A Stocking Full of Romance. Brigid Coady

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      A Stocking Full of Romance

      Brigid Coady

      A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

      www.harpercollins.co.uk

      Contents

       Brigid Coady

       Dedication

       All I Want for Christmas

       Secret Santa

       The Mystery of the Missing Mistletoe

       Three Wise Men

       Auld Lang Syne

       Ski Guy

       Love Romance?

       About HarperImpulse

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

       Brigid Coady

      I was born in the UK but raised round the world and spent most of my childhood with my nose in a book. When I was seven I wrote my first proper story about a magic puddle that flipped up to reveal a secret world underground.

      I’m now a non-practicing engineer who works in project management. I write romance and young adult stories. I’ve been a voice-over and radio continuity artist. I love country music and used to have my own radio show. My boyfriend says I have an unhealthy obsession with Kenny Chesney. I live in London.

      In memory of Gay, John and Archie Taylor. For all the fun, friendship and ‘showponying’. All our love, always.

       All I Want for Christmas

      Shivering, I stand in front of the raucous tinsel strewn pub. Shoppers bump and jostle me as they carry bags of Christmas shopping. It’s only five o’clock, but it is already dark and office workers, tipsy from riotous Christmas lunches, are crowded round the bar.

      Somewhere in there, hidden by the baubles and the Santa hats, is my old flame.

      “You’ll end up marrying him,” my co-worker, Nusrat said as I left the office.

      As if.

      Six years, his marriage and my many boyfriends stand between us. No, this is just a drink between old friends, a chance to reminisce.

      I take a deep breath and push open the pub door. The group of girls near the door are singing along to ‘Last Christmas’, the smell of beer, wine and spices fills the air. The heat of a log fire blazing in some corner, combined with the warmth of a hundred bodies makes for a sweaty fug. I pull my scarf away from my neck.

      Craning my head, I start to look for him. Will I recognise him? Pushing through the crowd near the bar, I look into each small snug. Nothing. Has he stood me up? I do one slow circuit of the bar, I can’t see him. My shoulders slump. All that worry for nothing, the sleepless night, the bitten nails.

      I take one last look around the back of the pub, and a girl in front of me shifts. A familiar profile comes in view. He’s perched on a bar stool near a ledge at the back. He doesn’t wear his glasses anymore. That is why I missed him. He’s thinner, older. I check my reaction. Good, it is all within friendly parameters. This will be fine.

      I push back through the crowd, my fingers digging into my palms.

      “Hey,” I reach up and touch his shoulder.

      Turning, his smile is big, welcoming. I had forgotten the silver blue of his eyes.

      “Hello!” he bounces off the stool and hugs me. And as I put my arms round him, my body remembers his shape. The broad body, the slim hips. My face fits perfectly in the space between his neck and shoulder.

      We pull apart and stand grinning at each other. The picture of him in my head is now superimposed on the reality of him here, now. Then they waver and click into place. He is himself. Old Flame. This will be fine, I tell myself.

      “Here, I got us a space.” He says as I say “Sorry I’m late!”

      He gestures for me to take his seat and helps me perch on it. Our heads are now at the same level.

      I take a deep breath, my hands spread on the ledge next to me as I brace myself to launch into sparkling conversation, but he gets there before me.

      “Can I get you a drink?” And as he says it he brushes his index finger across mine. I stare at my hand and his, breath caught. With that one touch, the memories of us leak from the dark corners of my mind where I’ve hidden them.

      There is the whisper of a snowy kiss, with our cold noses touching. Then there is the sound of hail on a windowsill and my head on his shoulder. Finally, I remember a hot humid night in Paris, naked in bed. The memories swirl around my head like ghosts.

      “A drink?” he asks again.

      “Wine, white.” I manage to say.

      “Still Sauvignon Blanc?” he asks and I nod.

      Six years and he hasn’t forgotten.

      I watch him walk to the bar, I hadn’t realised that I remembered his walk. There is a bounce to his step, his head up, taking everything in. He disappears between an elf and a Mrs Santa. I hear Bing Crosby singing about ‘White Christmas’.

      This doesn’t feel like old friends anymore.

      Maybe I should go?

      Before I make up my mind, he is back with the drinks. My hand shakes as I take the wine glass.

      “Cheers,” he says.

      Our glasses clink. I take a huge mouthful of wine to chase away the memories. But the alcohol washes through my mind and releases a floodgate of feelings. They travel through me to the tips of my fingers and the roots of my hair. I’m crackling with us.

      And we talk. We fill in six years’ worth of tales. He tells me of his marriage and how it ended. I tell him of the boyfriends that have come and gone. We’re back in synch, we talk until the Santas, and Elves, the shoppers and the office workers have gone. Tinsel droops above us and Slade is wishing us a Merry Christmas.

      “Can I walk you home?” he asks as we stand facing each other outside the pub.

      “Of course.” I tuck my hand in his arm and keep close for warmth.

      My legs match his in rhythm and stride, like a long ago dance that I suddenly remember the steps to.

      And we wander the streets, under sparkling lights that pick out cartoon characters, pass windows