Christmas at the Little Clock House on the Green. Eve Devon

some sort of law that prevents us from—’ Emma came to an abrupt stop as a sudden thought occurred. ‘Oh, shit. I mean, sugar.’ Knightley Hall had looked all huge and stately, hadn’t it? All landed gentry, heritage-old. ‘Am I supposed to address you as Sir Jake or Sir Knightley, or something?’

      Jake stopped and regarded her for a heartbeat before, with yet another shrug, saying, ‘Either is fine.’

      There was that heart-spiking lift of his lips again before he resumed walking along the path and Emma realised he might possibly be playing with her. But on the off-chance she’d be causing some sort of international incident on her first full day as manager of Cocktails & Chai, she decided not to call him out on it, and really, how hard could it be to have a conversation without observing the traditional naming conventions?

      As she scurried after him, layers of wool flapping in the wind, she tried to think of something to say but all she could come up with was, ‘I’d love to look around your home sometime.’

      ‘Really? And why is that?’

      Um … Good one, Ems, invite yourself over to the gorgeous stranger’s house, why don’t you? Scrabbling around for something to add, she tried, ‘Because when I walked past it yesterday I thought that it looked absolutely beautiful.’

      ‘Beautiful?’

      The white plasterwork separated with a grid of black wooden beams and the brown twisted fairytale vines running all over it, which she fancied was wisteria that would look stunning in the summer, was maybe more imposing as a structure than beautiful.

      ‘Handsome, then,’ she amended.

      He cocked his head as if to weigh up her description and as they entered a wooded area, deigned to slow his pace a little. ‘Looks can be deceiving,’ he told her softly. ‘Trust me the inside of Knightley Hall is neither beautiful nor handsome.’

      ‘And it’s what’s inside that counts, right?’

      He gave her an assessing look as if she’d surprised him and then nodded. ‘Not a polished concrete surface or a cinema room to be seen.’

      ‘I guess if your taste runs more to modern, then you probably can’t class it as beautiful, then, but surely it gets extra points for standing the test of time? There’s a beauty in that, isn’t there? Or is it not actually old at all? Maybe it’s one of those clever kit houses, that come flat-packed, and take only a team of four ten-year-olds to erect?’

      ‘What the… ?’ Jake offered her a horrified look. ‘No it is not a kit house,’ he said with a derision that had her wondering if he was channelling the late and great Alan Rickman.

      ‘When was it built, then?’

      ‘The original Tudor frame probably goes back to early sixteenth century.’

      Emma’s eyes widened. ‘I guess the oldest houses in Hollywood were probably built around 1870.’

      ‘That’s close to when my family took over the Hall.’

      His family had been in Knightley Hall since the 1870s? Emma couldn’t even imagine a family home existing since the 1970s. Her experience of family was that they often crumbled at the simplest of hurdles.

      She snuck a look at her walking companion. All that time, one family, living in one place. Making history. Generation after generation. Maybe he was entitled to the slight odour of smugness that wafted off of him.

      Oh, who was she kidding? The scent wasn’t smugness so much as it was cedar wood mixed with a hint of lemon and trying to ignore the way it kept teasing at her, making her want to keep pace and move in a little closer, she looked about the woods.

      The smooth white bark on some of the trees had her wanting to reach out and rub her hand over the surface. They looked magical against the milky blue sky. She would have if she was alone, but she didn’t want Jake to think she was some weird tree-hugger.

      ‘So,’ he said, ‘I’m guessing you were in Hollywood for the same reason every other beautiful woman is there?’

      ‘Hark,’ she exclaimed to the woods, ‘for he initiates conversation,’ and then with a grin and a flutter of her eyelashes, looked up at him and said, ‘You think I’m beautiful?’

      The eyelash fluttering didn’t go down quite as hilariously as she’d hoped, but she decided to think of the dull flush across his cheekbones as a blush rather than a rush of annoyance.

      ‘What I meant was, you’re obviously an actress?’

      ‘I am,’ she answered finding pleasure in being able to mimic his short, closed answers of earlier.

      ‘So then what are you doing here?’

      Good question. ‘Resting?’

      ‘You don’t sound sure.’

      Emma glanced down at her borrowed boots. ‘No, I don’t, do I?’ Why on earth had she said she was an actress when the whole reason she’d travelled thousands of miles was to prove she was capable of doing something she secretly suspected was far more difficult: managing a tearoom and bar? ‘I guess I need to see how this is going to work out first.’

      ‘Hedging your bets,’ Jake said with a grim nod.

      ‘You make that sound like a bad thing?’ It felt sensible to her. She’d put all her eggs into one basket before and hadn’t eggsactly got hit with the success stick.

      ‘Pardon me for hoping for Kate’s sake that you make it work out. I guess it’s too much to expect people will actually commit to something these days.’

      ‘Hey. I resent that. You don’t know anything about me.’

      ‘Apart from that you just admitted you had commitment issues.’

      Emma stopped in her tracks. Her hands went to her hips in full-on umbrage-taken mode and she could feel the heat of embarrassment form two huge circles on her cheeks, making her wonder if she could look any more of a cliché. ‘Kate knew exactly what she was doing when she invited me here. I appreciate her faith in me and you can bet your “arse”,’ she added, swapping to full British accent, ‘I’m going to work hard. I intend to give this my all. I certainly don’t believe in only giving pieces of myself.’

      ‘Wow. When you use a British accent like that you sound so much more believable,’ he said, turning on his heel and walking away, his pace brisk.

      Emma’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times like a guppy coming up for air. Thank God he had his hands full with all his ‘stuff’ because otherwise she was pretty sure he’d have added a slow hand clap.

      ‘Again, you don’t know me, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk to me like I’m some sort of flight risk. What?’ she called after him, ‘I have to have done something since the sixteenth century to be considered committed to a cause? You know what,’ she said scurrying to keep up with him again when he simply carried on walking, ‘maybe we shouldn’t speak to each other. Let’s flout society’s rules about polite conversation and not converse.’

      ‘Works for me.’

      Emma started muttering under her breath about people who copped-out when a conversation wasn’t going their way.

      ‘Call me an idiot,’ he huffed out.

      ‘Idiot,’ she shot back and got a roll of his eyes for her effort.

      ‘But I assumed that your plan for not talking would actually involve less of this,’ he held up his hand and opened and closed his fingers to mimic a mouth talking, ‘and more of this,’ he said, finishing with keeping his fingers closed.

      ‘Oh, believe me,’ she hissed out, unwilling to let him have the last word, ‘the thought of respite from your incredible smug-self is definite motivation to stop talking.’

      ‘And yet …’

      She