Christmas on the Little Cornish Isles: The Driftwood Inn. Phillipa Ashley

scooped the cubes into a pint glass. ‘Where’s the accent from? Sydney?’ she teased.

      He pulled a face. ‘You have to be joking. Wouldn’t be seen dead within a hundred miles of the place.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Try again.’

      ‘Adelaide?’ said Maisie, testing him to see how much of their conversation he remembered. She’d joked that her knowledge of Aussie cities was confined to having to listen to endless hours of Test Match Special droning out from her dad’s radio.

      He winced. ‘Too hot for me and I’m not impressed by the wine. I’m from Melbourne. Sunshine, penguins and tennis.’

      ‘And Fosters,’ Maisie shot back.

      ‘Hey, there has to be a downside to every dream location.’

      Maisie rested his glass on the drip mat but he didn’t pick it up. Their eyes met over the top of the bar. The look was at his instigation so she felt duty bound, as the hostess, to return it, even if gazing into those roguish blue eyes had the same effect on her as it had the first time. ‘I bet no one gets the better of you, Maisie Samson,’ he said so quietly that even she could barely hear.

      She snapped out of her momentary trance. ‘How do you know my name? Has the Gull Island grapevine been at it again?’ she said, wondering if he’d made enquiries about her after she’d hurried away from him. She knew now why she’d run away. Having him here in the flesh in front of her brought all those emotions flooding back: desire, lust, longing. Those feelings had overwhelmed her. It was too soon to feel so strongly attracted to a man again … Too soon after losing Keegan. Too soon after losing everything.

      The Blond was cool as a cucumber. He grinned and flipped his thumb over his shoulder. ‘No grapevine. It’s over the door.’

      ‘That could have been my mum’s name.’ In fact, her father’s name had hung there until she’d taken over the new licence earlier in the year.

      ‘What’s your mum’s name?’

      ‘Hazel.’

      ‘Nah. You’re no Hazel.’

      ‘What do you mean, “I’m no Hazel”?’ said Maisie, fascinated despite the fact that a couple of the regulars had started to pay attention to her conversation with the Blond.

      Almost as if he sensed they were being watched, he lowered his voice but still made no move to pick up his drink. ‘There’s nothing wrong with Hazel. Sure it’s a very nice name and your mother is a lovely woman, but Maisie … hints at mischief. Trouble.’

      Maisie rolled her eyes while her heart thumped. ‘Trouble for you if you keep on with the cheesy lines.’

      ‘Cheesy?’ He laughed out loud. ‘I’m the customer here. Aren’t I always right?’

      ‘You’re forgetting the other sign.’

      ‘And what sign would that be?’

      She pointed to a small plaque hanging off a nail on the brickwork next to her. ‘The landlady’s never wrong.’

      The smile made his eyes crinkle at the corners. Close up, she could see a few more lines on his face, around the eyes and on his forehead. She reckoned he was about her own age, or a couple of years younger.

      Maisie heard the nerves in her laugh, and inwardly cursed herself. What the hell had got into her, flirting with him again and reacting like a schoolgirl? He’d probably be gone in five minutes, five seconds, in fact, when he took the Coke outside onto the terrace. She didn’t dare assume he’d sought her out and she didn’t want him to have come looking for her. She wasn’t interested in a man and definitely not one charming enough to tempt her into a passionate kiss on half an hour’s acquaintance. She felt suddenly embarrassed for appearing to fall for his blarney, so she told him the price of the drink and nodded at the door. ‘I expect you’ll want to take it outside, sir, and enjoy the last of the sunshine while you can.’

      She glanced over his shoulder as if she’d seen more customers enter, signalling politely but firmly she wasn’t interested in anything beyond the cash for his Coke – saving herself from rejection, even of the smallest kind, because she’d had it up to here with types like the Blond. She’d met plenty of men like him before, and that included her ex, Keegan.

      She didn’t even want to know this one’s name.

      The Blond handed over some coins and took his drink. ‘Keep the change,’ he said cheerfully, obviously fine at being passed over for an imaginary customer.

      ‘Thanks. Enjoy your day, sir.’

      Maisie popped the coins in the RNLI tin in full view of him and turned her back to polish some glasses that didn’t need it. The buzz of chatter rose as more customers walked through the front door. She turned back ready to greet them, joking about the late ‘heat wave’ that had hit Scilly.

      When she finally made it out onto the terrace again to take a break, the Blond had gone.

      The disappointment was like being plunged into cold water on a sweltering day but Maisie told herself to get a grip. She should be relieved he’d walked away this time and that she wouldn’t have to see him again. She wasn’t sure she would be so strong the next time he came across her path.

      Fortunately she was kept busy as the pre-ferry rush started. Maisie’s parents and her seasonal barman joined her behind the bar and they served up a constant stream of cold drinks, coffees and teas. Restaurant customers from the bistro ordered after-lunch liqueurs and took them onto the terrace. Maisie was pinned behind the bar, the flood of people never letting up until finally she heard the warning toot of the ferry as it moored at the jetty.

      Five minutes later, the Driftwood was as deserted as the Mary Celeste.

       Chapter 3

      Abandoned glasses, bottles, packets of crisps and dirty plates littered the tables in the bar area. Maisie wiped her forehead. Her feet throbbed and her arms ached. It had been non-stop pretty much all day apart from the few minutes she’d spent sparring with the Blond.

      ‘I need a breath of air,’ she told Debbie, the Kiwi bistro manager who was setting off on her long journey home later that week now that the season was almost over. Maisie was already wondering how she was going to manage once the staff had all left. It might be the quiet season but there was still a ton of essential maintenance work to get through on top of opening the pub over the weekends and for special events – not to mention Christmas. She’d already resigned herself to being just as busy in the off-season unless she could get some of the locals to lend a hand with the repair work and some shifts behind the bar.

      Grabbing a bottle of spring water, she slipped out of the side door for a breather after the rush, and to give herself time to think after her encounter with the Blond. The terrace still held a few people, the odd local and a party of students from the campsite finishing pints and eating their own picnics. A couple of middle-aged yachties and a few clients from a local holiday home lingered over their G&Ts. She recognised some of them and nodded.

      She considered having a sneaky fag, as she had every day at around this time since she’d given up ten years before. Then decided, again, that she could manage without one today and walked across the narrow road to the beach in front of the inn. She’d quit long ago but had lapsed back for a few weeks after Keegan had left. She’d got a grip on it again now, fingers crossed.

      As the afternoon drew to a close, the sun sank lower over the sea. Rocks glistening with bright green seaweed cast long shadows over the shell-pink sand. Maisie selected a dry perch on her favourite rock, which was tucked away out of sight of the inn but had a great view of the Petroc channel. She kicked off her Skechers and buried her toes in the cool sand. Yachts glided past, or bobbed at anchor over sandbars. On a spring tide, you