Second Chances at the Log Fire Cabin: A Christmas holiday romance for 2018 from the ebook bestseller

Much later, tired of waiting by a phone that never rings and needing some fresh air, I nip out for a walk around the block under cover of darkness. I feel certain there’ll be a message for me on the home phone when I get back. But there isn’t and my heart sinks. Perhaps Jackson’s out of the country on business – as he often is – in which case he might phone tonight from his hotel.

By bedtime, there’s still been no word and I’m starting to feel needled. Surely he hasn’t given up on me already? I tell myself that if I hear nothing by lunchtime tomorrow, I’ll phone him. Relationships are a two-way thing, after all.

The next afternoon, I take a deep breath and make the call. But to my surprise, after five rings, it goes straight to ‘message’. Jackson normally answers immediately in a very businesslike voice, since nine times out of ten it will be an important work call. I leave a message asking him to ring me.

But then I decide I can’t sit around waiting for a call from him. That will only drive me nuts. I’ll nip out to the shops for milk and fresh supplies of chocolate. I haven’t been out properly for days and, with a bit of luck, the world will have forgotten all about my prime-time blunder on national TV.

Yes, there were probably a good few sniggers when Jackson said, Er, no?

But no one is going to actually recognise me from the telly. Not now …

With new resolve, I head for the shower. Twenty minutes later, I get wrapped up in my coat and scarf, and leave the flat, emerging – after my self-imposed hibernation – with the vulnerability of a new-born lamb into the frosty December afternoon. It’s already growing dark, which is good.

Far less chance of someone—

‘Oof.’ I collide with a couple walking past the gate and the man peers back at me.

He nudges his partner. ‘Hey, it’s her!’ he says in a loud stage whisper. ‘That woman who proposed on TV.’

‘Is it?’ The woman turns. ‘Oh, yes! God, the poor soul. Do you think she’ll ever get over it?’

‘Nah. Scarred for life, I reckon.’

And they walk on.

I stand there, staring after them, feeling about as small as it’s possible to feel. Turning, I fish out my keys to retreat back inside.

Then I stop.

The Winter Ball is just a few days away and I’d pretty much decided to tell Jackson I’d go with him, after all. What if he’s been sitting at home, feeling as gloomy as I am, thinking it’s all over between us? Perhaps he was in a business meeting when I phoned and he hasn’t even listened to my message yet.

I should give him another chance – leave him another message telling him I’m looking forward to wearing my new dress …

The idea brings a little surge of relief at the thought that it might not, after all, be the end for Jackson and me.

The Winter Ball would be the perfect opportunity to patch things up, smooth over the catastrophe of Saturday night and get back to the way things were.

Standing there in the street I phone his number, preparing my little speech in my head. I’ll go for a bright and breezy tone, to let him know I’m back to my normal self and looking to the future …

‘Jackson’s phone,’ breathes someone in what sounds like a French accent. An alluring female voice.

An icy hand grips my heart.

A series of giggles on the other end of the phone turns into full-blown shrieks of delight.

Then, abruptly, I’m cut off.

Chapter 4 (#uece8da7f-d405-5c39-8ed0-2bfce88fd7b3)

I stand there, stunned for a moment, feeling sick. My legs feel wobbly so I sit down on the wall outside the house and stare for a long time at the Christmas lights strung over the windows of the café over the road.

After a while, the lights blur into one another, but I continue to sit there with my hands thrust deep into my coat pockets, thinking about Jackson and how it was never going to work out for us anyway. What with me scared to take the relationship to the next level and Jackson being a total babe-magnet.

It was a recipe for disaster. I just couldn’t see it at the time.

I really thought that this Christmas would be different because I’d found Jackson and we’d be spending at least some of the festive season together. I’d been so confident of this, I’d even told Mum and Dad that they should book the winter Caribbean cruise they’d been wanting to go on for years because I’d be spending it with Jackson. And now, that’s what they’re doing. They leave in a couple of weeks and will be away until after New Year. So I really shot myself in the foot there!

The festive season of love and goodwill is here. And I will be all alone.

Why on earth did I imagine someone as clever and popular as Jackson could be serious about a no-hoper like me? I mean, thinking about it, what the hell have I achieved in my life so far – apart from a job at the biscuit factory?

I probably could have achieved more. But after the accident, my confidence hit rock bottom, and I’ve never really recovered. I suppose part of me still thinks I’m not good enough to try for something different.

That look on Billy’s face when he broke off our relationship has stayed with me, resolutely refusing to disappear into the mists of time. It happened eleven years ago, when I was only nineteen, yet even now I can recall – as if it happened only yesterday – that heart-stopping mix of pity and guilt in his eyes.

But isn’t it time I moved past that?

I’ve lost Jackson and now my future is an open book. A big fat question mark. Instead of living in fear, maybe I should see it as a golden opportunity to throw off the chains of the past and start living my life differently.

But am I too late, at the age of thirty, to start my life over again? To finally throw off the hang-ups that have held me back and maybe find a career that inspires me – instead of just working to pay the rent?

The first step is to get over Jackson. Because, clearly, he’s already well on the way to getting over me …

Getting up off the wall, I take a deep breath and force my legs to move in the direction of the supermarket.

I’m done with humiliating myself over Jackson Cooper.

It’s time to move on …

Arriving at the supermarket, my throat is choked with held-back tears but I’m determined not to give in to them.

I head straight for the milk, then march purposefully into the home-baking aisle in search of Betty Crocker. She makes great chocolate cake mixes. She will save me from complete despair.

Funnily enough, the last time I was here, I was also on a search for cake mix.

Our irritating next-door neighbour, Edna Hartley-Pym, had knocked on our door, requesting cakes for her home-baking stall at the church hall’s Christmas fayre. She’s a difficult woman to say no to, so I promised her a homemade chocolate cake, which got her off our doorstep nice and smartly.

I thought I’d cheat with a Betty Crocker cake mix but, to my horror, there were none to be had and the fayre was the following day. So I’m afraid I resorted to buying a Marks & Spencer concoction, roughing it up a bit in my Tupperware box to make it look like an authentic home bake.

Needless to say, Edna was well impressed.

Thankfully, the cake mix section has now been thoroughly restocked. I hover in the aisle, trying to choose between Devil’s Food cake mix and Super Moist Party Rainbow cake, eventually solving the dilemma by throwing both into the basket.

My attention is caught by a woman further along the aisle who seems to be having a problem. She’s trying to reach something on the top shelf and keeps jumping up but failing to grab it. The grunts she’s making with the effort are growing more desperate by the second, so eventually, I go over and offer to help. (Being so tall, I’m used to people asking me to reach items for them from the top shelf.)

The girl turns, dashing her dark hair out of her eyes. ‘Oh, would you? Thank you. It’s the last bag and I really need it.’ Her face is flushed with exertion. Or possibly anxiety.

‘No problem. They didn’t nickname me Beanpole at school for nothing!’ I assure her with a grin, reaching up with ease and handing her the prize – a bag of self-raising flour.