Christmas Promises at the Little Wedding Shop: Celebrate Christmas in Cornwall with this magical romance!

I’m scraping the icy drips out of my eyes, muttering as I squeeze streams of water out of my jacket. ‘I couldn’t be wetter if I’d been dipped in the ocean.’ If this is payback for lying to Santa, it’s come raining down on me scarily fast.

As the elf turns to Santa he’s close to pleading. ‘Let’s call in the Surf Shack to dry off?’

Now he’s talking. You have to admire an elf who knows his local cafés. So long as you don’t mind walls made out of random planks, it’s the best one on the beach. I’m already warming up, mentally shovelling a ton of marshmallows into the top of my bucket-sized award-winning hot chocolate. But we’ve both overlooked the fact that Santa’s on a mission.

‘This isn’t a jolly.’ Santa’s scolding is scornful and incensed. ‘We’re here to make deliveries. We need to get Holly to her wedding shop.’ There’s a jolt, and we’re off again, this time even faster.

I spend approximately two minutes consoling myself for not getting the chance to visit the ladies’ room so I could work on not looking so much like I’d crawled out of a shipwreck. Then the cliff side gives way to buildings again. As we whizz up the hill past significant and familiar landmarks, I’m getting involuntary flurries of excitement in my chest. Jaggers Bar, the Yellow Daisy Café, Hot Jack’s, and Iron Maiden’s Cleaners pass so fast they’re a blur. We’re yards away from Brides by the Sea, accelerating wildly as we make a turn into the mews, but by the time we get there, a four by four is already in the space we’re heading for.

‘Donna and Blitzen! What the hell happened to priority for the elderly? Can’t he see the beard?’ Santa’s cursing bounces off shop windows shining warm light into the grim afternoon.

The whole point about Santa driving the carriage like a loon is that it only works when other road users give way. If you meet an ‘eff-off’ driver head on in these narrow streets, you’re likely to end up in big trouble. Even dealing with any driver who doesn’t jump on the brakes a hundred yards away, you might end up with the carriage and the car wedged between the buildings. Which is exactly how we are now. Don’t ask me whose fault it is, because even though it happened right under my nose, I really can’t tell.

Enough to say, the vehicle we’re jammed up against is plastered from one oversized bumper to the other in an expensive paint job. I can see some local artist has had a great time painting beer bottles bobbing on exceptionally realistic air-brushed breakers. And the signage on the door is conveniently at knee level. Huntley and Handsome’sRoaring Waves Brewery – St Aidan in a Bottle. That pretty much says it all. Aren’t the current rash of microbreweries all run by overgrown boys with too much disposable income, staving off their midlife crises? I shiver as the car window slides down, and realise mournfully that we could be stuck here for ages arguing when I’m freezing my butt off.

But as I stare past the elf to the car driver, heat sears through me. It’s the kind of hot flash under the collar I haven’t felt since I used to blush on the school bus every morning as a teenager. My face bursting into flames at the slightest provocation was why sixth-form bad boy, Rory Sanderson, singled thirteen-year-old me out for my own personal conversation as he made his way down the gangway to his seat at the back. Every single morning. By the time he left for uni, one tweak of his eyebrow from a hundred yards was enough to turn me scarlet. I just wasn’t prepared to meet him today. Especially with me jammed between Santa and an elf, doing an impression of the old woman who crawled out of the sea.

I shudder inwardly as I stare into the car. The rock-star long hair might have been trimmed back, but the broad grin I’m staring straight into is unmistakable. And it hasn’t lost an ounce of the kind of insanely inflated self-belief that I suspect came from having his own personal tractor from the age of ten. There are crinkles around the kind of come-to-bed eyes that were only one of the reasons for his legendary status. Rumour had it he also burned down the school music room due to a fault on his guitar amp. What’s more, he was the only pupil with the cheek to call Mrs Wilson, the deputy head, ‘darling’, and the charm to live to brag about it. Although thinking back, I reckon it was him driving a car off an actual cliff top that fast forwarded him to the top of every mother’s banned boyfriend list.

‘Holly-berry-red-cheeks? What the hell are you doing here, dripping all over Santa’s sleigh? Did you take up swimming? I thought you always hated water?’

If it’s divine payback for me lying earlier that’s hurled him into my path here, let’s be clear. I’d rather have a hundred rogue waves crashing down on my head than come face to face with the awful Mr Sanderson again. Since I last heard of him light years ago, storming the world of corporate law in Bristol, I’ve stupidly let him drop off my ‘worry about and avoid at all costs’ radar. And this is him all over. Straight in there, claiming to remember a person’s intimate details. Familiar as if I only saw him yesterday.

For a second I’m wishing he’d caught me at some do I’d made a big effort for. That I’d had a shit-hot professional blow dry, got my long lasting lippy on, squeezed into some killer dress I probably don’t even own. At least then I’d be coming from a position of strength. The thing is, right now my hair is in rats’ tails, I have half the beach in my fake fur, but I’m so bright red from the wind and the cold, no blush on earth is going to make it any worse. That particular scenario might never happen ever again. This is my one chance to lay the ghosts and wipe the floor with him. It’s one of those iconic now-or-never moments. I shove my hands deep into my pockets, drag my coat closer around me and launch.

‘Actually, you know what I hate more than water?’ I’ve barely been here half an hour and I’m already talking in questions. ‘It is Rory, isn’t it?’

‘It was last time I looked.’ He taps his fingers on the steering wheel and nods. ‘And? I’m all ears here. And I’m sure Santa and his elf can’t wait to hear either.’

That back chat is only what I know to expect. If there’s a confused frown overlaying that laid- back smile of his, it’s probably because I’m coming on so kick-ass here. Believe me, I’m actually shocking myself too. You wouldn’t believe how liberating it is, when for one time only you don’t have to worry about blushing.

‘Well …’ I pause to drag in a breath and my chest ends up expanding so much I feel like a cat with its fur standing on end. ‘I hate inconsiderate drivers who force their way into spaces that don’t even exist.’

He pulls a face and his voice rises in protest. ‘Excuse me, but I’m the injured party here. Your friend Santa’s the one who cut me up.’

So likely. ‘You always were a knob head. For one time only you’re going to have to grow some balls, give in and back up. It’s obviously escaped you, but ponies don’t have reverse gear.’ Even though I’m on a roll here, I actually just meant to tell him to grow up. But whatever. I ramp up my scowl. ‘You wouldn’t want ashes instead of presents in your Christmas stocking, would you? Seeing as you’re still behaving like a kid.’ I know it’s the elf’s line, but it’s too good not to borrow.

As Santa leans past me, his voice is conciliatory. ‘Sorry she’s so prickly, Rory. You’ll have to forgive her, she’s just come all the way from London.’

Rory’s actually laughing, damn him. ‘Don’t worry, Gaz, I haven’t had a tongue lashing like that in years and I’m loving every second.’

My jaw freezes. For every reason. ‘You two know each other too?’

Santa gives me a strange stare. ‘Of course we do. This is Rory Sanderson, a.k.a. the Mr Huntley and Handsome, our eminent local wine supplier.’ He pauses to cock an eyebrow at me. ‘He’s a lovely boy. I’m sure this unfortunate squeeze here wasn’t deliberate.’

The elf purses his lips. ‘Rory’s solely responsible for keeping the fizz flowing in St Aidan, and our own personal Adonis in the Chamber of Commerce. I can’t think of anyone we’d rather be wedged in a crack with.’

The disgustingly attractive Sanderson body is obviously still working its magic then, despite it being twenty years older. It wasn’t that any one bit was particularly spectacular. But working as a whole, the effect was apparently knock-out. Not that I was ever a public fan. I made damned sure I never admitted to any of my misplaced teenage lusting.

‘No need to be quite such a tart, Ken.’ Santa’s looking daggers at the elf.

Rory looks like he’s choking back his laugh. ‘Great, we all know I like to claim that most of the upmarket hangovers in St Aidan are down to me. Anyway, if you hang onto the pony, Gaz, I’ll get out of your hair –’ He leans forward and eyeballs me, ‘– definitely not implying you look like a haystack, Holly. Or a witch who rode through a hurricane.’ He leans back again, and it’s obvious when he lets his smile go, that’s exactly what he means. ‘Then you can all get on with your day.’

Clamping my hands on my head, I try to find a snappy last word to hurl, but my wisecrack stream has totally dried. Instead I’m left, mouth sagging, staring at his manoeuvres. It’s only at the very end of his six point turn that I see past the Bad Ass Santa Brew transfers on the window and spot the two baby seats in the back of the car. I swallow hard and hang on to my deflating stomach as the engine purrs away. Rory Sanderson with kids? I did not see that one coming. Though why I should give a damn, I have no idea.

‘Holleeeeeeeeee …’

I turn as I hear my name. A shriek like that can only mean one person. ‘Poppy?’

She’s haring down the mews, blonde pigtails shining in a sudden shaft of afternoon sun, her Barbour coat flapping. ‘Great transport, Hols! Here’s me searching for you everywhere and you’ve been hijacked by Santa. How wild is that?’ Her forehead wrinkles into an appalled frown as she comes close. ‘Jeez, what happened here? Did you drive through a car wash?’

Frankly I’m relieved it’s not worse. ‘We collided with an early Christmas wave.’ Now I’m climbing down and shaking the sand out of my hair, it’s easier to laugh it off. ‘But thanks for the lift, Santa, it was way more exciting than a taxi. Take this for your charity box.’ I grab a tenner out of my pocket and push it into his hand.

Poppy leaps backwards as I land next to her. ‘No hugs for you when you’re this wet, even if you do look like an adorable baby seal.’ Poppy’s great, because she always sees the good side. Even from a distance, the air kisses she tosses a foot from my cheek smell of warm vanilla, icing sugar and waxed jacket. She turns to Santa and the elf, who’s grappling with my suitcase. ‘I’ve just made some Christmas pudding muffins if you’d like to come in and try some?’ That’s another good thing about her. Poppy’s always looking for testers for her baking.

The elf grimaces at his thighs as he hands me my rucksack. ‘Sorry, not today. I’m struggling with a see-through tights situation.’

Poppy glances at the elf’s tiny tunic as it rides up, then looks away quickly. ‘Eeek, I completely get where you’re coming from on that. Wait here, I’ll bring the cakes out.’ She jostles my arm excitedly and makes a lunge for my case. For someone pregnant who needs my help, she’s incredibly energetic. ‘Come on, Hols, I’m so pleased you’re here, and I promise we’re all going to have the most amazing Christmas.’

‘Great.’ There’s no time to remind her I won’t be doing Christmas. A second later, she’s dragging me and my case on wheels down the cobbled street towards the shop door.

Chapter 2 (#ulink_4f5cd9f7-1c07-5382-b5cb-8727ef6f8c63)

Saturday, 2nd December

At Brides by the Sea: Small talk and straight lines

Later that evening, as Poppy clears away the papers from the fish and chip supper we’ve just had in the tiny kitchen in the attic flat, she’s doing her best to talk me into what sounds suspiciously like a party.

‘There’s no Brides by the Sea Christmas bash this year because Jess is away. So tonight’s her consolation prize. It’s just a few friends for drinks. You’ll know everyone, you have to come down.’ She pushes the cake box towards me. ‘Another?’

Even though there’s a huge kitchen at Daisy Hill Farm, Poppy still does a lot of her cooking here in the flat above the shop. Blaming her boyfriend Rafe for eating the cakes is probably only half the story. Every time I come through to the blue-painted cupboard fronts and shelves of brightly coloured, mismatched crockery, crammed with bowls and baking trays of every size, I can see it’s not a place you’d give up easily. Which is probably why she keeps working here and has as many friends to stay as she can find excuses for.

If Poppy’s trying to soften me up with sugar, I’m confident I can fit in a second Christmas pudding muffin and still resist the invitation. ‘I was planning a quiet evening, listening to the roar of the wind and the crash of the sea. Googling hot tips on wedding photography and getting ready for my practice shoot with Nate and Becky tomorrow.’ In case she’s forgotten, I’m here to hide not go out on the razz. Peeling my holly leaf off the muffin top, I bite through the white dribbled icing. Then my teeth sink into that familiar dark chocolate sponge heaven.

Poppy’s cakes take me all the way back to the cosy kitchen at her mum’s house, with its table covered in cake crumbs and icing sugar. The warmth and the smell of baking, and the house always full of Poppy’s friends, including me and Freya. It reminds me of how as teenagers, when we dribbled icing onto buns and made feathery patterns with a knife, I didn’t have to think about my big sister never coming back again. They were happy times.

She tidies up a stack of mixing bowls and grins at me as I get up from my stool. ‘Your shirt and trousers look great. You showered earlier, your hair’s fab. A bit of lippy, you’ll be good to go for the get-together.’

As I scrunch up my muffin cases and head for the bin, I’m still holding out. Then I peep out through one of the porthole windows. Even on winter days, the postcard views across St Aidan bay will have some kind of sparkle about them. Tonight as I look down on the shimmering light reflections bouncing off the inky water, I’m so grateful to Poppy for bringing me here. However much I’d rather avoid a crowd, I have to go with her to the shop’s Christmas ‘do’. ‘Okay, let me find my bag.’

She’s already passing it to me. ‘Right answer. Jess said she wanted a word too.’ Dipping into her own bag, she takes long enough to wave her mascara wand at her reflection in the kettle. Then she’s hurrying me towards the landing. ‘Great, there’s champagne cocktails down there, we don’t want to be late. Mine will be a virgin one, of course, but I like to pretend.’

Considering the size of Poppy’s bump, we clatter down the stairs alarmingly fast. As we arrive in the ground-floor hallway the tree we pass is on the large side of stonking, but the all-white colour scheme means it blends perfectly into the background, and doesn’t set my Christmas alarm bells jangling too loudly.

Bracing myself for my first evening out in ages, I peer gingerly into the White Room, with its rails of white and cream dresses, and drifts of tulle and chiffon. The shop windows beyond are studded with a thousand tiny fairy lights that spark off the beading, where white-glittered ivy falls in cascades behind slinky satin skirts. I turn to Poppy. ‘It’s very quiet. Where is everyone?’

Poppy wiggles her eyebrows. ‘We’re going all the way down to Lily’s new department in the basement. It’s way more practical when you don’t have to worry about spilling drinks on the dresses.’ Lily is another friend from Rose Hill who we grew up with. She was always flower-crazy and worked here when we were all younger. Now, thanks to one of Jess’s career-building schemes, she’s extended her florist’s skills and moved onto styling.