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‘No, I trust you,’ he said, like it was obvious. ‘And if I slip, I’ll just get back up.’

It sounded like as good a plan as any. Maybe she’d have to remember that, when life felt daunting.

So together, they moved around the rink, Noémi experiencing a small whoosh of pride that she was leading the way in something semi-outdoorsy, Shay looking marginally less like Bambi on ice as he learned from Noémi’s footwork. The chill of the air felt good against her lungs, and she was coming to enjoy the sense of her heart beating faster for reasons other than a swoony page of fiction.

Time seemed to disappear as they carved circles around the ice, two tracks of blades becoming steadier together with each lap.

‘Maybe next time you’ll be ready for the lift,’ Noémi said sagely as Shay managed to let go of her for a moment without doing the splits or landing starfished on his back.

‘I think I’ll soon be ready for a cup of cocoa and a nice book.’ He swept the nervous perspiration from his forehead. ‘Shall we investigate that Welsh breakfast?’

A queue of ice-rink customers was forming, so it seemed their session for two was coming to an end anyway – though the rest of their day was just beginning.

With the promise of bacon, eggs, and a whole lot of tea and toast, it didn’t take long for them to get off the ice, exchange their skates for boots, and install themselves in a quiet part of the café overlooking a fresh batch of wobbling skaters. The Welsh breakfast was much like an English fry-up, but with local ingredients and some optional twists. Shay opted for less of the fried elements and more of the healthier laverbread, which was made from nutrient-dense seaweed but tasted far yummier than Noémi had imagined. Though she was thrilled when she tempted him with a few bites of her side order of Welsh rarebit, because who didn’t deserve posh cheese on toast after all that exercise?

‘I love that they do boozy hot chocolates,’ said Noémi, her eyelids fluttering at the deliciousness of her cheesy, meaty feast. ‘Though that might be a plan for later.’

‘I can drive us back, as long as the snow doesn’t get heavier. But you should try one, in the interests of adventure.’

‘We could stay over in Ethel. I saw they have camping facilities and electricity. I’m guessing your home on wheels is warm?’ Noémi asked.

‘Oh, I have all the electric blankets and insulation. I’m a sucker for a cosy bed, though it’s not that spacious. But I don’t want you to feel like you’re stuck here. Or we can find you a proper room?’

‘No! I mean, I like the idea of staying in your van. In the interests of adventure.’ She didn’t want to admit she was particularly keen on the sound of that small bed, and being cosied up next to a hot Irish man with a penchant for weird outfits.

The rest of the day played out like scenes from the loveliest of festive novels: snowy walks, more skating, and a break for hot-buttered Welsh cakes that tasted as heavenly as they sounded, even if Shay had initially looked hesitant. Though he’d laughed and shaken his head when she’d whipped out a cereal bar.

Time flew when Noémi was with Shay, and before she knew it, evening had fallen, and they were huddled under a blanket in a small log-cabin bar. The space glowed golden with festive lights, the pine scent from strings of garlands filling the air. Shay had ordered them both boozy hot chocolates with Irish cream and Noémi hugged her mug tightly, secretly overjoyed that this meant they were staying over.

‘What do you usually do for Christmas?’ Noémi asked, still hoping he’d be around for at least some of their Christmas Eve gathering, even though she knew he had a big family in Ireland and it felt selfish to want to keep him.

‘I usually get back to County Kerry, when I can face the chaos,’ he said, his eyes lighting up. She could already sense he loved it. ‘All those nieces and nephews, and a lot of doting sisters. And it’s always good to see my ma and da.’

‘Family is important,’ she said, squeezing his hand and thinking of her mum. ‘And the people you collect along the way.’ Her mind skipped to Felix and Daniel, and so many others from the village who more than made up for her lack of other close relatives.

‘Though now and again, I like experiencing Christmas in other places. The Swiss Alps are incredible at this time of year. Once I even tried a sunny one in Sydney. Can you imagine prawns on the beach and Santa arriving by jet ski?’

She smiled, trying not to feel too disappointed that a turkey and tinsel knees-up in a village bookshop could hardly compete.

‘Or the unusually snowy Cotswolds, with goats in coats, suits of armour dressed as Nutcrackers, and the best ever bunch of people,’ he added. ‘Honestly, I’m starting to remember how much I’ve missed feeling like a part of something, rather than a stranger passing through. It’s … special.’

And it wasn’t just the warmth of the hot chocolate that made her insides melt with happiness.

‘Everyone would love to see you there for the bookshop’s Christmas Eve get-together. It always used to be the perfect blend of food, friends, reading, and hot chocolate. This time with added festive cookies, and probably even more mayhem.’ Her mouth twisted into a nervous smile.

‘Could I magic up the perfect outfit?’ He seemed to mull it over. ‘What haven’t I done? String of tinsel? After Eight mint?’

She laughed, her tension dissipating. ‘Terry’s Chocolate Orange.’

‘A delicious classic. But I may be able to go one better,’ he said, with an air of mystery. ‘Anyway, am I sensing some nerves about it?’

He nudged his knee against hers, the small touch dislodging her worries with a swish of delighted butterflies.

‘It feels like a lot. Trying to recreate my own heady mix of Le Réveillon de Noël – the big celebratory meal they have on Christmas Eve in France, plus Felix’s Jólabókaflóð – Iceland’s Christmas book flood. We now seem to have a children’s nativity, possibly with dinosaurs and goats. I can envisage carol singing, mince pies, and a whole lot of brandy cream.’

He nodded slowly. ‘That sounds great. What’s worrying you?’

‘I’ve never been in charge of something so all-encompassing. Mum used to manage it and somehow make it wonderful. But what if I mess it up? What if it’s utter chaos and we haven’t got enough chairs and nobody likes my dodgy attempt at dinde aux marrons?’