Christmas Miracle. Линда Гуднайт

      He laughed softly. ‘In this house? Of course you heard a noise! It creaks like a ship.’

      ‘I know. It settles. I love it—it sounds as if it’s relaxing. No, there was something else. It must have been you.’

      ‘I stumbled over the dog—he came to see me and I hadn’t put the light on and I kicked him by accident and he yelped—and, before you ask, he’s fine. I nudged him, really, but he seemed a bit upset by it, so I sat with him.’

      ‘Oh, I’m so sorry—he does get underfoot and—well, I think he was kicked as a puppy. Has he forgiven you?’

      The soft sound of Jake’s laughter curled round her again, warming her. ‘I think so. He’s been on my lap.’

      ‘Ah. Sounds like it, then.’ She hesitated, wondering if she should leave him to it and go back to bed, but sensing that there was something wrong, something more than he was telling her. ‘How’s the fire?’

      ‘OK. I think it could do with more wood.’

      ‘I’ll get some.’

      She went out of the back door and brought in an armful of logs, putting on the kitchen light as she went, and she left it on when she came back, enough to see by but hopefully not enough to see just how tired her pyjamas really were, and the spill of yellow light made the room seem cosy and intimate.

      Which was absurd, considering its size, but everything was in scale and so it didn’t seem big, just—safe.

      She put the logs in the basket and opened the fire, throwing some in, and as the flames leapt up she went to shut it but he stopped her.

      ‘Leave it open. It’s nice to sit and stare into the flames. It helps—’

      Helps? Helps what? she wanted to ask, but she couldn’t, somehow, so she knelt there on the hearthrug in the warmth of the flames, with Rufus snuggled against her side, his skinny, feathery tail wafting against her, and waited.

      But Jake didn’t say any more, just sighed and dropped his head back against the chair and closed his eyes. She could see that his fingers were curled around a glass, and on the table behind him was a bottle. The whisky?

      ‘What?’

      She jumped guiltily. ‘Nothing.’

      He snorted. ‘It’s never nothing with women. Yes, it’s the whisky. No, it doesn’t help.’

      ‘Jake—’

      ‘No. Leave it, Amelia. Please. If you want to do something useful, you could make us a cup of tea.’

      ‘How about a hot milky drink?’

      ‘I’m not five.’

      ‘No, but you’re tired, you’re hurt and you said you’d had enough caffeine today—it might help you sleep.’

      ‘Tea,’ he said implacably.

      She shrugged and got to her feet, padded back through to the kitchen and put the kettle on, turning in time to see him drain his glass and set it down on the table. He glanced up and met her eyes, and sighed.

      ‘I’ve only had one. I’m not an alcoholic, Amelia.’

      ‘I never suggested you were!’ she said, appalled that he’d think she was criticising when actually she’d simply been concerned for his health and well-being.

      ‘So stop looking at me as if you’re the Archangel Gabriel and I’m going off the rails!’

      She gave a soft chuckle and took two mugs out of the cupboard. ‘I’m the last person to criticise anyone for life choices. I’m homeless, for heavens’ sake! And I’ve got three children, only one of whom was planned, and I’m unemployed and my life’s a total mess, so pardon me if I pick you up on that one! I just wondered …’

      ‘Wondered what? Why I’m such a miserable bastard?’

      ‘Are you? Miserable, I mean? Kate thought—’ She broke off, not wanting him to think Kate had been discussing him, but it was too late, and one eyebrow climbed autocratically.

      ‘Kate thought—?’ he prompted.

      ‘You were just a loner. You are, I mean. A loner.’

      ‘And what do you think, little Miss Fixit?’

      She swallowed. ‘I think you’re sad, and lonely. She said you’re very private, but I think that’s because it all hurts too much to talk about.’

      His face lost all expression, and he turned back to the fire, the only sign of movement from him the flex of the muscle in his jaw. ‘Why don’t you forget the amateur psychology and concentrate on making the tea?’ he said, his voice devoid of emotion, but she could still see that tic in his jaw, the rhythmic bunching of the muscle, and she didn’t know whether to persevere or give up, because she sensed it might all be a bit of a Pandora’s box and, once opened, she might well regret all the things that came out.

      So she made the tea, and took it through and sat beside the fire in what started as a stiff and unyielding silence and became in the end a wary truce.

      He was the first to break the silence.

      ‘I don’t suppose you’ve made the shopping list?’

      She shook her head. ‘Not yet. I could do it now.’

      ‘No, don’t worry. We can do it over breakfast. I have no doubt that, no matter how little sleep we may have had, the kids will be up at the crack of dawn raring to go, so there’ll be plenty of time.’

      She laughed a little unsteadily, feeling the tension drain out of her at his words. ‘I’m sure.’ She got to her feet and held out her hand for his mug, then was surprised when he reached up his left hand, the one in the cast, and took her fingers in his.

      ‘Ignore me, Amelia. I’ll get over it. I’ll be fine tomorrow.’

      She nodded, not understanding really, because how could she? But she let it go, for now at least, and she squeezed his fingers gently and then let go, and he dropped his arm and held out the mug.

      ‘Thanks for the tea. It was nice.’

      The tea? Or having someone to sit and drink it with?

      He didn’t say, and she wasn’t asking, but one thing she knew about this man, whatever Kate might say to the contrary—he wasn’t a loner.

      ‘My pleasure,’ she murmured and, putting the mugs in the sink, she closed the doors of the fire and shut it down again. With a murmured, ‘Good night,’ she went upstairs to bed, but she didn’t sleep until she heard the soft creak of the stairs and the little click as his bedroom door closed.

      Then she let out the breath she’d been holding and slipped into a troubled and uneasy sleep.

       CHAPTER FIVE

      IT WAS the first time in years he’d been round a supermarket, and Christmas Eve probably wasn’t the day to start—not when they even had to queue to get into the car park, and by the time they’d found a space Jake was beginning to wonder why on earth he’d suggested it.

      It was going to be a nightmare, he knew it, rammed to the roof with festive goodies and wall-to-wall Christmas jingles and people in silly hats—he was dreading it, and it didn’t disappoint.

      The infuriatingly jolly little tunes on the in-store speakers were constantly being interrupted with calls for multi-skilled staff to go to the checkouts—a fact that didn’t inspire hope for a quick getaway—and the place was rammed with frustrated shoppers who couldn’t reach the shelves for the trolleys jamming the aisles.

      ‘I have an idea,’ he said as they fought to get down the dairy