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‘Are you the woman who makes the Christmas cookies?’ Noémi heard somebody from Shay’s queue ask.

‘Ooh yes, I think you’re right,’ another added. ‘Award-winning. I’m sure I saw something online again recently.’

‘She used to,’ said another voice. ‘Though I think she sells something else now. What was it?’

‘Books!’ Noémi replied, trying not to sound as murderous as she felt. ‘I sell books. Adventures in Books – right over there.’ She pointed to her bookshop.

‘Never mind. It was cookies that I was hoping for.’

‘And real-life adventures, not fictional ones.’

‘Right.’ Noémi blew out a tense breath, her fringe passive-aggressively bouncing.

Then she grabbed Daniel and marched him back across the road and into the bookshop. It wasn’t long before he was looking bog-eyed out of the window, like a child not allowed to stay at the fair, and she was rearranging her books and wondering how on earth she could compete.

Not that she was naturally competitive, but Shay’s escapades seemed set to put her bookshop in extra jeopardy at this critical moment. This ought to be their busiest time of year – the last hope to save their darling bookshop. Yet ‘top o’ the morning’ Shay was commandeering any potential customers, insisting he could offer something better than ‘sitting on your backside’ with a book. And he wasn’t even planning to stick around. Usurp and move on. No wonder she didn’t feel minded to support him.

And there might be some excitement about the extra footfall, but her till certainly wasn’t ringing. What did she have to do, start dressing like Mrs Claus in a hard hat and get people abseiling down her bookshelves?

Noémi winced as she heard the first delighted squeals of one of his daredevil customers. With a swish of angel wings and black leather, one of the ladies from The Kooky Craft Emporium zipped past her window, limbs akimbo. She just prayed nobody would break any.

Thank goodness tomorrow morning she was due to visit her mum, because she was desperate to talk about all this mess. Élisabeth might often be confused or in her own unseen world, but her hands were as warm as they’d always been, and she would always listen.

Yes, some quiet time away from all of this was exactly what she needed.

Chapter 11

22 days until Christmas

The next morning, Noémi decided to walk to the care home. She had a small van that she’d once used for collections and deliveries when times had been busier, but the weather was sunny in a wintery way, which meant she could stretch her legs and read her book. It was the latest festive romance by Sarah Morgan, and she was hooked. The villagers were used to her wandering by with a book in her hands. It was perfectly normal – as long as it wasn’t raining.

She said her goodbyes to Daniel and Felix and stepped out into the street, almost colliding with a pair of Lycra-clad pecs. Again.

‘Haven’t you heard of personal space?’ It wasn’t exactly Shay’s fault she’d been busy remembering what paragraph she was on, but why was this guy always in her face?

The bike he’d been perching on wobbled, and she instinctively grabbed him, nearly dropping her book. Her hand landed on his bicep, firm and round, like a ginormous grapefruit stuffed into a pair of tights. Or something less weird. She snatched her hand away and went back to hugging her book. There would have been hell to pay if she’d dropped it.

‘I’m sorry,’ they both mumbled at once, her for groping his arm muscle and him for being parked outside her shop like it was a designated stop on the Tour de France.

It wasn’t the first time she’d seen him riding up the hill, glistening with perspiration and panting heavily. She hadn’t heard any commotion in the flat above the shop next to hers, so she guessed he was living somewhere else and cycling in, but she didn’t know where.

‘I didn’t see you,’ he explained hastily. ‘I was checking my heart rate.’ He waved his wrist, his fitness watch flashing.

‘And how is it?’ she asked, before internally cringing. She was sure she had more important things to quiz him on than the performance of his bodily organs, but right then, everything else had escaped her.

‘Rising.’ His eyebrows knitted as he scrutinized his watch.

‘Well, there’s a doctor up in the village.’ She flapped an arm in the general direction of where she was heading. Not that he looked like he needed it. As he swung a leg off his bike and straightened himself, she couldn’t help noticing that he looked particularly healthy, in his tight black sporty ensemble. She’d preferred it when he’d had a tutu to cover up certain parts. ‘And various clothing shops.’ Well, she’d yet to see him wearing anything normal.

‘Why, thank you.’ He took off his helmet and gave her a small bow. ‘I’m grateful you have my needs in mind.’

The movement made his backpack rattle, and she noticed the handle of something sticking out of it. What was that. A shovel? What on earth was he up to? Their shops both had small gardens at the back, though she was sure his was paved over. Knowing her luck, he was committing gruesome murders and burying the evidence. Perhaps she’d have a word with Mr Ham about those rumoured drones. Or arguably, she’d read too much Agatha Christie.

‘I need to be off,’ she said, before she could have any more preposterous thoughts. This man made it impossible to think straight.

‘Anywhere nice?’ He ruffled his hair to shake off the helmet look.

As she watched his slightly damp, caramel waves lift and fall, a bead of sweat trickling down his neck, she found herself wondering if he was going to shower before he got into whatever fancy-dress frivolity he planned for that day.