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‘We don’t stock that sort of thing.’

He cocked his head, confused. ‘But you’re called Adventures in Books.’

She felt herself tense, her mind pinballing to her spare room, a dust sheet, a new, never-used sign hidden beneath. She shook herself. ‘The shop has always been called that. I didn’t name it; my mum did.’

The adventure bit wasn’t ideal anymore, but that wasn’t his business.

‘Interesting.’

He rubbed his free hand against his jaw, apparently thinking. She couldn’t help noticing that under his light beard he had one of those chiselled jaws she’d so often read about. All the best heroes had them, as though normal jaws weren’t sexy enough. Not that he was any sort of hero around here, even if he probably did have a fancy-dress cape.

‘What would you have called it?’ he asked, seeming genuinely interested.

No doubt if she came out with Books are Great, he’d change his shop to Books are Crap and start selling virtual-reality games.

‘The name of the shop is fine,’ she replied firmly. ‘We have plenty of fiction books about adventures.’ Well, some.

‘Like?’ he asked.

What was he, the bookshop police? It wasn’t as if he seemed like the sort to stop and read.

‘The Swallows and Amazons series is a favourite.’

He went to open his mouth and then faltered. Ha. She knew he wouldn’t have heard of it. Twelve classic children’s novels, adapted for film and TV – and it had completely passed him by. And he called himself an adventurer.

‘Is it your favourite?’ he asked.

Her box was getting heavy, and there was no point in sharing personal details with a neighbour who would only be there fleetingly.

‘I need to get back to my shop.’

‘I wanted to give you a leaflet about the events I’ve got coming up. Hey, maybe you can take a few and hand them out in your shop?’ He grinned widely, as though he was full of brilliant ideas.

Was he actually joking? At least he was finally reading her face. His smile wavered.

‘I can display some cards for your shop, if you’d like? Or send people your way again?’

She was surprised he wasn’t wearing his cape already. She didn’t need him to swoop in and save her, especially when he seemed to believe in the opposite of what she was offering. Or was she under too much pressure and being a little harsh?

Before she had time to decide, something firm nudged her bottom, propelling her towards him. She let out a squeal, her eyes widening.

Had he just furtively grabbed her?

That was in no way acceptable. Though he looked just as surprised as she to have her box shoved into him.

‘Sorry, y’all. My bad. They don’t call her Goatrude for nothin’.’

Noémi spun around to see Texan Jim, with the slow Texan drawl she usually loved when it wasn’t paired with a goat accosting her private parts.

Texan Jim opened his arms wide by way of apology and Noémi found herself putting down her box to accept the gesture. Jim was part jolly father figure part enigma around the village, with rumours flying that he used to be in films, but nobody being able to pinpoint one. Which had led to more buzz about what sort of films, if they weren’t mainstream. Though like his herd of goats, he took everything in his stride.

While Jim was clapping Shay on the back and passing pleasantries, Noémi leaned down to give Goatrude’s brown-and-white head a fuss and to admire her latest jumper, most likely knitted by Jim’s elderly mother, Mary Lou. Though Goatrude had her greedy designs on Noémi’s box.

‘Oh, no, noooo,’ she warned the goat as she barged her nose straight in, even more determinedly than she had been with Noémi’s rear end. Noémi grabbed her collar, suddenly remembering the box of cookies that was buried deep. She felt sure that goats and sugar were a dangerous mix.

Not to mention that people noticing she was sneak-buying other people’s cookies would be mortifying.

‘You’ve bought Christmas cooooookies,’ said Texan Jim, extending the last word for an excruciating length of time. ‘Well now.’ He bent to inspect the box before looking at Noémi. ‘Didn’t you used to sell your own and win fancy awards?’