Page 71 of The Secret Christmas Bookshop
‘OK.’ Sophie got to her feet, and they stood, looking at each other while the fire crackled and the silence grew between them.
Then Harry took their glasses and put them on the table. He whistled, and the two dogs and Felix raised their heads. ‘I’ll take them outside before I go up, then I’ll come and check you’ve got everything you need.’
‘Great,’ Sophie said. ‘Thank you.’
He led the way to the door, his pets at Sophie’s feet. In the hall, he pulled on his coat, and she climbed the stairs, able to enjoy the soft carpet now that she wasn’t covered in mud.
When she got to the landing, she hesitated. He’d told her where her room was, but was that really what he wanted? She’d suggested the spare room and Harry, being considerate, hadn’t questioned it. She went to the beautiful window seat under the arched window and sank onto the soft cushion, the moonlight fractured through the tree branches outside, her heart in her throat while she waited.
Ten minutes later she heard the front door click open,the sound of clawed feet and hooves tapping on the tiles, Harry’s low murmur as he said goodnight to his animals.
Sophie’s pulse pounded as she listened to the soft tread of his footsteps, and she wondered if it was too late to escape into the spare room. But … no. Harry was here, she was here, and—
‘Sophie?’ he said, reaching the top of the stairs. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘Yes, of course. I’m … I’m fine.’
‘Is there something wrong with the room?’
She stood up. ‘There is, actually. One big thing.’
‘Oh?’ She must have let something slip into her voice, because his concern dissolved, and when he stepped closer, an eyebrow raised, it was pure seduction. ‘What might that be?’
She gave him a whisper of a smile. ‘It doesn’t have you in it.’
He bent his head towards hers. ‘I was thinking the same thing about my room,’ he murmured. ‘That it didn’t have you in it. Maybe we can change that.’
‘We could certainly try,’ she said, and closed the gap.
Sophie let herself sink into the kiss, let him wrap her up in his arms until they were pressed together, tasting and touching each other, Harry’s skin still cold from outside. Pulling apart felt impossible, but Harry managed it, only enough to open his bedroom door and lead her inside. He closed it and pressed her up against the wood, continuing their kiss.
He trailed his lips along her jaw and down her throat, and Sophie gasped, the heat at her core unbearable. She slid her leg up, anchoring it around his hip, and he groaned into her mouth.
‘Sophie,’ he murmured. ‘God.’
He leaned back enough to pull her jumper over her head, and she waited for the nerves to overwhelm her, for her thoughts to put a stop to it. But instead they urged her onwards, in tandem with her body, tingling and scorching and desperate. She had been thinking about him, wanting him, for so long, and all she cared about was getting closer.
She slid her hands to the brass button at the waistband of his jeans, and Harry walked backwards, leading her over to the bed. They undressed each other, Sophie’s breath catching when his fingertips grazed the soft skin of her stomach, trailed a silky path up her back.
Then his lips were on hers again, and she slid her hands around his waist, pressing her palms against the warm skin of his back, then lower, down inside the waistband of his boxers. She felt herself turn to liquid, warm and pliable. Everything felt so good: all the places where they touched, the bounce as they landed on his bed, the soft weave of the bedspread luxurious against her bare skin.
The room smelled of sea air and the woody, vanilla scent of his aftershave, as Harry kissed his way across her body, taking his time, exploring every inch of her. Sophie closed her eyes so she could do more feeling, so she could catalogue every sizzling, delicious moment. She couldn’t help wondering why it had taken them so long to reach this point, when it was clearly what they had been destined for all along.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sophie woke to a cacophony of bird song unlike anything she heard from her flat, where seagulls provided the overriding chorus. It took her a few seconds to remember where she was, why she felt bone tired but happy, why the duvet was so beautifully weighted, light but warm. Then awareness rippled through her, and she opened her eyes and found she was looking at Harry’s peaceful, sleeping face, his eyelashes inky against his skin. His hair was in disarray, reminding her of the night before, and she felt the grin stretch her cheeks.
She rolled onto her back and saw from the clock on the bedside table that it was just after seven. Through the partially closed curtains, the sun was making its glamorous entrance, a fiery pink sunrise spilling into the room. It was breathtaking, and she inexplicably found her eyes burning with the possibility of tears.
She didn’t want to wake Harry, and she wasn’t sure what the etiquette of Mistingham Manor was, but she didn’tthink it was beyond her to make coffee and buttery toast in an unusual kitchen, even if it was partly a building site.
She slid out of bed, found her jeans and jumper on the floor where they had been discarded the night before, and pulled them on. She tiptoed downstairs, and found the kitchen easily enough; a large open space at the back of the building, the double-aspect windows looking out onto trees, the birdsong here as loud as if it were being played through stereo speakers.
A small portion of clean worktop was exposed, next to a dated oven and gas hob. The rest was covered in plastic sheeting, cupboards and a dishwasher standing untethered, waiting to be installed. One alcove was pure Seventies nostalgia, with orange, brown and white floral wallpaper, and Sophie wondered how difficult it was for Harry to rip all this out, to essentially plaster over the rooms he’d grown up in, which held memories of his parents, his family.
She went hunting and found a cafetière, and a packet of coffee in the fridge, along with milk and butter. There was half a loaf of bread on the counter, wrapped in one of Dexter’s bakery bags. Sophie cut slices, boiled the kettle and assembled her tray, all the while expecting one of the dogs, or Harry or May, to find her.
But the manor was in a deep Sunday slumber, and she tried not to think aboutThe Haunting of Hill Houseby Shirley Jackson, where the house at the centre of the story had a personality, sometimes innocently quiet, sometimes intent on wreaking a creeping, dread-filled havoc on the occupants.
