Our Bright Christmas Town

Chapter 1

Ashby

More bloody mistletoe.

I snapped a picture of it dangling above Mrs R’s porch—Mrs Rawling, really, but I’d known her since I kicked my football through her window when I was twelve. A quick crop later, I sent the image to Kieran with the caption, ‘Seriously, it’s everywhere. A full-on mistletoe outbreak.’

Kieran. My idiot heart stuttered and missed a beat. After five months apart, he was finally on his way home—just hours away.

I tucked my phone away and rang the bell.

Mrs R ushered me into her narrow hallway, offering me a cup of tea while I set down my toolbox and ditched my trainers and woollen hat, my dark hair messed up by it. A cold snap had gripped our town a couple of days ago, might even get some snow for Christmas.

“So,” I asked. “Where’s our patient?”

“Come on through.” She led me into the living room, where Christmas blared in mighty streaks of green and red—a tree that nearly brushed the ceiling, an old-school nativity scene, and tinsel framing the window like a pair of sparkly eyebrows.

The lamp above her dinner table had taken to flickering, and she wanted it fixed before her siblings invaded on Christmas Eve.

“You said it started last week?” I asked.

“Maybe a little earlier, even. But that’s when it got worse.” She watched me unpack my tools for a second, then nodded. “Oh—tea. I’ll be right back, dear.”

I shot her a smile before I turned to assess my task.

Her lamp was one of those modern chandelier types, a tad too bright for my liking, that didn’t quite match the rest of her interior.

Maybe if she exchanged the current bulbs for something softer, like the ones tipped in gold that would give the whole thing a more ambient glow.

I wasn’t here for a design consultation, though.

With Mrs R still bustling about the kitchen, I checked my phone and found that Kieran had replied. ‘Professional diagnosis: mistletoe is a beneficial bacteria that encourages snogging. Tinsel, though? Pompous holiday parasite.’

He’d followed it up with a second message, sent right after. ‘But really, what’s with the mistletoe hate?’

Ah. Yeah, I had yet to tell him that I was single again. Because apparently, I was a good fuck—my ex’s words, which, lovely—but emotionally unavailable.

Not that I’d repeat that to Kieran. One, he was fiercely protective, and two, I’d rather he didn’t wonder why I’d never deeply cared for any of the guys I’d dated. In contrast, I’d swim across an ocean for my family and friends. Friends like him.

‘Still working on my holiday cheer,’ I wrote back, then got to work.

Half an hour later, I’d fixed the loose connection inside the lamp housing and was putting my shoes back on while Mrs R fussed over me.

“Honestly, I’m glad you never left, Ashby.

Seems like all the youngsters are off to university these days, but look at you—running your dad’s business, helping half the town.

Good, honest work, not some fancy degree in art history or some such. ”

Or medicine, yeah.

She meant well. I reminded myself of that even if my smile felt strained. “Thanks, Mrs R. I like making myself useful.”

“That you do.”

After a bit more small talk—yes, I’d say hi to my mum; no, we hadn’t finalised the Christmas menu yet—I stepped out into the biting cold of an overcast afternoon, charcoal clouds smudging the sky.

I dropped my toolbox into the back of my van, a little beat up but reliable, with our ‘Miller & Son’ logo scrawled across its sides.

I’d redesigned it some three years ago, turning my dad’s outdated word art into something more modern that included me.

Once I’d slid behind the wheel, I checked my phone again. Kieran’s reaction to my lack of holiday cheer was, ‘I can help with that.’

‘Gonna make me sit through Love Actually AGAIN?’ I asked, and he immediately started typing a reply.

‘Maybe. But first: you, me, and a bottle of Bailey’s. Let me know when you’re done with work and I’ll bring the bottle.’

I chewed the inside of my cheek to smother a stupid smile. ‘You’re on.’

Kieran arrived at half-seven, striding in like he owned the place—tall, blond hair flattened by a woollen hat, and cheeks pink from the cold. God.

Breathe. Smile.

He pulled me into a hug that felt like coming home, nose pressed to my cheek, and I wound my arms around him and counted the seconds before I had to let him go.

“Welcome home,” I said, voice a little too raspy. Stupid. I turned my face away to hide the crack in my expression. Jesus, it wasn’t like he’d come back from the war.

“Good to be here,” he said.

“London not living up to the hype?” I asked since apparently, I had no sense of self-preservation.

What if he loved it and intended to stay?

Had met the woman of his dreams and was planning to have 2.

5 kids with her, along with a dog and a white picket fence?

He hadn’t mentioned anything, but we’d mostly texted since he’d left in August. Seemed news like that would warrant a proper conversation.

She was probably a doctor, too. A doctor who modelled on the side. Yep.

“It’s big,” Kieran said.

“Big.” I quirked a brow. “Really, mate—big. Five months in the capital, and that’s your brilliant conclusion?”

He shot me a grin, shrugging off his coat. “Pretty much, yeah. Seeing as I mostly sleep, work, eat, repeat, I can’t say I’ve seen everything it’s got to offer.”

So, no plans for a white picket fence just yet. Not that it meant I had a chance, but… still.

“Sorry for your loss,” I told him lightly even as I reached out to squeeze his shoulder. The second year on the wards was said to be as draining as the first, and I suspected Kieran didn’t find the increased responsibility easy. He’d always suffered from a hint of imposter syndrome.

“Ah, well.” His hazel eyes were bright. “I’m here now.”

“That you are,” I agreed.

He smiled at me for a heart-twisting second, then ducked his head. “Yeah.”

Comfortable silence hung between us for a moment. Then he grabbed his backpack and brandished a bottle of Bailey’s with the air of someone who’d returned from a heroic quest. “I come bearing presents.”

“I’m feeling seventy percent more festive already,” I said drily.

A slow smirk curved his full mouth. “That’s the spirit.”

Really?

“Was that supposed to be a pun?” I asked.

“It was a good one!”

“Debatable.” I led the way into the living room. He followed, only to stop on the threshold with a dramatic gasp.

“No. Ashby, no.”

Huh? I’d done a bit more decorating since his last visit—a couple of pictures on the walls, a table and chairs that I’d restored myself, and a wrought iron lamp that cast a golden hue on the ceiling.

The effect was rather nice, if I said so myself.

Yes, it was a fairly small, rented flat, but quite a step up from still living with my parents at twenty-six.

I sent Kieran a narrow-eyed look. “What’s wrong with this?”

“Where are your fairy lights?” He swept out an arm. “Where’s your tree?”

I shrugged, hands tucked into my hoodie pocket. “Who declared you the Christmas police?”

“You can’t exist in December like… Like this.” He made ‘this’ sound like a grievous offence, and I stifled a laugh.

“Drama queen,” I said. “Look, I’m not hosting anything. Going to my parents’ for actual Christmas, so what’s the point?”

“The point, Ashby.” He stepped closer. “The point is it’s Christmas, and the only way to handle the short days is sugar and fairy lights. So, we’re getting you a tree.”

I did laugh, now. “Kieran, please. You just want to find the most miserable-looking pine out there and rescue it from a life of rejection.”

“You choose a crooked tree once…” He blinked big eyes at me, and God, I’d missed him.

“Fine,” I said because it wasn’t like I’d ever managed to deny him anything.

Jump into an ice-cold lake in April? Sure.

Three weeks on the South West Coast Path, carrying a tent and splitting our nights between official campsites and the occasional hostel?

Bring it on. Where he led, I followed. “But just a small tree, okay? I don’t want to squeeze around some giant monstrosity. ”

“Deal.” He dumped the Bailey’s on my dinner table, running his hand over the surface that I’d sanded down and oiled to bring out the beautiful imperfections in the oak wood. “Nice job with this, by the way. It’s the wreck you got from the yard sale?”

“For a steal, yeah.” I was surprised he remembered—it was three months ago that I’d sent him a picture of the table in its original condition.

‘Challenge accepted,’ was how I’d captioned it.

While he’d asked me to keep him updated on how it was going, I’d chosen not to bother him with my progress. I knew he was busy.

“Could probably make a living out of this,” he told me. “If you ever get tired of installing lamps and painting walls and whatnot.”

I gave him the same answer I’d given Mrs R. “I like feeling useful.”

“Yeah, I know.” Something soft ghosted over his features, then it was gone. “All right, let’s find you a tree.”

We stepped into the bite of the evening air and the obnoxious flashing of some neighbours’ Christmas garland. Our exhalations billowed like smoke. I unlocked my van, and we slid in on opposite sides.

“Look at you,” Kieran said, teeth sparking in a grin. “Driving your own car like a proper grown-up. Meanwhile, I’m stuck on the Tube in London with all the other suckers.”

“Just for a few more months, though. Until you’re fully qualified.

” After that, he was free to roam the world—the sky was the limit for Dr Kieran Hughes, specialty training offers likely to start pouring in soon since he’d apparently impressed some senior consultant.

Me, on the other hand? I’d put down roots in the place where we’d grown up.

“True.” He folded himself into the passenger seat.