Page 41 of The Christmas Fayre on Holly Field

She quickly put him to work, peeling and chopping, but if he had hoped that being busy would take his mind off her, he was sadly mistaken. He was acutely aware of every move she made and every word she spoke, and being in such close confines meant he could also smell her perfume – a subtle, floral scent that reminded him of summer meadows and sunny days.

Once or twice, their hands touched as they reached for the same knife or wooden spoon, and when that happened, his heart did a funny kind of skipped-beat thing that made him worry he might have a heart problem. Strange that it only happened when there was physical contact.

But when he glanced up from his butternut-squash dicing, caught her eye and almost coughed as his heart missed a beat, he wondered whether he did have a problem after all. This wasn’t normal.

‘Are you OK?’ Harriet asked, and he realised he must have made some kind of noise. ‘You look a little flushed.’

Was a red complexion one of the symptoms of an imminent heart attack? he asked himself, as he frantically tried to remember everything he had ever heard and read about heart issues. He probably knew as much as the average person in the street – a crushing pain in the chest, which he didn’t have; numbness or tingling in the left arm, which he also didn’t have. Breathlessness? Nope, not that either. And neither did he feel clammy, although he did feel a little hot under the collar, but the kitchen was rather warm, so that could easily be explained.

In desperate need of a moment to himself, Owen asked, ‘Do you mind if I use the loo?’

‘Of course not. There’s a cloakroom just through there.’ She pointed to a door, through which he could see an ironing board and a washing machine, and he guessed it was a utility room.

‘Won’t be a sec,’ he said, and hurried out of the kitchen.

As soon as he closed the cloakroom door and locked it, he took a deep breath and studied his reflection in the mirror above the little sink. He did look a bit rosy but he certainly wasn’t sweating profusely, and even as he watched, the colour subsided and his skin tone returned to normal once more.

Relieved, Owen splashed some water on his face and washed his hands, then took another look. He looked perfectly normal, he decided, and he felt it now, too. His heart had stopped skipping a beat, and when he put two fingers on his wrist and began to count, he found that his pulse was neither too fast nor too slow.

He’d better get back out there. Harriet would be wondering what had happened to him.

Whoa! The minute he thought of Harriet, his stomach cartwheeled and his insides tingled.

No skipped beat though, thankfully.

But that soon changed when he walked back into the kitchen and saw her stirring some onions in a pan. She was swaying gently as she cooked them, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

Darn it, he had another palpitation, and it was then that the realisation hit him. It wasHarrietwho was causing this reaction: there was nothing wrong with his heart at all.

He became aware of music and realised she was mouthing the words of a song to herself, and he watched, fascinated. She had the cutest nose, slightly turned up at the end, and as he stood there, Harriet tucked her hair behind an ear and he was swamped by the urge to nibble the pale skin just beneath it.

She must have realised she was being watched, because she stopped singing and glanced over at him. ‘OK?’ she asked.

He cleared his throat. ‘Fine. What can I do?’

‘I’ve put the squash and the sweet potatoes into the oven to roast for ten minutes, while I caramelise the onions, and when that’s done, we’ll be ready to pop everything in the pot. Can you open a tin of tomatoes? There’s some in the cupboard here.’ She pointed to a cupboard next to the cooker.

It was also next to her legs, and he was careful not to touch her as he opened it and searched for the tin.

Hooking a finger through the ring pull, he peeled the lid off and plopped the tomatoes into the enamel pot, then almost dropped the empty tin when Harriet nudged him out of the way so she could spoon the onions in.

His whole arm was on fire where she’d touched him and it took all his self-control not to let her see his reaction. Taking a steadying breath, he stood back and let her finish preparing the casserole, keeping well out of the way until she eventually put the enamel pot in the oven.

He was wondering what they were going to do for the forty-five or so minutes until the meal was ready, when Bobby saved his bacon.

‘Can we play with the conkers now?’ he asked, and Owen leapt on the request.

‘We’ll have to prepare them first,’ he said. ‘Harriet, have you got a screwdriver I can borrow?’

‘There should be one in here,’ she said, opening a drawer. ‘Yes, here you go.’

He took it from her carefully, making sure to avoid any contact. Just the thought of their hands touching made him shiver, and he debated the wisdom of staying for tea. He’d be better off going back to the van and having a cold shower.

This was getting ridiculous.

Wishing he hadn’t started writing about Harriet and her challenge, Owen tried to focus on the job at hand – namely, piercing a hole through the middle of each conker and threading a piece of string through. Luckily, Harriet had some of that too, so with him doing the piercing and the children doing the threading (Sara hadn’t wanted to be left out), the conkers were soon ready.

‘Now what do we do with them?’ Bobby asked, swinging one around above his head.

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