The Secret Christmas Bookshop (The Secret Bookshop #1)

Chapter Eighteen

S ophie couldn’t stand it any longer.

Jumbled thoughts ran on a wobbly loop through her head: Jazz’s comments about how important it was not to act selfishly; Harry’s lack of communication; the fact that The Secret Bookshop had sent Winnie a book and she didn’t even care about finding out who was behind it, when Sophie had been acting like some sort of mad private investigator to try and discover the culprit …

Had she got everything wrong? The one thing that was going right was the festival. Her ideas were coming together; they were accumulating the supplies, suppliers and permits they needed, and it would be a triumph as long as Harry didn’t give up on her. She needed to make sure that didn’t happen.

The weather was grey and drab, and she could count on the fingers of one hand the number of people who had come into Hartley Country Apparel that morning, even though she’d been making an extra effort promoting her business on social media. After the last few days’ flurry of customers, the quiet hours just added to her frustration.

‘I’ll cover for you this afternoon,’ Fiona said. ‘If you can cover on Monday morning.’

Sophie looked at her in surprise. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely. You’re bubbling over with nervous energy, so go and do whatever it is you need to do, and I’ll man the notebook stand.’

‘Thanks.’ She went to get her coat. ‘Doing anything fun on Monday?’

‘Jazz and I are decorating her room. She’s got a day off from the hotel, and last night she mentioned how much she loved the dark blue feature wall in the hotel’s dining room.’ Fiona smiled. ‘I asked if she’d like something like that, and she said she couldn’t possibly ask me to change the decor for her, but I told her that of course we could. So I think, maybe, she wants to stay for a little while.’

‘That’s great.’ Sophie wondered if Jazz was really serious about staying, but then realized she was just projecting her own insecurities, when Jazz had already proved she was much braver than Sophie had managed to be in thirty-seven years.

‘Taking a chance on her was the right thing to do.’

‘Giving someone a chance is always the right thing to do,’ Sophie said with a smile. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Have a good afternoon.’ Fiona waved goodbye, and Sophie collected Clifton, stepped out into the damp, cold air, and began walking in the direction of Mistingham Manor.

The treelined driveway looked sinister and imposing in the gloom, the grey stone manor looming ahead, and Sophie wondered how different it would be when Harry had installed spotlights all the way along here, like he’d told her he was going to. Would it seem more welcoming on winter days like this?

She crunched up the driveway, Clifton scampering at her side, and paused when she was in front of the house. There was no welcoming glow today, the windows like dark, eyeless sockets, and she felt a sudden prickle of foreboding. She walked up to the door and saw that it was open a crack, the Christmas wreath moving gently in the breeze.

‘Hello?’ she called, and a couple of pigeons flew into the sky from their tree perches nearby. ‘Anyone here?’

She was met with silence, so she stepped into the large hall. It was cold since the door had been left open, the fireplace still and dark. ‘Harry?’ she called. ‘May?’

There was no reply, no sound of a door opening deeper within the house.

‘Is anyone at home?’ she shouted, louder now, her words echoing off the walls.

And then she heard barking, loud and vigorous, from behind her – from outside. She pushed back through the front door, onto the wide step, and surveyed the grounds: the clusters of stark trees, the grass running towards the cliffs, the sea a hazy line on the horizon. She took a couple of steps, and then Darkness appeared through the trees, barking non-stop, followed by Terror. They raced up to her and Clifton, danced in circles around them, and Sophie could tell, from the way they were prancing and pawing at her, that something was wrong.

‘What is it?’ Her sense of foreboding grew, and when the dogs skittered towards the lawn, looking back at her every couple of seconds, she followed. The grass was squelchy underfoot from the recent rain, and she slid a couple of times as she strode across it. The dogs had reached the far left of the lawn, and Sophie saw, behind a thin copse of young trees, the dull, flat surface of a lake. It was small, clearly man-made, with a low fence around it. She picked up her pace as the dogs wove through the trees.

‘Harry?’ she called. ‘Are you here?’

At first there was nothing, just the rhythmic sound of the far-off waves crunching on the sand, then she heard a distant, shouted, ‘Hello?’

Relief sliced through her and she started jogging, following the dogs through the trees, past the crumbling, distorted shapes of what looked like a couple of old statues and out the other side, until she was standing next to the lake, and could take in the scene in front of her.

‘Oh my God!’ For a moment, she couldn’t do anything but stare.

Harry was standing on the steep bank of the lake, one welly-clad foot inches from the water’s edge, the other further up, as if he was practising his surfing stance. He was holding tightly onto the fence, his gaze trained on the water. It was baffling, his position too precarious, and Sophie wondered why he didn’t just haul himself up the bank, back onto firmer ground. Then she took a couple more steps, and saw what the problem was.

Of course. It was Felix. He was about fifteen feet out into the lake, standing on what looked like a mound of earth – a tiny island protruding from the water, big enough only for him. His jumper – which might once have been blue – was slick with mud, and he had what looked like a thick, slimy rope wrapped around one leg. He was bleating as if his life depended on it which, at this moment, it might well do.

‘Sophie,’ Harry called, and her name on his lips, a mix of frustration and panic, shook her out of her stupor, and she hurried over to him. The dogs were already there, barking frantically.

‘Harry!’ She tied Clifton’s lead around one of the fence posts. ‘Are you OK? Are you stuck?’

This close, she could see how worried he was. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and she didn’t know how long he’d been there; how long he’d been standing like that.

‘Can you get up the bank?’ she asked.

‘I could,’ he said breathlessly, ‘but I can’t leave Felix.’

‘How did he get out there?’ She climbed over the fence so she was on his side of it, holding on to the top rung with both hands.

‘He swam,’ Harry said. ‘He swam out there and got up on that stupid little island, and any moment now he’s going to get back down and try to swim back, but he’s got weeds wrapped around his leg. If he tries to do that, he’s going to get stuck, and then he’s going to drown. Honestly. This fucking goat.’ His usual tenderness was gone, and Sophie didn’t blame him. ‘I could wade in, but the bottom is thick with vegetation, and the mud’s like quicksand.’

‘And it looks cold.’

‘Cold is an understatement.’ They snagged gazes, and she was the first to look away. His knuckles had gone white where he was gripping the fence.

‘We have to do something,’ she said, trying to think through her panic.

‘I’m going to have to go in.’ He loosened his grip.

‘No!’ She held out her hand. ‘No, Harry. You can’t.’

Felix bleated plaintively.

‘I should just leave you here!’ he called, and Felix’s bleated reply was so forlorn that, despite the seriousness of the situation, Sophie had the urge to laugh.

‘Right.’ She took off her coat.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m lighter than you. I’ve got less chance of getting stuck in the mud.’

‘No, Sophie—’

‘Besides, you can keep hold of me. I’ll wade out and get him, you make sure I don’t sink or get tangled up in weeds.’

‘This is a really bad idea.’

‘You have a better one?’ She stepped tentatively along the fence, still holding onto it, until she reached him. ‘Is your grip firm?’

‘Sort of,’ he said, ‘but I can’t feel my fingers.’ He swallowed. ‘I really don’t want you to do this.’

‘If it all goes wrong, use my phone to call for help. It’s in my coat pocket.’

Harry’s face was pale as she held onto his shoulders, then used him as an anchor while she moved carefully down the bank.

‘It’s too cold,’ he said, when she was nose to nose with him. Their breaths were mingling, but his were harsh, and she didn’t know how much longer he could hold on.

‘It’ll be fine.’ She gave him a reassuring smile, then took another step. Icy lake water filled her boot and seeped through her sock. ‘Fucking hell!’

‘Don’t do this,’ Harry said. ‘Don’t—’

‘Felix is going to try and swim back. He won’t stay out there much longer.’

‘I can’t hold on much longer,’ Harry gritted out.

‘We’ll be quick, then.’ Sophie turned away from the rise and fall of his chest, the stark look in his eyes, his clenched jaw. This, she told herself, was how she could be selfless. She could think about other people: she could help them even when it was uncomfortable for her. Gripping tightly onto Harry’s arm, she took another couple of steps into the water, until it was halfway up her shins. She gasped, the soft, oozing mud spreading beneath her feet, threatening to suck her in. Speed, she decided, was a priority.

She waded forward, clutching onto Harry’s arm, sucking in short breaths as the freezing water reached her thighs, her hips, her waist.

‘Sophie?’ Harry asked.

‘I’m O-OK,’ she stammered. ‘Nearly …’ But she couldn’t quite reach Felix and his island. She wasn’t going to be able to get him even if she was only anchored to Harry by his fingertips. Their arm spans combined weren’t long enough. ‘I’m going to have to—’

‘No,’ Harry said. She could tell every part of him was straining forwards.

‘It’s not very deep.’ She was shuddering now, and she wanted to let go of Harry so he didn’t notice.

‘The mud, though. The weeds, I—’

‘I’m going,’ she said defiantly, hoping it wasn’t obvious how much her teeth were chattering. Before he could say anything else she let go of him and waded further in, the water sloshing, the mud slurping and sucking around her feet, taking her deeper. Two, three sticky strides, and she was there: next to the island.

‘Felix.’ She reached out to him. The water was up to her shoulders now, seeping down inside her jumper.

The little goat bleated, and didn’t resist when Sophie reached up, pulling at the weed caught around his leg, tugging at it with numb, slippery fingers. It took her a few moments, but then it came away and his leg was free. She lifted him off the island, and Felix burrowed his cold head into her neck, his cries soft and panicked.

Now she had to turn around. She tried to lift her foot, tried to pull it out of the mud, but it was stuck. ‘Fuck,’ she whispered. Felix was nibbling her hair, and it was comforting, despite the madness of the situation, the intense cold.

‘Soph?’ Harry called. ‘Sophie, are you—?’

‘Just a minute!’ she shouted. She tried again to get her foot out, but it was fully wedged. ‘If I can just get my boot—’ She gasped as there was a surge of water behind her, and then arms clamped around her waist and pulled, and she felt her boot come out of the mud with a big suck.

Harry dragged them to the edge of the lake, his movements fast and uncoordinated, as if he could beat the weeds and the mud by sheer brute force … and maybe he could because a few moments later they had reached the bank, and he was hauling her up with him, trying to find purchase on the slick, steep mud. Sophie tried to help, tried to pull them up with her one free hand, but then Felix wriggled out of her grasp, bounced up to the fence and leapt over it. He turned and watched them, skittering backwards and forwards, bleating.

Sophie flopped against the bank, breathing heavily, her clothes and skin covered in mud. Harry was facing her, his arm still loosely wrapped around her. He was trying to catch his breath, and he looked as muddy and soaked as she was.

‘Y-you OK?’ he managed, through chattering teeth.

‘Fine,’ she sighed out, exhaustion and cold making her feel sluggish.

‘We need to get you i-into the warm.’ From the way he was shuddering, she knew he needed the warmth as much as she did. ‘Don’t g-go anywhere,’ he said forcefully, and she realized he was talking to his goat.

Harry pushed himself onto his knees, crawled the rest of the way up the bank, then turned and held out his hand. Sophie grabbed it gratefully, even though her fingers were numb, and every part of her was rigid with cold. Harry pulled her unceremoniously up the bank, and then, using the fence for support, they both struggled to their feet.

Harry got Sophie’s coat and draped it around her shoulders. His gaze was sharp with concern, and in the fading sun – which had decided to show itself at the very last minute – the kiss of amber against his skin made him look otherworldly, like a god who had risen out of the mud, the streaks on his face somehow enhancing his attractiveness.

‘I’m going mad,’ she murmured.

He frowned. ‘You need to get warm.’ He pulled her coat tightly around her. It seemed pointless when the clothes beneath were soaked, but she appreciated the gesture.

‘How long were you out here, before I arrived?’ she asked.

He shook his head, his fingers fumbling with the knot she’d tied in Clifton’s lead. ‘Fuck,’ he muttered, then flexed his fingers and tried again, eventually freeing it. Then he wrapped his arm around Sophie’s shoulders and nestled her against him as they strode towards the manor, three dogs and a soaked goat staying close to their heels.

Harry pushed open the front door, seemingly unconcerned about the unholy mess their muddy, dripping clothes would cause, or the fact that one of their party was a sodden goat.

Sophie hovered on the threshold.

‘In,’ he said. ‘Now. All of you.’

Felix bleated and pranced inside, and Harry dropped to a crouch and took off the ruined jumper.

‘Harry …’ Sophie said.

‘I don’t care about the mess.’ He looked up at her. ‘Go to the first floor, the door on the right, next to the window seat. It’s my room, and it’s got an en suite. Have a bath or shower, whatever you need. Use any of the towels, and I’ll find you some clothes. I’ll light the fires.’

‘Harry, you’re as wet as me.’

He shook his head. ‘I need to get Felix in the bath – I’ll use another bathroom. Go, Soph. I’ll come and find you.’

His tone left no room for argument, so she slipped her coat off her shoulders and then, with fizzing, freezing fingers, managed to yank off her boots, gasping at how much mud there was.

‘Don’t worry about any of this,’ Harry said again. ‘Please. You need to get warm. This is all my fault, and I—’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘You needed to rescue Felix. It’s nobody’s fault.’ With that, she headed for the staircase, deciding that they could argue about it properly when both of them were warm and clean.

The staircase was a mountain, and she had to use the banister to haul herself up. It turned one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, and at the top there was a landing with the large, arched window she had seen from outside. Through it, Sophie had a perfect view of the Mistingham Manor estate as dusk fell over it, the lawn faded to a soft purple, the cliff path barely visible beyond, and then the sea, a silky pewter slab in the dying light. She could see the lake from here, off to the left behind the trees, a still, innocuous mirror.

Nestled below the window was a wide seat with a cream, cushioned bench that Sophie didn’t dare go near. Instead, she turned to the door on her right and pushed it open, stepping into Harry’s bedroom.

It was huge, with two windows that looked out on the same, striking view. There was a large bed against the back wall, a dusky blue counterpane over the top. Both bedside tables had stacks of books on them, and were made of the same wood as the wardrobe and chest of drawers. A flat-screen TV was mounted on the wall between the two windows.

It was simple and sparse, as if Harry had done the bare minimum to make it comfortable, and hadn’t got round to adding any personal touches. The dark blue carpet was plush beneath her bare, muddy feet, and she winced as she tiptoed across it to the door on the opposite wall.

The bathroom looked like something from a luxury hotel brochure: white subway tiles were interspersed with rows of ocean blue and green, and there was a huge shower with a rainfall shower head to her right, a deep bathtub in front of the glazed glass window on her left.

She peeled off her clothes, which were cold and wet and infused with disgusting lake slime, and put everything in a small, miserable pile. Then she stepped into the shower, fiddling with the dials until the water was hot and powerful, steam rising all around her.

She closed her eyes and let it pummel her limbs, warming them and bringing back sensation. This was Harry’s shower, in his bedroom, and he was somewhere else in this house, still in his soaked clothes, making sure his goat – who had caused all this trouble – got warm before he did.

She didn’t know how long she’d been in there when a knock sounded on the door.

‘Sophie?’ Harry called. ‘I’ve put some clothes on the bed for you.’

‘Are you coming in?’ she shouted, unthinking, and wasn’t surprised when he didn’t answer. She turned off the shower, took a soft, navy towel off the heated towel rail and wrapped it around her, then tiptoed to the door and opened it.

Harry was standing on the other side, in his muddy jeans and a T-shirt that might once have been white. He was holding himself very still, which meant Sophie could see that he was shivering.

‘I’ll use the other bathroom,’ he said hoarsely.

‘I bet it’s not as nice as this one,’ she replied, and watched his gaze drift to her bare shoulders, the hint of cleavage visible above the towel.

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘Get in there.’ She pointed behind her. ‘Under that massive rainwater shower head with its endless hot water.’

He sighed. ‘There are joggers and a jumper on the bed. I messaged May, who’s out working, and she said I could lend them to you.’

‘Thank you. Now, go. I can hear your teeth chattering.’

Harry glared at her, but there wasn’t much heat in it. She stepped aside and he went into the bathroom and shut the door. The clothes were laid out neatly for her, and she pressed her hand into the soft counterpane, found the mattress firm and unyielding. She swallowed.

It all felt so intimate, drying herself in his room, wearing clothes he’d found for her. She reached for the jumper, then realized she wasn’t alone. Sitting under the window, in a curious little row, were Darkness, Terror, Clifton, and a very fluffy goat, a butter-wouldn’t-melt expression on his adorable little face.

When the bathroom door opened ten minutes later, Sophie was sitting on the edge of Harry’s bed. She hadn’t known where to go, so she’d stayed put. Of course, now, that meant she was faced with him wearing only a towel. It was wrapped firmly around his waist and left a lot on display.

His torso was firm and slender but not ostentatiously muscled, with a slight brush of brown chest hair fading to a happy trail that ran down his stomach. It was mouth-watering, this glimpse of him: bare chested, his damp hair dark, water rivulets sliding down his neck. It did nothing to quash the feelings that had been slowly growing over the last few weeks.

He stood in the bathroom doorway, his gaze trailing from her, sitting on the edge of the bed, to the animals patiently waiting beneath the window.

‘You let a goat in your bedroom,’ Sophie said, mostly so she didn’t instead say something like, ‘Can I lick you?’ or, ‘We’d both be warmer if we got under your duvet without any clothes on.’

‘I didn’t let him,’ Harry said. ‘But I didn’t want him outside tonight, after his … adventure.’ He walked towards her, seemingly unconcerned about his lack of clothes, and she stood up, panic – and something else – fluttering in her chest. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked. ‘Are you warm enough? Have you had enough of me and this madhouse yet?’ He reached out and pushed a wave of damp hair off her forehead.

She laughed nervously. ‘That is a lot of questions.’

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was worried. You didn’t have to go in for Felix: you shouldn’t have had to do any of that. It’s my fault, and I—’

‘Shhhh.’ She pressed two fingers against his lips, the action bringing her closer to him; to his warm, bare skin, the heat radiating off him. ‘The answer to the last one is no.’

‘No?’ he murmured against her fingers.

‘I haven’t had enough of you,’ she said. ‘I was coming here to tell you that, to find out what was going on. To see if we could maybe … work things out.’

‘Work things out?’ His gaze was fixed to hers, and Sophie felt the opposite of numb. The shower and Harry – mostly Harry – had woken her up, set her alight.

‘For the festival,’ she clarified.

‘For the festival,’ he repeated, stepping closer. ‘That is important.’

‘That’s what I thought. We need to be on the same page for that, at the very least.’ She was tingling all over. He was so close and warm and tantalizing. He was right in front of her.

‘Sophie,’ he whispered.

‘Yes, Harry?’ She held her breath, waiting for what came next.