Chapter 8
eight
HENRY
Freshly showered after putting Merv to stable for the night, I eyed my bed longingly.
Entertaining six rambunctious children had taken it out of me.
Still, it had been a good day. For the clients and me at least. Amanda had been throwing me daggers every time she had to walk past the newly decorated tree.
I’d been trying to help keep her patrons happy, and somehow it had only made Amanda more prickly.
As I headed for the bed, a thought snuck in to ruin my pace.
Had I locked the side door when I’d come in?
While I was sure no ill would come to the house in the middle of the night, I didn’t want to let the Leadbetters down.
With a sigh, I dried off and pulled on my ridiculous Christmas jumper with the giant sparkly H on the front, given to me the previous Christmas by Jean Harris when I’d joined her family for Christmas Dinner.
It was loud and garish, and it saddened me that I could only wear it a few times a year during the holidays.
The entire Harris clan, the local whisky distillery owners, had all been wearing matching ones, and I’d never forgotten how welcoming I’d found it.
Teamed with grey sweats and unlaced boots, I crept back downstairs to check the door, hoping not to disturb anyone.
All for nothing. The door was locked tight. Shaking my head, I made for my room, but paused as I neared the kitchen.
Something sweet and sugary filled my nostrils and had my mouth watering. But the kitchen should be closed. The chef had long headed home, ready for an early start.
I followed the aroma, like some sugar-scenting hound, straight into the kitchen.
Sweeping my gaze over the room proved fruitless. It lay empty and dark, but for the light about the range cooker. Had I imagined it.
Then a tiny metallic scrape sounded from beyond the kitchen counter. Treading lightly, I investigated.
Amanda Inglis sat on the kitchen floor in front of the ancient forest green Aga.
Cross-legged and back slouched against a cupboard.
Her hair balanced on top of her head in a squint and somewhat messy ponytail, while a red knitted cardigan sloped off one shoulder, revealing a dark vest top below.
A vast, catering tray of sticky toffee pudding balanced on her knees, while a can of squirty cream sat beside her.
I watched, transfixed as she sprayed a white blob onto the toffee sauce-covered sponge before shovelling a massive bit into her mouth.
She looked… unguarded. Soft around the edges in a way I’d not seen her. Like she’d left her barriers upstairs with her work clothes. My stomach clenched at the sight of her, and an urge to wrap her up and make her happy washed over me.
She took another bite. A slow one. Her eyes fluttered shut for half a second, like she was finally letting herself breathe. The warm orange light from the Aga lit up her pretty face, and a jolt of something hit me. Like I was intruding on something I wasn’t supposed to see.
My chest squeezed so hard it stole my breath.
Then she spotted me.
The look on her face was pure caught-out schoolgirl, her shoulders tensing.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ she groaned and dropped her head back against the cupboard.
‘Don’t stop on my account.’
‘I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t think anyone was still up.’
‘No one else, just me,’ I said, moving to where she sat, clutching the enormous tray. ‘But the smell of pudding called as I was checking the doors.’
Her chin lifted, those prickles resurfacing. ‘Don’t judge me. I’m too frazzled to deal with your mockery tonight.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ I grabbed a spoon from the cutlery drawer and sat beside her. Her eyes widened as I leaned in and took a sizeable scoop before she could swat my hand away.
‘You’re not seriously—’
‘Mmm.’ I closed my eyes dramatically as I chewed. ‘Bloody delicious.’
‘You’re an ass.’
‘Possibly,’ I said, stealing another spoonful. ‘But at least I’m well-fed.’
That earned me a fraction of a genuine smile, even if a roll of her dark eyes accompanied it, and I wanted to snatch it up and keep it.
We sat in amicable silence for a while. Just sneaking spoonfuls of the cakey dessert like two kids hiding in a kitchen at a house party, stealing treats before anyone found us. I couldn’t tell if the warmth filling me was from the Aga or my proximity to Amanda.
She looked different like this. Not the hyper-efficient version she showed the clients. The brittleness was softened, and with each bite, she unwound a little more.
Eventually, our eating pace slowed, and I felt the need to fill the empty space with words.
‘Why do you hate Christmas so much?’
Her spoon paused mid-air. ‘Who says I hate it?’
‘Your face, primarily.’
She huffed, staring at the pudding. ‘I don’t hate it.
I just never enjoy it. It’s always been messy.
Family fighting. People pretending things are fine when they’re not.
Mum crying. Dad drinking too much. Being carted from one house to another while trying to balance my parents’ emotions.
The whole festive performance. So this year, I bowed out of pretending. ’
‘By working a Christmas event?’
‘Everyone talks about Christmas cheer,’ she said quietly. ‘I just get Christmas dread. This way, I can focus that into productivity, and go on a sun-soaked holiday in January when it’s all finally over.’
‘That’s rough.’
She shot me a look. ‘You’re not going to tell me to cheer up?’
‘Nope.’
‘Or that family’s what you make it?’
‘Definitely not.’ Her thigh relaxed against mine, and I froze, not wanting to move an inch in case it startled her away. ‘Some families suck.’
‘Well, I can agree on that. So why are you here instead of with your family if Christmas is so great?’
‘We moved Christmas to the 28th.’
‘You can’t just move Christmas.’
‘Who says? My sisters are all partnered and familied up, so it just makes it easier for everyone, and Mum and Dad get a day where they don’t have to split their time of share. All the kids come home for a few days.’
‘When you put it like that, I guess it makes sense. My sister and I are both single, so it’s just us, and we’re going from one house to another, trying to make everything even so no one feels left out.’
‘Sounds exhausting. No wonder you hit veto this year.’
‘Yeah. I love my job, and my family, despite everything, but I just get so tired.’ Amanda placed the tray on the counter before flopping right back down beside me on the tiles.
‘Tired of being in charge,’ she murmured. ‘If I stop to breathe, everything falls apart this time of year.’
I watched her fingers tease the button on her cardigan, turning it as she spoke. The small line between her brows as she vented.
‘Do you always have to control everything? Or do you ever stop and just let yourself enjoy something?’
‘I’m not a robot, but no, it’s hard to let go when there’s no one there to help take the slack. Then everything piles up and just makes it worse.’
I smiled. ‘Maybe you should try letting someone take care of you for once?’
‘Who?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe a fantastic, and handsome, gardener who knows how to take control long enough for you to enjoy yourself.’ My brazenness was risky, but I couldn’t help myself. Amanda would leave in a few days, and I wanted to lay my cards on the table before she did.
She blinked at me. And for a heartbeat, her guard slipped. Heat flickered in those dark eyes. Temptation. Desire. Excitement.
A bit of sauce glistened on her lip.
I reached out, my thumb brushing her mouth. Gathering up the sweetness, I tasted it.
Her breath caught, and the room tilted a little. Or maybe I did.
‘Henry,’ she whispered, half-warning, half-breathy need.
I leaned close enough to catch the warmth of her skin and the faint hint of perfume clinging to her cardigan. Her pupils darkened, which had my pulse escalating. For one perfect moment, strung with so much possibility, I breathed her in.
There was nothing more I wanted than to kiss her. To feel her lips lock with mine as I lost myself in her. To show her that it was okay to loosen the reins.
Then sanity clawed its way back in. She didn’t even like me. Was I pushing myself on her in a moment of vulnerability? That wasn’t me.
I exhaled sharply and pushed up to my feet. Kissing her might push her to somewhere that made her uncomfortable, and I didn’t want to do something we’d both regret in the morning.
She stayed on the floor, looking up at me with her cheeks flushing.
‘Night, Amanda,’ I said, trying to sound relaxed, but my voice was decidedly hoarse.
I made for the corridor before I could change my mind, pulling the kitchen door closed behind me. I made it to the centre hall, at the foot of the stairwell, before I stopped and cussed myself out for being a wimp.
I’d wanted to kiss her more than I’d wanted to breathe, but kissing Amanda would be about as sensible as letting Merv weed the vegetable patch.
Since when did we worry about sensible, Henry?