Page 86 of A Manny for Christmas

‘Get inside, gorgeous.’

Holy crap. I step over the threshold in a daze. In front of me is an obscenely gorgeous, ground-floor-level suite. To my left, a huge, wooden four-poster bed piled high with white linens and huge pillows. And to my right, a spacious living area with white sofas and a large coffee table on which stands a bottle of champagne on ice and a pair of flutes. The floor is blonde wood, the huge, airy windows let in wide swathes of hazy winter sunlight, and the log burner has been lit.

It’s even decorated for Christmas, with garlands over the picture frames and around the top of the bed, and a perfectly plump tree in one corner, decked out in tasteful platinum and white. Candles dotted around the room in minimalist hurricane lanterns emit the gorgeous, orange-clove smell that I recognise as belonging to the farm’s signature festive scent.

Everything is white, zen, from the waffle robes laid out on the bed to the glimpse I spy of a roll-top bath through an open doorway. There’s a tiny white kitchenette with a white enamel kettle and toaster. A stack of white coffee-table books lies, weirdly enough, on the coffee table.

Could Max possibly have known that, to a mother, the colour white is basically porn? That I dream of this kind of serenity for my home? Long for it with every knackered fibre of my being?

Our cottage, while lovely, is so bloody chaotic and colourful and relentlessly messy. Zen it is not. My eyeballs are permanently exhausted when I’m at home. And this beautiful space is probably what heaven looks like.

I want to stroke the bed-linen.

And quite possibly lick the coffee table.

I want to lower my weary bones into that bathtub and never get out.

Max closes the door and comes to stand behind me, his hands kneading my shoulders through my coat. ‘What do you think?’ he asks slowly, his breath warm in my ear.

‘I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,’ I say with a sigh. ‘A white room, and you? Andchampagne?’

He laughs softly and kisses my cheekbone where it meets my ear. I lift a hand and press it to his.

‘What’s going on, Max? Is this placeours?’

‘It is for the rest of the day. It was available for the night, but I couldn’t farm out the horrors overnight—nor would I inflict the school run tomorrow on anyone else. Even Jess. But she’s hanging around your place till nine-ish with Mike and Mia, which gives us, let’s see, around nine hours.’ He lowers his voice to a whisper. ‘Totally alone.’

I groan. ‘Oh my God. Say it again.’

He releases me with a laugh and spins me around to face him. I tilt my head back to enjoy the view. My God, this man. His beautiful hazel eyes shine with tenderness and, if I’m not mistaken, concern as to whether I like my surprise.

I take hold of the lapels of his jacket with a firm grip and stand on my tiptoes so our mouths are mere inches apart. ‘What’s all this in aid of?’

‘You.’ He slides a strong arm around my waist, holding me to him.

‘Why?’ I whisper.

‘You deserve a little TLC, Mol. Fuck knows, you need it. You’re dead on your feet at the moment, and I don’t blame you, what with leaving the house at obscene o’clock every morning, and working all day, and processing kids all evening. And now I’m keeping you up at night, too. Stealing your sleep.’

‘I don’t mind that part,’ I tell him. ‘That’s the best bit.’

His face softens. ‘I know, baby. But it’s not sustainable. You need a break. So I thought we could escape for a few hours, and, you know.’

I raise my eyebrows in a manner I hope is seductive.

‘Pray tell.’

‘Sleep,’ he says, and I laugh. ‘And maybe have a little sex. Or a lot. Take an endless bath. Drink champagne together. Justbe, without kids or colleagues trying to get a piece of you. We can grab some lunch here, and head over to the Oast House for dinner, if you fancy it. Or just get more room service and stay naked. But seriously, Mol, if you just want to sleep all day, that’s fine with me.’ His eyes trail over my face. Down my neck. ‘As long as you let me hold you while you do.’

This. Man.

He takes my breath away. I had no idea he was plotting all this, no idea he enrolled the help of probably half of Sorrel Farm to set this in motion. He’s surprised me with an indescribably perfect afternoon and evening ahead. It’s a glorious prospect. So idyllic I can’t quite believe this is real. That I’ve been plucked from my working day and found myself in this sensory paradise with my gorgeous man.

‘How did I get so lucky?’ I ask him, my hand trailing up his lapel to find the skin of his neck, his jaw.

‘I have genuinely no idea,’ he says with a straight face, and I burst out laughing.

‘You’re ridiculous. And amazing. The kindest man I know.Thank you.’

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