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Noémi and Shay finished their race up the hill in such a flurry of snow, poles, and exhausted puffing that it was almost impossible to tell who’d reached the top first.

‘Clearly me,’ wheezed Noémi, who’d probably cheated by poking her walking pole ahead of Shay’s body.

‘Sticks don’t count,’ Shay managed to huff back.

‘Nor do fluffy appendages. You only got there first by the swing of a sock.’ She hauled herself straight and twanged one of his Snowdog ears.

‘Did we decide where the finish line was?’ He draped an arm over her shoulder to steady himself and she did the same back. ‘Maybe we haven’t crossed it yet.’

She raised an eyebrow at their interlinked arms. ‘Oh, lines have been crossed.’ With the temporary exhilaration, she was almost liking it.

‘Wait. The loser makes the Christmas cookies,’ said Shay. ‘You want to try my healthy baking. You said no avocado, but I heard you can make them with black beans, or even cottage cheese, for the extra protein.’

‘Cottage cheese?’ The thought made her stomach turn.

And as they stood across the road from their shops, the snow still gently falling, the fairy lights from inside the bookshop glowing and Shay’s shop apparently being manned by someone wrestling a goat in a coat, it struck Noémi that she’d made the wrong bet. Why had she said the loser would make the cookies? Because she’d wanted to be the first up that hill. And, she realized with a jolt, she wanted to bake. She still had more ingredients in her little kitchen. Rich chocolate, creamy butter. Even peppermint bark to sprinkle on top, inspired by Fantasy Man, whom she hadn’t thought about all day.

‘What if winning or losing a random uphill march wasn’t a sign of whether I was destined to bake cookies,’ Noémi began, feeling like she was on the verge of some Shakespeare-worthy monologue – if the bard had ever mused about cookery. ‘And what if life wasn’t always so one or the other?’

Noémi spun to look at Shay like she’d cracked it. He appeared confused and enthralled all at once, his puppy-dog head cocked to one side.

‘I mean, it doesn’t have to be your shop or my shop, does it? It doesn’t have to be get out and do wild stuff or stay at home with a book. It doesn’t need to be Spring Square or our quirky little street. And it doesn’t have to be books or seasonal cookie bakes. What if one actively complements the other?’

He nodded for her to go on.

‘I used to think a bookshop that sold cookies was madness,’ she said, stepping out into the road and waving her arms like she was delivering a speech.

A coach then trundled up the road towards them and Shay pulled her back onto the pavement. At least the roads were clear with Shay and his new friend Mr Ham having cleared them with their matching shovels.

‘But what if, all along, books and cookies were the perfect combination? An adventure for your mind and your taste buds,’ she said triumphantly, feeling far too alive from all that snowy stomping but unexpectedly loving it.

The coach steamed to a halt beside them and the driver opened the door.

‘Are you the woman who makes the Christmas cookies?’

Noémi laughed out loud because, honestly, you couldn’t make it up. Tommaso and his old post about her festive cookies. Maybe this was a sign or not a sign. Though if she wanted a literal sign, she had one of those too – and she sensed she was about to add that to her SOB list for the next day.

‘Yes!’ she replied, beaming in a way that would make Shay look comparatively grumpy. ‘Yes, I am the woman who makes Christmas cookies. In fact, I can make all sorts of cookies, all year round. And I also sell books. There’s my bookshop.’ She pointed in the shop’s direction. ‘Come in, all of you. Browse. Read books. Mooch along Hazel View Avenue and explore the other shops. Treat yourself to lattes at the gorgeous van. I’m about to get baking again – and you’re invited to sample the first proper batch.’

‘Not the avocado ones?’ someone on the coach yelled.

Shay held up his hands. ‘No baking from me. Think I’ve got a book to read.’

Noémi couldn’t help the embarrassing squeal that came out of her, or the fact she gave a little jump and threw her arms around Shay, nearly knocking him over.

‘Is he the guy who saved the fish from the fire?’ someone else shouted. ‘I saw it in The Cotswold Juice.’

‘No, that was some bloke dressed as a carrot.’

‘Wait,’ Noémi said, as she pulled herself away from Shay. ‘Is this coach trip the surprise you said would be waiting at the top?’

He shook his head. ‘Nothing to do with me. That was your surprise.’

He turned her around to see two large rubber rings tied up on the snow-covered grass. ‘My next challenge was snowtubing back down the hill. Like sledding but bouncier.’

She gave him a wry smile. ‘I agreed to one light, fluffy, non-dangerous adventure. There’s no way a man should get everything on a first date.’ First date? Had she said that out loud? ‘Not that it was …’ She felt her face turning a hot shade of beetroot. Because it hadn’t been a date – she knew that. Yet something about her felt almost moony. She’d have to keep an eye on that.

‘I know,’ he said, touching her lightly on her orange-painted nose and giving her a wink. ‘Definitely not a date.’