Page 6 of A Not So Quiet Christmas
Chapter 5
Jeans, a white shirt, and a fine knit V-neck sweater: Oliver Chase’s attire couldn’t have contrasted more with the suited and booted dress code of London-based property managers. Oliver Chase wore no tie and he had heavy-soled, tan boots on his feet, instead of shiny black lace-ups. Taking in his swept-back blond hair and welcoming smile, such a casual appearance only added to the man’s physical appeal. I smiled back at him, trying to create a good impression. Not only was the man attractive, working in property, he’d know where all the best skips were.
As the letting agent made his approach, Frank jumped up and down at the passenger window, wagging his tail at the possibility of making a new friend. “You can’t get out yet,” I said to the dog, thinking it would be better to get business out of the way before letting him loose on anyone.
Frank looked at me through the most pitiful eyes and I immediately felt guilty.
“Oh, all right,” I said, grabbing my rucksack and clipping his lead to his collar. “You win.”
Frank scrambled to meet Oliver as we got out of the van. I kept the lead tight to prevent him from getting too out of control and, throwing my rucksack over my shoulder, tried to appear cool and collected. “Mr Chase,” I said, almost tripping. With one arm outstretched ready to formally introduce myself, Frank continuing to tug at the other, and a layer of ice beneath my feet, it was all I could do to stay upright.
“Please,” he replied. “Call me Oliver.” Even more handsome up close, the man held my gaze as he shook my hand. He had striking green eyes and his grip was firm yet controlled.
“Antonia,” I said, transfixed.
He raised an eyebrow as I continued to hold his hand, an action that brought me back to my senses and I quickly let go.
“Sei Italiana?” he said.
It was obvious Oliver was asking if I was Italian and although, unlike him, I couldn’t speak a word of the language, I felt tempted to pretend I at least had Roman roots. I knew I’d get away with it thanks to my long dark hair, but in the end I couldn’t lie, not even to impress. I shook my head. “A mother with a thing for Antonio Banderas.”
“Really?” Oliver bit down on his lips, clearly trying not to laugh.
I didn’t mind his amusement. I was used to it. “She was what you’d call a superfan. I’m named after him.”
“Was?”
“Mum’s no longer with us.”
A look of understanding crossed Oliver’s face. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He turned his attention to my four-legged friend, crouching down to tickle the dog’s overly long ears. “And who’s this?”
“Frank,” I replied, rolling my eyes as despite the freezing ground the dog threw himself down on his back for a belly rub.
“What a handsome fellow,” Oliver said, happily doing Frank’s bidding.
Handsomewas not a word I’d have used.
I thought back to when Jules and Harry first introduced me to Frank. He had to be the cutest puppy on the planet with his big brown eyes, sleek black fur, and the best of temperaments. Little did anyone know that while he’d keep his friendly nature, his looks wouldn’t fare quite so well. Rather, he’d turn into a stumpy, wiry-furred lump that was so ugly, he’d end up with a face only I, Jules, and Harry could love.
“It’s all Collies and gun dogs around here,” Oliver said. “And none of them as good looking as you, eh, boy?”
I smiled at his words. Attractive and non-judgemental on the animal front; I was impressed. As was Frank, I noted. Belly up, legs wide and tongue hanging out, the dog relished the attention.
Rising to his feet, Oliver looked from me to Violet. “Good drive up?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you.” At last, Frank stood up too. He sniffed the ground around our feet, before cocking his leg at the gatepost to have what had to be the longest wee known to man. “Although I have to say I’m glad it’s over with,” I said, pretending not to notice.
“Looks like you’re not the only one,” Oliver said, doing no such thing. Instead, he nodded at Frank, who without a care in the world continued to empty his bladder.
I glared at the dog, wondering how he could embarrass me like that.
“Now to business,” Oliver said. “I suppose I should start by welcoming you to Little Leatherington. You’ve picked a great time of year to come visit.” He gestured to the hills. “You can’t get more Christmassy than this.”
I followed his gaze. “Oxford Street might beg to differ,” I said.
Oliver looked at me as if confused.
“The trouble they go to with their window displays.”
