Page 59 of The Secret Christmas Bookshop
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 MistinghamManor 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 hisbedroom,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.’
