Page 3 of The Christmas Letter

‘Alright, then . . .’ He ran his gaze across the display of cakes behind the glass. ‘The chocolate and ginger star looks pretty good.’ It did look pretty good – and perfect for Christmas. It’s exactly what she would have gone for – and it was the only one left. He let out a little chuckle. ‘You want that one, don’t you?’

She realised she must have been looking at it a little longingly, was probably one step away from drooling. Nice one, Holly.

‘No, no,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s all yours.’ She ordered it, along with a lemon torte for Lily, who was going through a lemon-craving phase.

‘That’ll be £16.80, please,’ said the woman, smiling again.

It was only then, after a quick pat of her jeans, that she remembered. She slapped her forehead. ‘Oh God, I don’t have my card. I forgot it when I was leaving the house and I . . . Look, wait here,’ she told him. ‘I’ll go and ask my sister. Hang on.’

She turned, feeling her face burn – not a good look for a redhead – at the mortification of having to go and ask her big sister for money, but he caught her arm, his fingers resting there. Only lightly, but enough that she felt the pressure of them through her jumper, felt a little thrum of heat at each point of contact.

Stop it, Holly.

‘It’s fine. I’ll get them,’ he said, his eyes meeting hers.

‘But I—’

He handed over his card to the woman before Holly could argue, and she felt her face burn even more.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, almost a groan. ‘I left my card at home; I’ve had to borrow money from my sister for fuel, and I—’

‘It’s fine. Honestly.’

The barista handed over their coffees and cakes, saving Holly from trying to explain further. They shuffled to the end of the counter to separate out the drinks and get out the way of the queue behind them. After peeping into one of the brown paper bags, the man brought out the chocolate and ginger star and held it up. ‘Looks pretty good, doesn’t it? And it smells delicious.’

She tried not to bristle at the teasing – he had just paid for her drinks, after all.

Then, his lips curving into a small smile, he split the star down the middle, and handed half to her.

She looked at it. ‘I can’t—’

‘Sure you can. You’re saving me from an overload of sugar and caffeine.’ He held up his two coffees.

‘They’re both for you?’ Was that relief she was feeling? Get a grip, Holly!

‘Afraid so. I need the hit today, so I’ll down the Americano, then enjoy the latte.’

‘Wow. That’s a lot of coffee.’

‘Exactly. So I don’t need any more stimulants – it would send me over the edge.’

Holly silently snorted at the idea of this very solid man going over the edge, but she took the offered cake. ‘Thank you.’

There were more people moving to their side of the counter now, so Holly backed out the way – and in doing so, stumbled straight into the man’s briefcase, knocking it over. The other clasp sprung open, and a few papers fell out.

Holly groaned inwardly. There was clumsy, and then there was her. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, bending down to help tidy the papers up.

He laughed, the sound warm, a little infectious. ‘I’m beginning to see a pattern here.’

Holly handed over a pen that had rolled away, then picked up a card off the floor. She stared at it for a moment. It was beautiful. A painting of the sea, but like she’d never seen before – a swirling mass of blue and grey and green that gave life to it, somehow making each wave look distinct whilst capturing the vastness of the ocean. The boldness of the colours, the shapes, reminded her of the rainforest painting hanging inside the café door.

‘This is so cool,’ she said to him. ‘Is it hand-painted? An original? Did you paint it?’ He laughed again, and she shook her head. ‘Too many questions, sorry.’

‘Yes, yes and no,’ he said, ticking off her questions on his fingers. After a beat, he added, ‘It was given to me, a while ago . . . It was painted by a local artist. There are a few of her things hanging up here, actually.’ He gestured around the café.

‘What’s their name? The artist?’

‘Mirabelle Landor.’