Misbehaving Under the Mistletoe. Heidi Rice

a string of smaller independent shops and boutiques mostly dotted on the side streets whose merchandise she seemed to have expert knowledge of. She didn’t browse, she went straight to the counter and described exactly what she wanted. He’d also noticed that her purchases were incredibly well thought out and individual. If he didn’t know better, he could have sworn she’d actually researched this trip.

      As they walked out of the chocolaterie and back towards the throbbing activity of Oxford Street he noticed her open her bag and peek at something inside. He’d noticed her doing that a couple of times already. Snagging the leather bag from behind, he whisked it out of her hands and off her shoulder. ‘Let’s have a look in there.’

      ‘Hey, what are you …?’ she yelped.

      ‘What have you got? A secret weapon?’ Spotting the piece of paper she’d been reading, he whipped it out of her bag.

      ‘Give that back.’ She made a jump for it, but he held the paper easily out of reach.

      ‘Damn, it is a secret weapon.’ He stared at the handwritten list, which had annotations and notes, hand-drawn maps and several intricate little drawings jotted all over it. The thing was a work of art. She must have spent hours on it. A weird feeling of weightlessness lifted his stomach at the thought that she’d gone to so much trouble. That anyone would go to that much trouble. Over a bunch of Christmas presents.

      ‘What is this?’ he asked.

      ‘Give it back. It’s my Christmas list,’ she said, embarrassment turning her cheeks a bright shade of pink. She looked so damn cute and determined, the weightlessness increased.

      ‘How comes I never knew this about you?’ he teased, pushing the sentimental thought to one side. It was a shopping list, for goodness’ sake, not the Declaration of Independence or the Magna Carta.

      ‘Knew what?’ she said, swiping the list out of his hand when he dropped his arm.

      ‘That you’re anal.’

      ‘I am not anal,’ she declared, stuffing the list back into her bag. ‘I’m organised. And where Christmas shopping is concerned, it pays to be organised.’

      ‘I get it.’ The drop in his stomach lifted. ‘You write the list so you don’t overspend, right?’ That had to be the reason why she’d gone to all that trouble. It was so long since he’d had to buy on a budget he’d forgotten what it was like.

      ‘No.’ She stared at him as if he were witless. ‘I go to the trouble of writing a list so I don’t get the wrong thing. Getting people the right present takes work and consideration. I know it’s a cliché but it really is the thought that counts.’

      If that were the case her friends would be rich, he thought, feeling uncomfortable again.

      He couldn’t quite believe how much time and effort she’d clearly put into the process. This wasn’t about being a shopaholic. It was about actually caring about people enough to want to get them something they’d really like. The minute the thought registered, the weightlessness returned and the uncomfortable feeling got worse.

      ‘I like going that extra mile for the people I care about,’ she said doggedly. ‘Because I know they’ll go that extra mile for me.’ She looped her arm through his. ‘Now stop trying to waste time, we’ve still got three presents to go and they’re the most important.’ She headed across Oxford Street, the fairy lights of Selfridges’ facade making her hair sparkle. ‘And for that we need the big guns.’

      As she dragged him into the legendary department store he realised that he’d never cared about anyone enough to want to get them something special for Christmas. And no one had ever really cared that much about him.

      And it hadn’t bothered him.

      Right up until he’d got suckered into going Christmas shopping with Cassie Fitzgerald.

      ‘See, I told you I was a champion shopper,’ Cassie said as she pushed onto the bench seat and settled the bags of presents she’d purchased under the dinner table, the sense of accomplishment making her feel more than a little smug.

      She folded her arms and waited for Jace to take the seat opposite. She had a lot to be satisfied about. Not only had she got all her shopping done in under an hour, she’d also managed to awaken Jace to the true joys of retail therapy. Despite all his earlier protestations, she thought he’d actually quite enjoyed the experience. She’d asked his opinion so many times that after a while he’d been forced to get involved. And by the time they’d got to Selfridges, instead of the usual monosyllabic answers, they’d had a very useful discussion about the merits of different brands of men’s sportswear. She’d wanted to get Nessa’s fiancé Terrence something really good to train in, but didn’t know a thing about tracksuit brands—what was in at the moment and what wasn’t—and Jace had been surprisingly informative. She doubted he would appreciate her pointing that out now though. Because, while it had been touch-and-go for the last ten minutes of her allotted hour, when she’d wasted precious seconds agonising over whether to get Nessa the amethyst pendant or the faux sapphire, Jace had lost the bet. And he didn’t seem to be a very good loser.

      Jace slid the tray holding the steaming pastrami on rye sandwiches they’d purchased at the counter, and sent her a disgruntled look. ‘Don’t rub it in, Fitzgerald. If I’d known you were going to cheat, I would never have made the bet.’

      ‘How did I cheat?’ she exclaimed, having to fake her outrage, as she was enjoying her victory too much.

      ‘That list.’ He sat down and lifted the plates off the tray. ‘I didn’t know you’d been in training for weeks. If I had …’ His voice trailed off.

      She grinned. ‘Gee, Ryan. Sore loser much?’ she teased, unable to resist rubbing it in, just a tad.

      His lips tilted up as he slathered mustard on his pastrami. ‘Gee, Fitzgerald,’ he countered. ‘Smug winner much?’ He took a bite into the sandwich with relish. ‘Damn, that’s good,’ he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. ‘It tastes like the real thing.’

      ‘It is the real thing,’ Cassie replied as she sliced into her own sandwich to make the hearty slabs of rye bread a bit more manageable. ‘This is Selfridges Food Hall.’

      ‘I know that,’ he replied, his voice gruff, but his eyes bright with humour as he took a swig from his bottle of mineral water. ‘I’ve just wasted five minutes of my life debating the merits of Marmite chocolate, remember.’

      She gave a light little laugh. ‘Stop pretending you weren’t severely tempted to buy a bar.’

      He sent her a smouldering look that promised retribution at a later date as he took another bite.

      ‘And you should be looking on the bright side,’ she added, watching him devour his sandwich. ‘Now I’ve done all my shopping, we can devote some time to doing yours,’ she announced, hoping that he hadn’t done his already. All the guys she had ever known did the majority of their Christmas shopping at the last second. ‘You have a champion shopper at your disposal to help. And I know Selfridges and Oxford Street like the back of my hand. All you have to do is tell me who the person is, what they like and don’t like and I’ll be able to locate the perfect present within a mile radius, I guarantee it,’ she said, her enthusiasm increasing. Seeing whom he bought gifts for would provide a fascinating insight into his private life without her having to probe. ‘Really, I should charge for my services,’ she finished.

      She picked up her sandwich and took a bite as he swallowed the last of his down. He took another swig of his water, swiped the spot of mustard from the corner of his lips, then dumped his napkin on the empty plate, a considering look in her eyes.

      ‘No need,’ he said. ‘I don’t have any shopping.’

      She gulped the bite of her sandwich down, trying not to be too disappointed by the news. ‘That’s a first. I’ve never met a man who has all his Christmas shopping done before Christmas Eve.’

      ‘I