Page 15 of Snowflakes at the Little Christmas Tree Farm
‘You can leave it on. It’s never too early for Christmas music.’
‘Finally, someone who understands,’ I say, so surprised by someone who agrees with my stance on festive music in October that I forget about crying for a moment. ‘I told my friend I’d dusted off the Christmas playlist for driving up here and she nearly disowned me because it’s too early.’
‘It’s nearly the middle of the month. That makes it practically Christmas. If mince pies are in the shops, it’s fine to play Christmas music.’
I can’t take my eyes off that lip piercing again as he grins.
‘So,’ he starts, pressing one hand against the doorframe to balance himself, ‘my mum came in earlier, rubbed my ears and said “that was from Leah.” Would you happen to know anything about that?’
An unexpected laugh bursts out at the crystal-clear mental image. ‘Oh, for god’s sake, I said Gizmo, not you.’
‘Yeah, he probably would’ve appreciated an ear rub more than I did.’
‘Has she got problems with her hearing?’
‘Aye, but it’s undiagnosed because doctors can’t do much about “selective” hearing.’
‘I think all parents have that. My mum was the same …’ I trail off and swallow past the lump in my throat. I’ve just about got the tears under control, I can’t start crying again.
There’s a charged silence. I know he’s picked up the ‘was’ in that sentence, and I can almost hear him deciding on the best thing to say.
‘At least you didn’t tell her to give me a Bonio.’
That makes me laugh again but I can feel his eyes boring into the side of my head.
‘Go on then,’ he says eventually. ‘Apart from having no water, no electricity, no heat, and no food, why are you outside crying in the car?’
It sounds as pathetic as it must look, but he doesn’t seem as harsh and judgemental as he did earlier.
I take a few deep breaths and lean my head back and close my eyes. ‘It’s not because of what you said, it’s because you were right. This place is a disaster and I have no idea what I’m doing. The house is cold and damp and broken, my phone ran out of battery because I had to use it as a torch, and my best friend has been texting all afternoon asking how wonderful it is, and I haven’t replied because I don’t know how to tell her the truth about what a stupid mistake I’ve made.’
His coat rustles as he shrugs. ‘Tell her it needs work but you wanted a challenge. Here, give it to me, I’ll write it for you.’
I don’t know why, but I take the phone off the dashboard and put it in his open hand. I never trustanyonewith my phone, but I don’t think twice about handing it to him.
I’m almost hypnotised by his fingers as they fly across my screen. I watch him with a strange mix of gratitude and amusement, until he turns the phone around and shows me what he’s written.
It’s a great area and the neighbours are the most wonderful people I’ve ever met. Farm needs a bit of work but I wanted a challenge.
I laugh at the remark about the neighbours and give him the nod to press send.
It beeps with a reply before he’s even had a chance to hand it back to me, and he laughs when he looks down at the screen.
Have you found a gorgeous, sexy farmer in a kilt yet?
Noel laughs. ‘Please let me reply to that?’
I nod. In for a penny and all that. When he holds up the phone to show me what he’s written before sending, it reads:
Yes, I have! The only thing missing is the kilt – too well-ventilated – but the wellies are sexy enough to make up for it! We might have a romp amongst the pumpkins next door!
I burst out laughing again, thankfully minus any snot bubbles this time. ‘Romp?Whouses the word “romp” these days? Have you time-travelled from a Charles Dickens novel?’
He shrugs as he presses send again. ‘Made you laugh though, didn’t it?’
The skin of my face is taut where the tears have dried, but I can’t deny it. ‘Chelsea’s going to know I didn’t write that.’
‘She’ll probably think you’re hanging out with your sexy new neighbour in his kilt and welly-boots.’ He winks at me, making the lip piercing shift and glint in the light of the car. ‘And before you go getting any ideas, I would never defile the pumpkins like that.’
