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Noémi took a deep breath. ‘It’s not actually …’

‘Maybe you should just take the hint,’ said Daniel. ‘Give the people what they want. Singles night with a book. Judging a potential date by what they’re reading might be almost as accurate as assessing them by their shoes. And if it goes badly, there will always be cookies. Imagine the potential for your Valentine’s cookie recipes. And you know I’ll want rainbow Pride cookies this summer, and a certain person might support something green for Saint Patrick’s Day …’

‘A certain person will be gone before March,’ Noémi replied, as breezily as she could.

Though she was trying not to think about that.

She shook her head and went back to doing a bad job of chalk-penning the blackboard she’d pulled in from outside, Mrs Jingleman still scowling.

Just as Noémi was closing up that evening, Shay darted out of his shop – this time dressed in jeans and a jumper, his winter coat unbuttoned.

‘I almost didn’t recognize you, not dressed as a giant chocolate dessert.’ Noémi laughed.

‘I was hoping you’d supply the baked goods.’

‘You were?’ She tilted her head.

‘And your sparkling company. I hear your bookshop’s offering dates now? The whole street’s talking about it. Some want to be set up with some Irish fellow?’ Noémi loved the way it sounded more like oyer-ish than I-rish on his tongue, even though most of his accent was English-sounding, when he wasn’t playing to a crowd. ‘Though I’m not sure the Irish guy’s for me. Will we settle in with a book?’

‘I’d be delighted to,’ said Noémi, her soul positively bouncing.

Only because he’d finally agreed to rest awhile, of course. Everybody deserved the joy of sitting down quietly with a story and a seasonal cookie. That was exactly what the new version of her bookshop was all about.

Chapter 39

Well, the plan had been to sit serenely and read their books. But Noémi found it unusually difficult to settle with the excitement of Shay being there. She wanted to ask him questions and hear about his day. And she felt ever more eager to share things about herself. Where she would often shush like a strict librarian when there were books to be devoured, she’d barely managed to finish a page, even though Shay was immersed in his.

‘Are novels meant to make you hungry?’ Shay asked, his stomach rumbling. ‘This one contains a lot of delicious talk about hot chocolate and gingerbread.’

He’d admitted when he’d unwrapped his blind date with a book that a festive romance set in the Cotswolds might not normally have grabbed his attention – but that sometimes life surprised you.

‘I’m trying not to be a feeder, but you know I have emergency Christmas cookies. I even bought those atrocious egg white and cashew snack bars, in case of health-conscious visitors.’

Shay placed a hand on his heart. ‘I’m touched.’

They were sitting around the fireplace – now glowing with battery-powered candles that looked impressively realistic, if you squinted – huddled on the patchwork Chesterfield sofa and tucked under a knitted reindeer-patterned blanket. She’d told Shay the heaviness of the blanket would help him settle, though in truth, it was also because his legs looked far too good in jeans, and she needed to stop ogling.

It didn’t assist her wayward thoughts that they were sharing a footstool, their fluffily socked feet occasionally nudging when they stretched their legs. It was simply not normal to want your toes to touch somebody else’s – even with layers of fleecy protection – and she must stop pondering it.

Though the more she told herself not to think about toes, the more she thought about them.

‘What size feet are you?’ she heard herself asking. Then she winced, remembering there was a joke about the size of a man’s feet being a measure of his trouser banana. And she was definitely not thinking about that.

Although now she was. Goddammit. Reading books in the vicinity of fit men was a dangerous pastime. And of course his lips were twitching.

‘For the …’ She rotated a hand, waiting for an idea to emerge. ‘Ice-skates!’

‘The ice-skates,’ he repeated back, as though he didn’t believe a word of it. ‘Would you like to take a guess?’

He pulled the blanket up to expose their lower legs, Noémi’s in cable-knit tights under her woollen skirt. Then he edged closer, their hip bones nudging, his thigh against hers, firm and warm. She guessed he was aiming to compare feet sizes – but her eyes were too distracted by the place where their thighs touched. Even with their clothes between them, her skin was fluttering. Could skin even flutter? Could her brain even work properly when this hot-blooded man was so close?

And she was trying not to wonder how intense it would feel to touch him without the layers of denim and wool-blend in between. Really, she was. But how much longer could she keep up all this trying? Her eyes lifted to his, so rich and chocolatey, sweet with what looked like longing. Was he thinking the same as she was?

Because she was thinking to hell with it.

So what if he was leaving soon? Wasn’t life about living in the moment? The past was tomorrow’s recycled wrapping paper, and the future may never be. But this. This was real. The way her heart leapt as he gazed at her. The way she wanted to lean in and taste his lips as he parted them. The way her breasts suddenly thought they were something out of a Jilly Cooper novel, desperate to bounce free from her frilly blouse and be touched.

His hand moved forward and she may have emitted a hopeful groan, but of course he wasn’t the type to grope a boob before he’d kissed you. Which was probably a good thing. His hand moved to her face and curved around it, his thumb gently brushing a wisp of hair from her cheek. The tenderness made her throat catch. If she’d been recalling the advice to ‘jump his bones’ she was now longing to stroke them. Not her usual fetish – but there was nothing usual about how she was starting to feel for Shay Cassidy.