The Mills & Boon Christmas Wishes Collection. Maisey Yates

painters, and nodded distractedly. “OK, sure, I’ll drive myself there.”

      “Perfect. And my treat too.”

      He laughed. “Now you’re talking.”

       Chapter Eight

      “So, canapés, my darling!” Georges, the caterer, brandished a plate of tiny morsels that had my mouth watering. He was a big, round, jovial sort, with a shiny, bald head and a whopping great laugh. I’d known him ever since I was a little girl when he worked for Aunt Bessie before starting his own catering company. Unfortunately, his business was flailing, according to word around town. I felt for Georges – it would’ve been darn near impossible to make a living here catering. He traveled far and wide for clients out of necessity, but the costs were exorbitant and ate into his profit. Today he’d arrived with tasting plates for the canapés for Imelda’s party and I hoped we’d be able to work together going forward.

      “Georges, wow. I wasn’t expecting anything so inventive! These look amazing! What’s this?” I pointed to a shot glass filled with yellow soup, and topped with some kind of mini bread.

      “That’s a saffron and prawn bisque with shrimp toast. Very popular. And this…” He pointed to a Chinese soupspoon filled with fragrant meat and fresh herbs. “…Is Peking duck-inspired. All of these are miniature versions of gourmet meals. There’s not a prawn cocktail or chicken skewer in sight!”

      I let out a volley of laughter. Poor Georges – how I’d underestimated him. “Sorry, Georges. It was unforgiveable, what I said. I thought…”

      “You thought because we live in a backwater my culinary skills were also stuck in the nineties. It’s OK. I get it.” His rotund body shimmied as he laughed. “Let’s take a look at the kitchen,” Georges said, bundling up our napkins.

      I gathered up the tasting plates and followed behind.

      “There’s one problem, Georges. The kitchen is not exactly finished. Or…” I gulped. “…Even started yet. But it will be. Trust me, by party time you’ll have yourself a shiny new spick and span space with all the modern gadgets you could ask for.” I only hoped that was true. Our craftsman was dillydallying and time was running out. We wandered into the kitchen, Georges casting a keen eye over the old cooktop.

      He folded his arms over his chef whites and his face paled to match. “When are they starting it?”

      “Soon,” I said. “Very soon.”

      Georges sighed good-naturedly and shook my hand, silently agreeing on a partnership I hoped would last us decades. “I can see this being the start of a beautiful friendship.” He winked and laughed that deep, belly cackle of his. “Let’s just hope I don’t have to cook in this…”

      The next day I bounced out of bed and went to my office, taking a pot of coffee big enough to drown in, planning to tick off my to-do list. I updated social media for the Lodge, sharing more photos, and checking the insights to see how the pages were growing. I had an enquiry about a baby shower, which I replied to, sending examples of menus and room styles and sizes. I tried not to worry about the salons being finished on time, and instead focused on responding enthusiastically about Cedarwood’s charms. It was only an enquiry, not a booking, so I could panic later if they wanted to go ahead.

      Next on the list was gathering interest for the wedding expo. I uploaded some stunning black and white shots of the chapel from a distance. Its rustic façade would make a great backdrop for professional wedding photos. I searched for bridal websites and took out some paid advertisements, describing Cedarwood Lodge and its amenities. Perhaps the start of December would give me enough time to organize the expo? Would that be enough to get the chapel fixed, and furnished? I wrote furiously about all the things I’d need to do in order for it to happen. I paused again, wishing Amory was here to help. We usually worked together on weddings and big events, and I missed brainstorming with her. Whenever I erred on the side of caution, she pushed me over that precipice into believing I could do it.

      Once notes were made, I designed an e-newsletter and sent it to my contact list with a subscription link to sign up.

      There was a knock at the door, and Kai stuck his head in. “You’re early,” I said, stating the obvious – he was always ahead of schedule.

      “I’ve always been an early riser, can’t help it. Usually I go surfing before work, but there’s no surf here, and the lake is a little flat… so here I am.” His tousled hair was windblown, and not quite as blond without weeks of sunlight to bleach it.

      “The lake?” I laughed, picturing Kai trying to surf on the still water on this chilly autumn morning. In summer it would be great for kayaks, paddle boarders, kids with boogie boards… It wouldn’t be long now before it froze. Perhaps we’d need to invest in ice skates?

      “Well, up you get!” he said.

      “Up for what?” I pulled my jacket tightly around me as the draught blew in from the open doorway.

      He tutted, but his eyes twinkled mischievously. The look spoke volumes. “Time to head up the mountain before the workday starts in earnest.”

      I furrowed my brow. “It’s not even seven in the morning, Kai. It’s freezing out.” Winter was creeping closer every day, the sky dark, somber. And I did not climb mountains, not for anything. I was made for high heels not hiking boots.

      “Then we’ll walk faster. Come on…” He took my hand, leaving me no choice but to follow; he snagged my scarf from the hook and passed it back to me. Still, I tried to extricate myself with excuses.

      “Kai, it’s very sweet of you to invite me, but I’m not really a fan of exercise. You go, and I’ll have a nice hot coffee ready for you when you return. I’ve got so much work to do!”

      “No dice. Get going.” He stood behind me with his palms against my back, pushing me like a child, before grabbing my hand and starting out in a jog. The shock of cold air on my face, and running, was almost too much to bear.

      It wasn’t until we were at the foot of the mountains that I noticed he still held my hand. For warmth, I surmised. Hailing from a sunny climate, he probably felt the cold more than me – and it was brisk so early in the morning.

      “Nothing like starting the day with some blood-pumping activity. You’re lucky to live here, Clio. This is my idea of heaven. The mountains, the lake, the steep bluff in the distance. So many adventures to be had.” His voice carried up the mountain but it was all I could do to keep up. He dashed ahead and dragged me along.

      My lungs burned following his hectic pace. “You’re like a mountain goat!” My body was not made for running, had I mentioned that?

      “Wait until you see the sun from up here. It’ll be worth it.”

      “I much prefer the little glow of yellow from my office lamp.” Why on earth did people do this? My calf muscles froze in protest.

      “Didn’t you ever head to the summit when you were younger?” He was annoyingly chipper. And wholly with breath. I pulled my hand from his grasp and doubled over, hands to hips. I was going to die, I was sure of it.

      Once I’d caught some semblance of breath I said, “No, I didn’t climb up to the summit! But I’ve seen the postcards, that’s enough! Micah had his sporty friends for insane challenges like that, while I waited in the comfort of the living room with the heater on.”

      The earth was soft and velvety from dew, and the smell of ozone was thick in the air.

      Kai grinned. “This is what you need, Clio. To save you from sleepless nights, and carrying around that anxiety you try your best to hide.”

      How did he know I couldn’t sleep? “I don’t know what you mean.” I couldn’t hide the haughtiness in my voice. “As if trudging up a wet and slippery mountain could ease