Page 3 of Confessions of a Christmasholic

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Right,shit.

Gus Langston dropped to his knees and cast a glance at his now dark house. He didn’t need to be an electrician to realise he’d blown a fuse or five.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, activated the torch and pointed it at the girl who’d, somehow, ended up faceplanting on his grass. Had she passed out? Hurt herself? Did he need to call an ambulance?

He heard a soft giggle, then another, and he released a long sigh. Right, if she was laughing then she was fine. He placed a hand on her shoulder and helped her roll over, keeping the torch angled so it wasn’t shining into her eyes, deep brown or black. She wasn’t as young as he initially thought. The fine lines next to her eyes suggested she was in her mid-to-late twenties, older than most backpackers who came through his adventure tour company. Straight nose, a wide mouth, and a scrape on her cheek where she’d caught the edge of the paving. That was going to hurt when she sobered up.

‘Hello, Rocky,’ she murmured, in a surprisingly deep voice for so little a person. She couldn’t be more than five two or three, although most of her height was in her legs. He glanced at her heavy-looking backpack, surprised she’d lugged it up the hill. She winced and raised her hand to her cheek.

He held up two fingers. ‘How many fingers can you see?’

‘Six hundred and fifty-two. But don’t worry, I couldn’t count before I did those tequila shots.’ He kept his fingers up and she released an exasperated sigh. ‘Two.’

‘Are you hurt? Legs? Arms? Did you hit your head?’

She did a snow angel movement, then rolled her head from side to side and up and down. ‘Nope, all good.’ She looked okay, and her pupils weren’t dilated so she wasn’t concussed. But he’d give her a minute or two to get her bearings.

‘What happened to Vegas?’ she asked, turning her head to look at the dark house. Gus balanced on his toes and rested his arm on his thigh.

‘You ploughed through the decorations, got tangled up, then tripped and ripped the electrics apart. The fuses blew.’

Her eyes widened in distress. ‘I killed your lights? I’m so, so sorry. I mean, I thought about suggesting you take most of them down, because you should stick to white. White is classier, you know. And neon snowmen? The reindeerandcandy canes? Stick to a theme, I say!’

Excellent, a dissertation on the design. Just what he needed. ‘Are you done?’ he asked.

‘No…well, yes, I suppose so. But I didn’t mean to destroy everything.’ She lurched up and waved her hands in the air, suddenly agitated. Her accent, distinctively South African, deepened. ‘Are they expensive? Do I have to replace them? I don’t have any money, so that might be a problem. But do you take IOU’s?’

She didn’t have any money. Why not? And why was she on this road and where was she going? Moira closed the BnB at the Hall during winter, and she wasn’t expecting visitors. If she was, she would’ve told him. The only other house on this road was Sunshine Cottage, and the boys were only due back tomorrow. If a friend used their place, they usually asked him to do a meet and greet. And, again, they would’ve sent him an email or a message.

She looked around at the carnage. Admittedly, it was impressive. Santa was rapidly deflating, a couple of snowmen, three reindeer and the candy canes lay on their sides. From what he could see, a couple were broken.

She moaned. ‘Oh, it looks like a Christmas hating spree killer targeted your place.’ That wasn’t a bad description actually. ‘I’m so sorry, I just wanted to punch Santa. I’ll pay you back—’

‘Relax, you blew a fuse or two, you didn’t set the place on fire.’

She bit her lip and settled down. Her being on this road, and carrying a backpack, in the middle of a cold night, made no sense at all. And having no money – even less.

Gus looked at her heart-shaped face and pale skin, her slight but still curvy body, and knew, from a place deep inside him, she was going to be trouble. He had a soldier’s instinct for recognising it, and he’d learned, in hard places in foreign lands, to listen to his gut.

Trouble. In capital, bold and six-foot-high letters.

An owl hooted, breaking the still, cold night. He needed to get inside, and so did the sexy stranger He’d make her coffee, sober her up and then he’d find out why she was walking on a dark country road. He held out his hand for her to take but she looked at it and shook her head.

‘Life is a bitch,’ she declared. Yep, so he’d heard and experienced – in high definition and technicolour. ‘I’ve had more than most to deal with, Rocky.’

Oh, God, she was feeling sorry for herself. Because he’d dealt with more than a few drunks in his time, had been one often enough, he knew the best way to get her moving on was to let her get it out of her system. ‘Tell me five bad things that have happened to you in five sentences. And quickly, because it’s cold.’

‘I was four when my dad left, ten when my stepdad left my mum and me, leaving me to help her raise my much younger brothers. I looked after them, cooked for them, got them to school on time and made sure they did their homework and showered.’

Bad, but not terrible. He was a product of foster and group homes and knew that not everyone was raised easy.

‘I had to work to put myself through university, though lots of people do that... So is that a bad thing? Maybe not.’ She wrinkled her nose in a way he found quite adorable.Stop, Langston. She’s drunk, and she’s vulnerable.

‘That’s two. Three more.’

‘My best friend was supposed to be on this trip with me, but she backed out, so I’m travelling alone.’

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