Christmas at Butterfly Cove: A delightfully feel-good festive romance!. Sarah Bennett

out behind the neatly trimmed hedges of number thirty-two. Neighbours her father had never met beyond the nod of a head took turns ringing the bell, offering a few words of bland comfort and a plate of something. No doubt the presence of one of the long-missing daughters of the house had set tongues wagging behind the twitching net curtains. Not that Nee could have cared less what they had to say for themselves.

      She paused before the door to squint at the blurred outline of a figure through the privacy glass set in the wood, but the frosted ridges made it impossible to discern much. Taking a deep, composing breath, Nee fixed the politest smile she could muster and turned the latch. Bold as brass, and twice as bloody gorgeous, the last person she’d expected to see gave her a lopsided grin. ‘Hello, Mrs Spenser.’

      Luke? He looked well; still carrying the summer tan he must have picked up at Butterfly Cove. The sun looked to have added a few paler highlights to his wayward blond curls, but the melting heat in his dark-brown eyes was as familiar as ever. Never one to consider herself the fainting type, Nee had to grip the edge of the doorframe until her knuckles turned white to stop herself from sliding to the floor. ‘You… you’re here?’

      ‘I heard about your mum,’ he said, as though that explained anything at all.

      His breath condensed in the air and she became aware of the November chill leeching in through the open door. Acting on autopilot, she stepped to the side. ‘You’d better come in.’

      Catching a hint of the clean, sharp scent of his aftershave as he passed her, she closed her eyes against a sudden rush of memories. Luke, nuzzling the spot just beneath her ear as he whispered some private jest to her. The untidy sprawl of his limbs taking up more than his share of the bed. The wink he’d given her when they broke for air after sharing their first kiss in an alley next to The George, less than an hour after setting eyes on each other.

      The ground shifted beneath her, the way it always did when he was near, and the brittle shell she’d wrapped herself in over the past few weeks spider-webbed with cracks. A painful knot formed at the top of her breastbone and she tried to swallow it down, knowing if she let it out she’d start crying. And maybe never stop.

      A gentle brush against her cheek forced her to open her eyes as Luke cupped her cheek. ‘I’m only here to help, nothing else, okay?’ He sounded so sincere, so forthright and honest, so Luke, she wanted nothing more than to tumble headlong into the comfort he offered.

      ‘I need you.’ Her lips could barely form the words, but it was enough. He reached past her to quietly close the door and then he was there – all reassuring warmth and that big, solid frame that seemed shaped to perfectly enfold her own. A hint of the crisp, winter air clung to the soft wool of his coat beneath her cheek and she breathed deeply. The scent of disinfected death that had infused every breath for what felt like weeks vanished in that first fresh inhalation.

      She’d tried so hard to hold it all together, to tell herself she owed Vivian no tears, no regrets. God, she’d become so good at lying to herself about everything. The spiderweb of cracks shattered and the first wave of grief burst through, would have taken her to the floor had he not been there to hold her up. But he was there. How, why, she didn’t know, didn’t care. Her world narrowed down to one square foot of pale-green carpet beneath her feet and the feel of him against her.

      Noises came from her throat, ugly and raw, as she cried. And, God, she cried. For the little girl who’d never known a mother’s proper love; for the loss of her art, snuffed out by the bitter realities of life; for all the promises the man holding her embodied that she’d discarded. Luke said nothing – just wrapped her in his arms and absorbed it all, standing sure.

      A quiet cough, the familiar noise of her father clearing his throat, sounded nearby, and she would have raised her head had Luke not stroked his hand over her hair and urged her closer against him. ‘Hello, Mr Thorpe,’ he said, his deep voice vibrating under her ear. ‘I was very sorry to hear about your wife’s passing. I thought you both might need some help over the coming days.’

      ‘That’s very kind of you, Luke. I must say it’s good to see you, again. Nee’s been doing a wonderful job of sorting things out, but another pair of hands certainly won’t go amiss. It… it wasn’t entirely unexpected, but it’s still difficult.’ There wasn’t even a ripple of surprise in her father’s voice, like her estranged husband turning up out of the blue was the most natural thing in the world. That familiar cough of his came again. ‘Right, well, I think I’ll put the kettle on. Will you have something, Luke?’

      ‘Cup of coffee would be brilliant, thanks, Mr Thorpe.’

      ‘I think we’re past time for you to call me George. Coffee’s only instant, I’m afraid, we’ve run out of pods for the machine. Lots of visitors, you see. Everyone’s been very kind. Come on through to the kitchen when you’re both ready.’

      Laughter sputtered through her tears at their exchange of mundane pleasantries, as if she wasn’t falling to noisy pieces in front of them. She grabbed for the laugh, tried to hold on to it and bring herself back under control, but now acknowledged the grief wouldn’t be denied. Luke pressed a kiss to the top of her head. ‘Take all the time you need.’ She nodded, all she could manage before the tears swamped her again.

      When she finally felt able to lift her face from the now-sodden front of his coat, she’d lost track of time. Limp, exhausted, like she’d cried for a week. Luke tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, an infinitely tender gesture, but she couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. Silence hung between them as he waited her out, broken only by the faint strains of her father whistling along to some classical tune on the radio. China rattled against wood, followed by the metallic clink of cutlery. If her dad was laying the table still, they couldn’t have been standing there as long as she’d thought.

      Inertia held her in its claws. She should move, step back and at least give Luke a chance to take his coat off. But if she broke the moment, she’d have to deal with all the bitter truths she’d just wept out on his shoulder. That was the trouble with life. It didn’t wait for you to catch your breath, didn’t care if you were ready or not, it just kept coming at you. Move. Drop your arms. Take a step back. Her fingers clung stubbornly to the back of his coat, her feet glued to the spot.

      A loud grumble rolled from his midriff, and Luke chuckled as he continued to smooth his hands up and down her back. ‘My stomach smells whatever your dad’s toasting.’

      ‘Probably crumpets.’ She’d made a trip to the supermarket that morning, anything to get out of the house for a little while. They hadn’t needed much—mostly refills for the coffee machine, which was the one thing she’d forgotten, of course—so she’d wandered aimlessly up and down the aisles grabbing random things that wouldn’t take much thought and even less effort to prepare. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had crumpets, but they’d appealed to her enough to end up in the trolley.

      He gave an exaggerated groan. ‘Have pity on a man. Next you’ll be telling me there’s strawberry jam to put on them.’

      ‘You always had such a sweet tooth.’ She saw him in her mind’s eye, covers pooled at his waist, Sunday papers strewn across the bed as he munched his way through a mountain of jammy toast and endless cups of coffee. His breath whispered against her cheek, and it would be so easy to turn her head, to seek out his lips and pretend the past year had been an aberration. But this wasn’t one of those time-slip stories. She couldn’t wish herself back to another point in time and tread a different path.

      Tasting the bitterness of that truth on the back of her tongue, she stepped back. His arms lingered, a brief resistance to her attempt to retreat before he let her go. And so he should. Luke might be here with the best of intentions, but she didn’t deserve the easy comfort of his presence. People didn’t just forgive and forget, and even if he believed he was different in that, she wasn’t the hopeful girl he’d fallen in love with. ‘Let me take your coat, and we’ll see what Dad’s rustled together for tea.’

      He ducked his head, trying to catch her eye, but she fixed her gaze at a point over his shoulder as she