Page 41 of Confessions of a Christmasholic

He turned to look at her and shook his head. ‘Not at all, I was the lowliest peasant of them all. Raised in London, a product of foster homes, and I was nowhere near good enough for Lady Kate Conningworth.’

She wanted to tell him she thought he was amazingly wonderful, but the words stuck in her throat.

‘I’m still surprised she chose me when she could’ve married someone a lot richer, someone from the polo, piles and posh set.’

‘How did you meet?’

He swirled his whisky in his glass, a faraway look on his face. ‘I came to the area shortly after I left the army, not sure what to do or where to go. I picked up a job at a small adventure company, and they had an enquiry from Conningworth Hall, asking whether they had any ideas for a team-building exercise. I made some suggestions, Kate liked those suggestions and within six months we were living together. She encouraged me to open my own outdoor adventure company.’

She thought of his swish offices, website and indoor training setup. He ran a tight ship, and it was a successful enterprise. Frankly, with his work ethic, she couldn’t imagine Gus being anything but successful. Surprised to hear him talking about his wife, she pushed to know more. ‘I heard Kate was on the verge of opening the shop when she passed away. Is that right?’

He nodded and rested his forearm against his eyes. ‘She died on the Tuesday, it was due to open on the Saturday. It opened, a few weeks before Christmas, the following Saturday, with the help of various people from the community.’

‘Kate was crazy detail-oriented, and she had lists for everything,’ Gus said, seeing her scepticism. ‘All they had to do was tick off the bullet points.’

She stared at his stubbled jaw, her eyes tracing the muscles in his arm, the thickness of his shoulder. ‘You told me you make lists, too. Is that something you learned from her?’

He dropped his arm and tapped his fingers against his thigh. ‘Before we met, I relied on my memory to keep things on track. In the weeks and months after she…after…I followed her lists, they were an absolute lifesaver. I didn’t have to think, I just did whatever was next on the list.’

“Lists help me keep my life organised.” He sipped and placed the glass on his knee. ‘And I still use lists for the shop, mostly because I’m not interested in it enough to do my own thing—’

OK, but why? What was it about Christmas and the shop he hated? Kate died mid-November, close enough to the festive season for it to sting, but…

But it wasn’t like she died on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. She didn’t understand why he hated Christmas. Sutton hauled in a deep breath and released it slowly. How could she judge? She didn’t know anything about death – abandonment, sure, but not the finality of death. Her Layla drama couldn’t compete or compare.

She tapped her finger against her wine glass. ‘Why don’t you sell the Christmas shop and let someone else organise the Christmas-related events?’

‘I do it in memory of Kate, and for my kids,’ he told her, with a small shrug. ‘If she was here, she would be in the thick of things, trying to make Christmas special for everyone. I can’t do as much as she would have done, but I can dosomeof it.

‘When the twins are old enough to understand, I’ll explain she started the Christmas market and everything else, and I just kept it going for her, and them.’ He swirled his whisky around in his glass. ‘I’m their hero right now because I put lights on the house, but later she’ll be their hero.’

Oh, Gus vastly underestimated the impact he had on people. She liked that about him. Honestly, she liked him a little too much. In good, bad and sexy ways.

‘You do know this house can be seen from space, right?’ Sutton pointed out, trying to push away the lump in her throat with a dose of humour. ‘When all the lights are on, it’s so bright in my bedroom I can read a book.’

‘If you are four, you can’t have too many lights,’ Gus reminded her. Actually, she was getting used to the lights, most of them anyway.

‘I noticed Santa hasn’t reclaimed his spot.’

His smile was slow and sexy. ‘I didn’t want to tempt either of us to use him as a punching bag again.’

Sutton curled into the corner and yawned, trying to find the energy to haul herself upstairs and into the shower. She pulled a strand of hair in front of her face and grimaced. It was as hard as a porcupine’s quill. She needed to wash it but, unfortunately, it was thick and took ages to dry. Going to bed with damp hair was marginally better than the alternative of sleeping with sticky hair.

‘So, cookie making…’

She looked at Gus, who was staring at his feet, a smile on his lips. ‘Not my finest hour,’ she admitted. ‘Do you have a hairdryer I can borrow?’

He nodded. ‘Sure. I’ll give it to you when we go up.’

Their eyes connected and, by the heat in his, Sutton knew he was thinking about their first-and-only kiss, how his hands streaked over her body, painting fire on her skin. She wanted him, he wanted her…

Neither of them wanted to acknowledge the raging attraction between them, neither needed the complication.

‘Do you want to tell me why you were crying?’ he asked. He sounded almost offhand, like he didn’t care, but she’d learned to read him better. He gripped his glass with tight fingers and his mask-like face told her he cared more than he wanted to. The more uninterested and remote Gus looked, the harder he was trying to distance himself from emotion.

But he’d asked and she didn’t know whether to go there or not. Oh, she wanted to, but it wasn’t smart. She was madly attracted to the man and she’d spent many hours imagining him naked. Making love – no,sexwould be fabulous and fun, and would remind her what it felt like to be desired. He’d blow away some cobwebs. A shag would do her the world of good.

Look at you, trying to convince yourself he’s just a guy you want to screw, a quick smash. He’s not, and you know it.

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