Christmas Wishes, Mistletoe Kisses. Fiona Harper

up again, when the conditions are right.’ He stood looking at her for a few seconds as she stared out into the gardens. ‘Well, I’ve got what I came for. I’ll be out of your hair now—as promised. I did say I was one not to break a promise, didn’t I?’

      He took a few long strides past her, breathed out and opened the greenhouse door. He was halfway across the lawn before she shouted after him.

      ‘Then promise to come again.’

      CHAPTER THREE

      BEN didn’t want to turn round. He’d told himself he wouldn’t respond this time. After all, he’d had enough of high-maintenance women. But…

      She stood on the lawn, watching him, her hair whipped across her face by another surly gust of wind. Once again, her eyes held him captive. Not for their dark perfection, but because something deep inside them seemed to be pleading with him. His friends had told him he was a sucker for a lady in distress, and he’d always denied it, but he had the awful feeling they might just be right.

      She tugged a strand of chocolate-brown hair out of her mouth. ‘The garden. It does need looking after. You’re right. It would be a shame to…’

      Once again, the eyes pleaded. He should have a sign made, reading ‘sucker,’ and just slap it on his forehead.

      He’d do it. But not for her—for Laura. Just until he was sure this new owner was going to care for the place properly. And then he’d pass it on to one of his landscaping teams and charge her handsomely for the privilege. After all, he reminded himself, life was complicated enough already without looking after somebody else’s garden.

      Louise watched him go. She kept watching until long after his tall frame disappeared round the side of the house into a tangle of grass and shrubs and trees that were now, technically, her back garden. Not that she’d had the courage to explore it fully yet.

      She forced herself to turn away and look back at the greenhouse.

      Was she mad? Quite possibly.

      In all seriousness, she’d just given a man she knew nothing about permission to invade her territory on a regular basis. Yet…there’d been something so preposterously truthful about his story and so refreshingly straightforward about his manner that she’d swallowed it whole. Next time she’d have to frisk him for a long-lens camera and a dictaphone, just in case.

      She’d left the greenhouse door open. Slowly, she closed the distance to the heavy Victorian glazed door, with its beautiful brass handle and peeling off-white paint. On a whim, she stepped inside before she closed the door and stood for a few moments in the warm dampness. It smelled good in here, of earth and still air, but very real. She liked real.

      The assorted plants lining the shelves by the windows really were quite exquisite. She’d never seen anything like them. Venus fly-traps sat next to frilly, sticky-looking things in shades of pink and purple. Then there were ones with large waxy leaves and bulbous pitchers the colour of ripe bruises. She walked over to the little plant that the gardener—Ben?—was that his name?—had saved. A thin green flute rose vertically, widening at the top with a frilly bit on top that looked a bit like a lid.

      She felt an affinity with this little plant, recently uprooted, thin, fragile. Now in a foreign climate, reaching hungrily heavenwards with an appetite that might never be satisfied. She reached out and touched the damp soil at its base. It did feel good. She pulled her hand away, but didn’t wipe it on the back of her jeans.

      Near the door were the stubby brown plants that had started to hibernate. Just like her. All those years with Toby now seemed like a time half-asleep. Her mind wandered to a photo of a famous actress that had graced the pages of all the gossip magazines a few years ago. She’d been caught whooping for joy when the papers finalising her divorce had arrived. Since then she’d lost twenty pounds, received two Oscars and had been seen with a string of hot-looking younger men.

      Shouldn’t this be the time when she blossomed, came into her own? But it wasn’t happening. She still felt dead inside.

      Abruptly, she exited the greenhouse, closed the door behind her and marched back down the path to her new home. Once the house was sorted, she’d feel better. Only a few more days until the furniture arrived. Until then she could visit Dartmouth, the bustling town just a bit further down the river, and visit some of the art galleries she’d seen advertised. And she could find out what Jack would need when he started at the local school after the half-term holiday.

      Yes, she’d definitely feel better when Jack could come here permanently. That was why she was feeling all at sixes and sevens. And he couldn’t live here with a bedroom full of dust and cobwebs. He’d be here on the twenty-seventh of October—less than two weeks away. She clapped her hands together and smiled as she took a detour round the back of the house and entered through the back door. She had work to do.

      Almost a fortnight later, Louise was putting the finishing touches to Jack’s room. She looked at her watch. It was almost one o’clock, but she couldn’t even contemplate eating anything. Only five more hours and Jack would be here. Her eyes filled with tears as she fluffed the duvet and smoothed it out, making sure it was perfect—not bunched up in the corners or with an empty bit flapping at one end.

      It looked so cosy when she had finished that she flumped down on top of the blue and white checked cover and buried her head in the pillow.

      Three weeks had been too long to go without seeing her son. She sighed. It had been the longest they had ever been apart. Toby had used to moan that she didn’t travel with him any more, and maybe that had been part of the reason their marriage had crumbled. Even strong relationships were put under pressure when the couple spent weeks at a time apart. But how could she leave Jack? He was everything. He always would be everything.

      It wouldn’t have been fair to uproot him and ask him to change schools before the half-term break. She snuggled even further into the pillow, wishing it smelled of more than just clean laundry.

      Toby had agreed—thank goodness—to let Jack live with her, even though they had joint custody. Her ex was away filming so often that it wouldn’t have been fair to Jack to leave him at her former home in Gloucestershire with just a nanny for company. Even Toby had seen the sense in that.

      So Jack would be with his father on school holidays and alternate weekends. And, just to appease Toby and make sure that he didn’t change his mind, she’d consented to let him take Jack to stay in their—make that Toby’s—London flat for the half-term week.

      But tonight Jack would be coming to Whitehaven. He’d be here.

      She turned to lie on her back and stared at the ceiling. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. Mostly she just ached.

      Minutes, maybe even half an hour, drifted past as Louise hugged herself and watched the light on the freshly painted ceiling change as the October wind bullied the clouds across the sky. Eventually, she dragged herself off the bed and sloped towards the window.

      Something shiny glinted in the bushes and instantly her back was pressed against the wall, every muscle tense. After five seconds, she made herself breathe out. Nosing very carefully round the architrave, so only half of an eye and the side of her face would be visible from outside, she searched for another flash of light.

      No-good, money-grabbing photographers! And trust one to turn up on the day Jack was due here. If she caught the…amoeba, she’d slap a lawsuit on him so fast his digital camera would fry.

      In her effort to remain hidden, she only had a partial view of the front lawn. She remained motionless for some time, until her left leg started to cramp and twitch and then, only when she was very sure nobody was in her line of sight, did she lean out a little further.

      Another glint! There!

      Once again, she found herself flattened against the wall. But this time she let out a groan and slapped herself on the forehead. It wasn’t a telephoto lens but a big shiny spade that had reflected the light. Ben the gardener-guy’s spade. It was Sunday afternoon and he