A Stocking Full of Romance

A Stocking Full of Romance Brigid Coady Celebrate Christmas with HarperImpulse and Brigid Coady…A funny, charming and irresistible collection of seasonal short stories.Perfect for enjoying a little bit of escapism in between last minute Christmas shopping and mince pie making! A Stocking Full of Romance Brigid Coady A division of HarperCollinsPublishers www.harpercollins.co.uk Contents Brigid Coady (#uf003e7d5-56c5-5261-8121-dd656abedbfa) Dedication (#u0ce29004-ab36-5e30-ad97-390986b5cf1f) All I Want for Christmas (#ua3558469-14a5-572a-a368-8d0649ac8126) Secret Santa (#ud12d9cd3-b07f-558e-98c7-d2d54f9f85cf) The Mystery of the Missing Mistletoe (#litres_trial_promo) Three Wise Men (#litres_trial_promo) Auld Lang Syne (#litres_trial_promo) Ski Guy (#litres_trial_promo) Love Romance? (#litres_trial_promo) About HarperImpulse (#litres_trial_promo) Copyright (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Brigid Coady (#ufaa1da21-4705-50a2-9474-e2f7038e6368) I was born in the UK but raised round the world and spent most of my childhood with my nose in a book. When I was seven I wrote my first proper story about a magic puddle that flipped up to reveal a secret world underground. I’m now a non-practicing engineer who works in project management. I write romance and young adult stories. I’ve been a voice-over and radio continuity artist. I love country music and used to have my own radio show. My boyfriend says I have an unhealthy obsession with Kenny Chesney. I live in London. In memory of Gay, John and Archie Taylor. For all the fun, friendship and ‘showponying’. All our love, always. All I Want for Christmas (#ufaa1da21-4705-50a2-9474-e2f7038e6368) Shivering, I stand in front of the raucous tinsel strewn pub. Shoppers bump and jostle me as they carry bags of Christmas shopping. It’s only five o’clock, but it is already dark and office workers, tipsy from riotous Christmas lunches, are crowded round the bar. Somewhere in there, hidden by the baubles and the Santa hats, is my old flame. “You’ll end up marrying him,” my co-worker, Nusrat said as I left the office. As if. Six years, his marriage and my many boyfriends stand between us. No, this is just a drink between old friends, a chance to reminisce. I take a deep breath and push open the pub door. The group of girls near the door are singing along to ‘Last Christmas’, the smell of beer, wine and spices fills the air. The heat of a log fire blazing in some corner, combined with the warmth of a hundred bodies makes for a sweaty fug. I pull my scarf away from my neck. Craning my head, I start to look for him. Will I recognise him? Pushing through the crowd near the bar, I look into each small snug. Nothing. Has he stood me up? I do one slow circuit of the bar, I can’t see him. My shoulders slump. All that worry for nothing, the sleepless night, the bitten nails. I take one last look around the back of the pub, and a girl in front of me shifts. A familiar profile comes in view. He’s perched on a bar stool near a ledge at the back. He doesn’t wear his glasses anymore. That is why I missed him. He’s thinner, older. I check my reaction. Good, it is all within friendly parameters. This will be fine. I push back through the crowd, my fingers digging into my palms. “Hey,” I reach up and touch his shoulder. Turning, his smile is big, welcoming. I had forgotten the silver blue of his eyes. “Hello!” he bounces off the stool and hugs me. And as I put my arms round him, my body remembers his shape. The broad body, the slim hips. My face fits perfectly in the space between his neck and shoulder. We pull apart and stand grinning at each other. The picture of him in my head is now superimposed on the reality of him here, now. Then they waver and click into place. He is himself. Old Flame. This will be fine, I tell myself. “Here, I got us a space.” He says as I say “Sorry I’m late!” He gestures for me to take his seat and helps me perch on it. Our heads are now at the same level. I take a deep breath, my hands spread on the ledge next to me as I brace myself to launch into sparkling conversation, but he gets there before me. “Can I get you a drink?” And as he says it he brushes his index finger across mine. I stare at my hand and his, breath caught. With that one touch, the memories of us leak from the dark corners of my mind where I’ve hidden them. There is the whisper of a snowy kiss, with our cold noses touching. Then there is the sound of hail on a windowsill and my head on his shoulder. Finally, I remember a hot humid night in Paris, naked in bed. The memories swirl around my head like ghosts. “A drink?” he asks again. “Wine, white.” I manage to say. “Still Sauvignon Blanc?” he asks and I nod. Six years and he hasn’t forgotten. I watch him walk to the bar, I hadn’t realised that I remembered his walk. There is a bounce to his step, his head up, taking everything in. He disappears between an elf and a Mrs Santa. I hear Bing Crosby singing about ‘White Christmas’. This doesn’t feel like old friends anymore. Maybe I should go? Before I make up my mind, he is back with the drinks. My hand shakes as I take the wine glass. “Cheers,” he says. Our glasses clink. I take a huge mouthful of wine to chase away the memories. But the alcohol washes through my mind and releases a floodgate of feelings. They travel through me to the tips of my fingers and the roots of my hair. I’m crackling with us. And we talk. We fill in six years’ worth of tales. He tells me of his marriage and how it ended. I tell him of the boyfriends that have come and gone. We’re back in synch, we talk until the Santas, and Elves, the shoppers and the office workers have gone. Tinsel droops above us and Slade is wishing us a Merry Christmas. “Can I walk you home?” he asks as we stand facing each other outside the pub. “Of course.” I tuck my hand in his arm and keep close for warmth. My legs match his in rhythm and stride, like a long ago dance that I suddenly remember the steps to. And we wander the streets, under sparkling lights that pick out cartoon characters, pass windows full of ribbons and velvet and snow. All the while releasing memories that grow more and more substantial. It feels as if we are being followed by an army of him and me, driving us onwards. Reaching my front door our conversation pauses, but I don’t want it to end. It’s been too long without him here; I’m not ready for him to leave. He follows me up the stairs, holds the door for me. I put on Christmas music and as we sit on the sofa, I realise we’ve been holding hands. I don’t know when it happened, but it feels right. My hand was made to be held by his. It is home. “So,” I ask my old flame, “what do you want for Christmas?” He is silent for a moment looking at our clasped hands. “You. It is all I’ve ever wanted.” My hand twitches in his. A spasm as it opens and closes, in time with my heart’s door slamming open after years locked tight. His words are a key, and as I open up everything that was buried within me flows out in a mad rush. First come the tears I cried during the nights after he left. The pain when he told me I scared him but in a good way. The helplessness that swamped me when I realised that there was nothing that I could do but let him go. And then, as all the detritus of us washes through and out, they clear and carve a route for the future. “You broke my heart,” I say. He nods and looks at me pleading, his face tense and sad. “Do it again and I’ll kill you.” He looks momentarily confused and then when he understands what I’ve said, he lights up. I lean forward and within a millimetre of his lips I whisper. “Merry Christmas.” The End Secret Santa (#ufaa1da21-4705-50a2-9474-e2f7038e6368) I stared at the name on the little slip of paper I’d been given. Matt Allen. Just the name of the person that I had to buy a Secret Santa gift for. But it was also the name of the man I’d been fantasising about ever since he’d started working in the office back in October. Even reading his name made the paper in my hand quiver. I can still remember the exact moment I first saw him. It was a Monday morning the week before Halloween. I’d sailed in, heading straight to my desk in our offices that were right above a coffee shop in Covent Garden. And there was someone sat in my seat. I checked my steps and then slowly approached. He had hair like a newly minted penny. “Hi?” I said, standing behind him. He swung round in my chair and stood up. He wasn’t tall but his broad shoulders filled out his suit. “Hello.” His Scottish burr flowed through me like a shot of whisky and went straight to my knees. I quickly leant on the table to keep myself from falling at his feet. “Matt Allen.” he said, as he stuck out his hand. Mute, I held mine out and it was engulfed in a solid strong and warm grip. Sparks shot through me and like that, I was a goner. And now I was his Secret Santa. “So who have you got?” I had thought his name and he appeared. If only I could extend the magic to making him fall for me. I quickly crumpled the paper in my fist. “It is called ‘Secret Santa’, Matt. The clue is in the word ‘secret’.” “Well I’m very good at keeping secrets.” Honestly, his smile should be registered as a lethal weapon. When it curled up at the corners like that I felt as if he was holding a loaded gun to my heart, holding it for ransom. “What do you want for Christmas?” I deflect him as best I could, whilst a little voice inside my head whispered me, me, me. “Ah, what does every man want for Christmas? A fast car and a fast woman.” He winked at me and smoothed his tie down over his chest. “And what about you, Emma? What do you want?” I wanted to be that fast woman. But who was I kidding? I was about as fast as a nun in a broken down mini. “I want to be surprised.” I said, for lack of any sane answer. “I’m sure you will be, hen.” He smiled a bit broader and sauntered off. I smoothed out the Secret Santa paper, his name was still there. Well, the only fast anything I could get him with the ten pound gift limit would be a large family sized bucket from KFC. “This is a disaster!” I sloshed wine out of my glass as I gesticulated to make my point to Ailsa. It was Saturday afternoon and I had one week before the office party. I needed the alcohol. “Being Secret Santa of your crush should be an opportunity,” she said whilst mopping up the spillage. “He is the most gorgeous man in the office, all the PAs are after him. And what am I supposed to get him for a tenner that will make him look at me? It’s pointless, completely pointless.” I slumped back onto the sofa of our shared flat. The Christmas tree in the corner listed to the left and was smothered in gold tinsel. The lights flashed at me. I felt about as festive as an Easter egg. “If you want him to notice you then you’re going to have to invest some time and money…” Ailsa raised her eyebrows at me. Not this again. “I don’t need a makeover.” I grumbled pulling my baggy grey cardigan around me. “Sweetie, I love you. And any man would love your wonderful personality, but they are visual creatures. Sometimes you’ve got to give them something to look at first.” “But…” I wanted to say she was wrong. But there was a reason that I dressed like a nun. My first year out of university, I’d visited a construction site as part of my job as a project manager. Two hours of leering, being called ‘darling’ and then ignored in meetings meant that in my career I had ‘manned up’ and ‘sexed down’. “But nothing.” Ailsa said. “Do you think this will work?” I hugged a cushion to my chest, anything to feel more secure. “Matt Allan will drop his sporran when he sees you.” She ripped the cushion from my arms and dragged me up. “Let’s get shopping.” The day of the Christmas party dawned. “Up and at ‘em.” Ailsa shouted in my ear like a drill sergeant. I burrowed my head under my pillow. I couldn’t do this. “Look, I’ve laid it out as a project schedule so your project management mind can get round it. Manicure and pedicure at nine thirty am, fake tan at midday, hairdressers at two pm and then back here for dressing and make up. Seven pm leave here, seven thirty pm Matt sees you. Seven thirty one he falls in love. I reckon you’ll be back here by midnight. Twelve oh five you’ll find out what the Scotsman has under his kilt and you’ll be being shagged senseless around twelve ten.” “I don’t want to.” It all seemed too much. I was going to do all this and he was going to laugh at me. “Yes, you do.” And with Ailsa’s retort, I was unceremoniously pushed off my bed onto the floor. At 5pm, I was buffed and shined and blow-dried into another person. I stood in the living room, my arms held away from my body. not daring to move in case I chipped something. “Ok.” Ailsa clapped her hands and shoved me onto a chair by the table. “Now the war paint.” She wielded a mean make up brush and attacked my eyelashes with an instrument of torture. “No point using fake lashes on you, you’re a novice and we don’t want them decorating your cheeks. We’ll curl them and mascara them up.” About half an hour later, she declared herself happy and ushered me to the bedroom without allowing me to see a mirror. “With a figure like yours you can just go with bra, knickers and hold ups. Lucky cow. Now get into these undies.” She waved some candyfloss lingerie at me. I thought about protesting, but to be honest she looked so fierce that I took them meekly, and when she left me alone to change, I slipped them on. They felt a tad airy compared to my comfy boy shorts. The bra hitched everything up and when I looked down my cleavage was like the Grand Canyon. Maybe this would work… Ailsa came back to help with the dress. It was black lace over a nude satin sheath, with a plunging neckline. Then she allowed me to look in the mirror. I looked almost naked. The satin sheath glimmered like it was my own skin. And my face! I pouted at the image. I was moving into the fast lane. The Christmas party started at seven thirty in a huge marquee in Embankment Gardens. Every night in the run up to Christmas some company or other would hire it to entertain their workers. This Saturday it was our turn. With shaking hands I took off my coat and handed it to the cloakroom attendant. “Emma?” My boss stood in front of me, his glass of champagne drooping and spilling liquid whilst he stared at me wide eyed. “Freddie.” I replied. With a not quite steady finger, I pushed his glass vertical and sucked my finger to get rid of the champagne. He gulped, made a strange coughing sound, while turning red. I was accelerating in the fast lane. I patted my overlarge handbag to check that part of my Secret Santa gift was still there, and strode into the party making sure to put a wiggle in my walk as Alisa had instructed me. Shining through the lights of the bar was hair the colour of copper. His back was towards me, and he wore a short black Bonnie Prince Charlie jacket which clung to his back. A kilt hugged his behind and flowed to show a fine pair of legs. I wanted to know what this Scotsman wore under his kilt. I walked towards the bar. People who had usually ignored me or treated me like one of the boys were double taking and rubber necking me the whole way. But I only had eyes for one. I leant on the bar next to him. “Matt.” I said as I picked up a glass of champagne by his elbow. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/brigid-coady/a-stocking-full-of-romance/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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