Mistletoe and Mine

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

SASHA

Deep in the fresh hell of tangled Christmas lights, I wonder if this day can get any worse. I’ve already laddered my favourite polka-dot tights, spilled coffee on my cream jumper, and whacked myself in the face dragging a five foot Christmas statue onto the street.

“Would you look at that,” a voice drips with insincerity behind me. “You finally put Mr Nutcracker outside. How lovely.”

I clamp my eyes closed and swear under my breath.

Spoke too soon.

In the two years since moving back home to Walmsley, I’ve developed a sixth sense about Angela Harris, head of the Village Association, chair of the Christmas committee, and all-round pain in my ass. Usually, I can tell when she’s about to drop by to spread gossip, sniff out any fresh to share, or say something to piss me off, but I’m off-kilter today.

Same as yesterday.

And the day before that…

Resigned, I dump the knotted bundle of lights back in the box, give it a frustrated middle finger, and glance across the narrow street to the shops and tea rooms dotted around the village square: a picturesque jumble of honey-coloured limestone so quintessentially Cotswolds.

As usual, the village wakes slowly, but it’s early still and there are barely any customers to assist yet.

Or pretend to, in my case.

Goddammit.

“Actually, his name’s Ernie.” I nod at the life-size Nutcracker now in place outside my shop door.

It’s not the solid-wood original from when my grandparents first opened Mistletoe & Mine fifty-five years ago, but it’s a damn good replica, and almost as heavy. The red and green paint is muted with dust from months of storage, and it still needs some kind of padlocked chain to deter those pesky Nutcracker thieves—lesson learned, thank you—but otherwise it looks great.

At least, I think so?

These days it’s hard to tell.

Not that I’ll ever admit it out loud, but lately I’ve felt a bit… listless about the festive season. It’s not something I’d worry about usually. Most people feel a bit Grinch-like at some point in their lives. The trouble is most people don’t own a year-round Christmas shop about to enter its busiest and most profitable time of year.

Fingers crossed .

The reminder makes my chest ache, a tender twist of grief and guilt, and I’m not sure which is winning.

Since inheriting the family business I’ve only ever wanted to make my grandmother proud, honour her hard-built legacy, but somewhere along the way my Christmas spirit just disappeared.

To make matters worse, my lacklustre mood is affecting business. Sales were already down after a summer of storms and flooding kept tourists away, but I’m completely out of fresh ideas, and no one wants to buy Christmas decorations from Ebenezer Scrooge, not when my predecessor was as beloved as Mrs Clause.

I know, Nan. I know.

I need to get my act together.

“I beg your pardon?” Angela snaps, and it boggles my mind how one can own Ye Olde Sweet Shop and be so sour.

Another one of life’s ironies, I guess.

“Mr Nutcracker,” I remind her. “I call him Ernie. The last one, Bert, was stolen.”

Angela blinks a few times then nods slowly, her mouth contorting with an awkward, placating sort of smile. For the first time in days I want to laugh, to throw my head back and cackle at the absurdity of her disdain for me.

I’m still not sure what I’ve done to warrant it, except maybe dare to exist.

“Right, well.” She arranges herself into the picture of politeness, but it’s as fake as her blonde bob and year-long tan. “Everyone will be pleased to know you got your act together. We were worried when nothing appeared on November first.”

My brow lifts. “We?”

“The Village Association of course.”

Oh, of course.

Bloody busybodies.

“I’m two days late. It’s only me running things here so delays happen, but I don’t forget.”

“But you didn’t do a Halloween display this year. Not even a pumpkin.”

I gasp, palm to chest. “You mean that’s every year?”

In truth, I couldn’t warrant the expense. Things are that bad.

Angela chooses to ignore my sarcastic tone or doesn’t pick up on it. “Your grandmother never forgot. Every year, every important holiday, she’d have a fresh seasonal display for everyone to enjoy. Easter was always my favourite with those cute little bunny decals on the window. Adorable.”

“She was the best, wasn’t she?” I plaster on a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. She’s not the only one who can fake it. “Nice to see you agree.”

Her grin drops, and she looks away, visibly annoyed. “Anyway, I’m only here to remind you about your contribution to the Christmas committee. We were expecting it days ago.”

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Fucking shit.

“Sorry, it slipped my mind.” I snatch up the fairy lights. I’d rather work on these knots than deal with this. “How much was it again?”

“It’s five hundred pounds.”

WHAT?

The air is a cool crisp ten degrees today, but I think I might be sweating.

“Out of interest,” I begin, hoping the panic doesn’t seep into my voice. “Why is it so much this year? It was two-fifty last time.”

I’d balked at that cost too. Not because I begrudged paying my share for the village to look festive, but some unexpected shop maintenance had left my bank balance nearing empty.

It’s even worse this year.

I’m well and truly in the red.

The anxiety of it roller-coasts inside me.

“Unfortunately, the council has further reduced the budget for our Christmas displays for the next five years,” Angela replies. “Without contributions we’d only be able to afford the main tree and one week’s worth of lights. If that.”

Well, shit.

Even I can admit Walmsley without decorations would be a sad and sorry sight. The Cotswolds are a huge draw for tourists all year, with its rolling green hills and quaint, history-steeped towns, but there’s something quite magical about our village at Christmas.

Strings of coloured bulbs line every building and float on strings above, white lights twinkle around tree trunks, and the square plays host to a number of festive events, from the food and gift market to the seasonal workshops offering everything from wreath making to how to knit your own Christmas jumper. The air is always scented with the spices of mulled wine, gingerbread and roasted chestnuts, and if it snows the whole place is as picture perfect as a Christmas card.

In many ways it’s thanks to my nan. She founded the Christmas committee, and helped put Walmsley on the map for Christmas shoppers, instrumental in making the village what it is today. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve been told how there wouldn’t even be a Christmas tree in the square if not for the festive, Community-loving heart of Mrs Rose Smith.

Nan .

If anything can warm my Grinch-like heart this year, it’s that.

“I’ll get the money to you by the end of the day,” I say quietly.

My balance is already in the red. What’s a little more?

“Perfect! I’ll see you later.” Angela barely takes three steps when she halts and spins around. “Wait. Bert and Ernie. Like The Muppets! That’s very funny of you, Sasha.”

Her laughter tinkers in the air, and it’s a surprise to us both when my smile finally surfaces.

“Thanks. I thought so too.”

Four hours and zero customers later, the lights remain tangled and the Christmas window display is nowhere to be seen.

I’m loathe to admit it, but Angela was right. Nan never forgot to change the seasonal displays, and was never short of new ideas for them, even in those last frail months before she died.

Then there’s me.

Wallowing in self-pity sends my mood spiralling if I’m not careful, so I decide to close the shop early and do something to cheer myself up.

A long country walk usually does the trick, and the crisp autumnal weather is perfect for it right now. There’s nothing like stomping through muddy trails and kicking leaves to clear the mind and lift the spirit, but maybe I’ll get drunk instead. On top of the creative block, transferring money from my business account has left me feeling, well, a bit depressed.

But what’s Christmas without a little seasonal depression?

“Fuck my life,” I mumble into both hands.

“Oh dear, that’s not a good sign.”

I straighten from my slouch at the sight of Edith Elliot-King in the doorway, the self-appointed Lady of Walmsley Manor and one of my nan’s oldest friends. Charlotte, her great-granddaughter, filters in behind wearing a sassy smile and a soft pink oversized sweatshirt over her school uniform, her little wave hidden inside the baggy sleeves.

The pair of them are strikingly similar, with their sea-blue eyes and coal-dark hair. Well, Edith’s had been dark once, but these days she’s as grey as the rainclouds rolling in across the hill. She’s shorter now too, age rounding her shoulders and curving her spine, but Charlotte bears the height of her youth. Only thirteen, she towers over her friends, though it’s not surprising given the size of her dad.

Gorgeous tree trunk of a man.

“Hey,” I say brightly, not wanting to think about him . “This is a nice surprise. How are you both today?”

“Better than you by the sounds of it.” Edith leans heavily on her walking stick as she pads towards me, while Charlotte heads for her favourite bauble display. Never met a glitter bauble she didn’t like, that one.

“Now, what’s got you all out of sorts, dear? Surely it can’t be that bad.”

My sigh unfolds itself before I can stop it.

Now’s the time to confide and confess, unburden myself, but I’ve never been one for sharing. A weird reality when you live in a village where oversharing is currency and knowing each other’s business is the country way of life.

But no one can ever find out the mess I’ve made of things, especially not the woman who was there the day the shop opened all those years ago. This is something I have to deal with alone.

“I’m fine. Just having one of those days, you know. Don’t mind me being dramatic. Anyway, what can I help you with?”

Edith doesn’t quite believe me, but her doubt slides away the longer I smile.

“Well, I’m glad you asked.” She unlocks her handbag tucked on the crook of her arm—a navy Launer London, like the late Queen frequently used, so I’ve been told—and pulls out a notepad and pen. “First things first, I’m here for a bit of market research and you’re the perfect age group to ask. What are you, thirty-four? Thirty-five?”

“Thirty-six,” I tell her. “Market research?”

“About my grandson and his eligibility. Tell me what you think about him.”

“I try not to.”

Edith chuckles, but her brow inches upwards. “You don’t like my Sebastian?”

“Not really,” I admit, wincing slightly. “Sorry.”

“No, no. You’re entitled to your opinion, dear. It’s wrong, but you’re entitled to it.”

“Thank you?”

“I must know why though. He’s quite the catch, you know.”

Debatable.

Sebastian King is a reclusive, grumpy asshole. Allergic to smiles and people, he always looks in physical pain whenever he’s dragged out to village events, and we’re certainly not short of them, especially at this time of year.

Most annoying of all, Sebastian ticks every one of my boxes. Dark wavy hair. Check. Chestnut brown eyes framed by a smattering of fine lines. Check. He was cute as a teenager, from what I can remember—he’s three years older so we rarely crossed paths—but time has turned all that boyish charm into someone so brutally handsome it hurts to look at him sometimes. He’s matured whisky. Oak-aged wine.

He looks like he has a story to tell, and my body would very much like to hear it, even if my brain says otherwise.

Easily six foot five, his chest is thick, and his stomach not flat, but it’s undeniably sexy. There’s a ghost of a rugby player physique beneath his broad back and chunky thighs, no surprise given he used to play professionally before a career-ending injury five years ago.

As a plus-size woman with an abundance of pretty much everything, it’s rare to find someone who makes me feel small. Not that I’ve ever wanted that. I’ve only ever wanted to feel loved. But still, there’s something quite alluring about Sebastian’s ability to throw me over his shoulder, if he were so inclined.

Which he’s not. Let’s be clear. He can’t stand the sight of me, and the feeling is mutual.

“I guess it dates back to when you hired me to decorate the manor for Christmas two years ago,” I admit. “He didn’t really like me or my work.”

Understatement.

I couldn’t do anything right. Despite Edith granting me free rein, Sebastian insisted on micro-managing me, barking orders and clashing over every detail, from the colour of the lights to the positioning of the garlands. The whole thing ended with a blazing row about my lack of health and safety protocols when I slipped off a ladder, an accident which only happened thanks to his constant distractions and looming, domineering presence.

Bookings for festive house decorating were few and far between anyway, but after that they pretty much disappeared. I’m not sure I can blame Sebastian for that, but it doesn’t stop me being any less pissed.

“I see.” Edith hums. “I suppose this is why you didn’t come back to decorate last year?”

Oh.

Maybe I can blame him after all.

“I, uh, I wasn’t asked.”

“I was worried you might say that,” she says with a sigh. “I can only apologise for my grandson’s ungentlemanly behaviour. It’s not like him at all.”

“You don’t owe me any apologies, Edith.”

“Well, regardless, he can make it up to you when you come to decorate the manor this year. You still offer that service, don’t you?”

I should say no, not least because of Sebastian and his infuriatingly handsome face, and the way he annoyed me like no one else in my entire life. But this is exactly the kind of cash flow injection I need right now, and hope stirs inside me for the first time in days, perhaps months.

“I do,” I tell her, before I can talk myself out of it. “But are you sure after what happened last time? I don’t want to tread on any toes.”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything. Stomp all over his toes if you must. It’s time for my grandson to eat some humble pie.”

My grin rises slowly.

I like the sound of that.

“Well then. How can I possibly refuse?”

“That’s the spirit!” Edith’s eyes twinkle in delight. “Why don’t you pop round before the Bonfire Night display tomorrow? We’ll have a chat and make some plans.”

Either my reluctance creeps into my face or I’m too slow to respond, because her head tilts curiously. “You are coming to Bonfire Night, aren’t you?”

“Oh my god, you have to, Sasha,” Charlotte joins in, twirling a purple bauble between her fingers, the glitter catching the light. “Dad’s arranged a drone display this year, and we saw rehearsals yesterday. It’s gonna be amazing!”

“Drones? Why didn’t you lead with that?”

“Yes!” Charlotte fists the air, her excitement adorable and a little contagious if the smile tugging at my mouth is any indication.

“You never know,” Edith says then. “Maybe Sebastian will change your mind about him. I’m sure all you need is a second chance to fall madly in love.”

Ha!

“Let’s not get carried away, huh?”

“Never say never. That’s what I always say.”

“She does say that,’ Charlotte adds.

I can’t help but laugh at their straight-faced seriousness.

Fall in love with Sebastian King?

Yeah right.

Hell will surely freeze over before that happens.