. I’m not usually so …’ He waved a hand as though the word had escaped him.

‘Clumsy? Potty-mouthed? Fake Irish?’ A small part of her wanted to laugh, but she wasn’t here for niceties.

‘Shay Cassidy,’ he said, standing quickly and putting out a hand to shake, once again dropping some of his papers and wincing at his own stupidity. ‘Born in County Kerry.’