Page 52 of Snowflakes at the Little Christmas Tree Farm
It takes me a moment to realise he’s gone back to the mistletoe. ‘I could use it in the wreaths too. It would look amazing twirled up with some red holly berries.’
‘It’s easy enough to propagate if you want a crop of it. You make a nick in the branches and press the seeds into it. It takes a couple of years to get established and then it takes off. It won’t do well in the Christmas trees, but it will enjoy itself out front in your windbreaker trees, and it’ll provide a point of interest from the road when all the leaves are gone in the winter and only the mistletoe remains.’
How much better would this place have looked on the first day if all those skeletal trees had been full of glossy mistletoe? Just the thought makes me smile. It would look like the entrance to a winter wonderland. ‘It’s perfect. I’ve never seen mistletoe growing before.’
He reaches over and lifts my hand to his mouth, touching his lips to the back of it. The cold metal of his piercing presses against my skin, at odds with the burning heat coming from his touch, and I let out a completely involuntary whimper that wasn’t supposed to be audible.
‘Sorry, just a peace offering to the ancient druids given what you’re usually supposed to do under the mistletoe.’
I genuinely would not have mindedat allif he’d done it in the traditional way.
Either he can tell what I’m thinking or he’s thinking the same thing. ‘I could sit here all day but we should eat.’ He drops my hand and pulls himself upright, leaning over and tugging the backpack towards him. ‘Hope you’re not sick of pumpkin yet.’
I sit forward too and give myself a shake. ‘’Course not. But I’m going to get a bit worried if there are any apples in that picnic …’
He laughs as he starts unpacking the bag, setting out Tupperware containers and a flask along with packages of various things. ‘Pumpkin biscuits sprinkled with sea-salted roasted pumpkin seeds, sliced local cheese with pumpkin dip on the side, and tea. Not pumpkin-flavoured.’
He hands me a paper bag containing a fresh loaf of pumpkin and hazelnut tear-off bread, which he knows is my favourite. He’s been feeding me often, probably too often. No takeaways deliver this far out in the countryside, but I’m not even missing them because he usually pops over in the evenings with Gizmo and something Glenna’s made.
It doesn’t even seem weird to be having a picnic in November. It’s cold, but my feet are warm in layers of fluffy socks inside my boots, and my coat is snuggly, and I think there’s some sort of heat-by-osmosis science behind sitting so close to someone as hot as Noel. This beautiful big tree protects us from the drizzle, the moss is soft underneath us, and the world around us is peaceful as we eat in comfortable silence, smiling every time we look up and catch each other’s eyes.
He leans back when he’s done and I can feel the heaviness of his body as he relaxes against the tree trunk again. I expected him to jump up and carry on with cutting, but he’s clearly happy to sit here a bit longer.
I settle back too. My hair is in a loose plait that’s gradually fallen down over the course of the morning, and I can feel it catching on the peeling bark at my back. I lean forward and drag it over my shoulder. My hair is straight and super thick, it doesn’t allow bands to hold it for long before they slip out and I’m used to having to put it back up multiple times a day.
I can feel his eyes on me as I pull the band off the bottom of the plait and fingercomb it, splaying it across my shoulder. Before I have a chance to get any further, his hand comes up and tangles in it, the backs of his fingers unintentionally brushing against my chest.
‘Love your hair,’ he says quietly, sounding completely entranced. He leans his head down to rest on my shoulder and his relaxation spreads through me as well, and I slouch against the tree with him leaning against me.
His fingers keep stroking through the lengths of my hair, and it’s so weird, so innocent – he’s completely unguarded and vulnerable. I’ve never seen him like this before.
‘Love yours,’ I find the courage to whisper back. It takes everything I have not to press my lips to his forehead. Instead, I tilt my head until it rests against his, and the only sound is the rustle of needles blowing in the breeze in the nearest Christmas trees.
I’m not sure if mutual hair compliments are the strangest thing I’ve ever done with a guy, but I’m definitely the most contented I’ve ever been, sitting here leaning against a tree to the back and a gorgeous Scotsman to the left, so relaxed it would be easy to fall asleep – unless that’s just exhaustion from all the saw-wielding – and his fingers are still weaving themselves through my hair.
‘Tell me about London,’ I blurt out.
‘Capital of England, UK’s largest city, population of about eight million …’
‘Ha ha.’ I reach over and whack his thigh. ‘I meant tell me about what happened to you there. You obviously hate the place.’
‘I don’t hate it.’ He sighs. ‘I hate the person I became there. It wasn’t the city’s fault, it was my own.’
I nudge his arm with my elbow where he’s still leaning against me. ‘You know you have to elaborate on that, right?’
Without moving his head from my shoulder, his eyes shift up and catch mine. ‘Somehow I don’t mind that with you.’ He closes his eyes and settles his head until it’s more comfortable. ‘I was slowly killing myself there. I got a job straight out of university, and I drowned myself in it so I didn’t have to think about the farm and the family I’d left behind. If I was there, working, I could pretend that my dad was still alive and well up here, and if I just didn’t come back, it wouldn’t be real.’
‘What did you do there?’
‘Investment banker.’
‘You?’ I say in surprise. I want to see his face so I can work out if he’s joking or not, but nothing in the world could persuade me to dislodge the way we’re leaning against each other. I settle for my voice rising to a pitch usually reserved for the dolphin species. ‘Youwere an investment banker? That’s the furthest thing away from anything I can ever imagine you doing.’
‘I think that’s what attracted me to it in the first place. I wanted something that was a million miles from the farm I was supposed to take over after my dad died.’
The hand that’s not tangled in my hair has gradually crept across his lap until it’s resting against my thigh, and I find myself automatically rubbing my fingers over his palm as he talks, my nails catching on the grooves in his work-rough skin.
‘I thought I had my life all under control, but looking back now, I can see I was a total mess. I was working literally every hour in the day. I was existing on energy drinks and scotch from bottles that cost more than my car that we used to impress clients and celebrate good deals. We had a lot of international clients and conference calls and Skype meetings had to be done on their time, so I was often in the office until three or four in the morning. I had the most incredible flat in Canary Wharf and I barely saw it. I’d get in and pass out facedown on the bed, come round a couple of hours later, take off yesterday’s clothes and have a cold shower to wake myself up. Then I’d throw a couple of energy drinks down my throat and start all over again. The only thing I ate was maybe a salad if we had a meeting when a salad cart came round. I was a really horrible person. I was angry all the time, I yelled at people who didn’t deserve it, I was grouchy, skinny, drunk, and so constantly exhausted that I couldn’t think straight. No one in London ever saw me smile.’
