Page 74 of The Secret Christmas Bookshop
‘You’re making up for it now, though.’ She searched his face, looking for a hint of smugness, something that would reveal he’d given her the copy ofJane Eyre, and that telling her the story about his dad sending himNorth and Southwas his way of admitting it. Was the book that Winnie had been given some kind of peace offering from him, after their sparring match? But Sophie was sure she’d told him about her mysterious present from The Secret Bookshop, and he’d seemed as baffled as she was. Except …hadshe told him? That night after the pub, when he’dwalked her home? She couldn’t remember how much she’d said to him.
Harry’s hands slid around her waist and his fingers danced a path over her stomach, making her muscles contract.
‘Harry.’ She’d meant it as a protest, but it was half-hearted at best.
‘Mmmm?’ He leaned up and kissed her, long and slow and sensuous. All thoughts of books went out of Sophie’s head as he pulled the T-shirt up, broke the kiss so he could lift it over her head, then dragged the duvet over both of them, sliding them lower in the bed.
‘Thank you for telling me,’ she said, needing to acknowledge the faith he must have in her to want to tell her about his family, about the things he was ashamed of.
‘I’d tell you anything,’ Harry said, as he wrapped his arms around her, then moved them until she was on her back, and he was hovering over her. ‘Anything you want to know, Soph. I’m an open book when it comes to you.’
Sophie smiled up at him, soft and lazy and full of desire, and she knew, then, that he had nothing to do with her anonymous gift. It was just a coincidence: this place was full of books, full of the memory of them, and they were a good present to get – that’s all it was. And besides, she thought, as she closed her eyes and tried to hold back a gasp, Harry was giving her a pretty good gift right that moment.
She would work out who had sent her the book, who Mistingham’s secret book Santa was, just as soon as she recovered her senses and escaped the perfect, pleasure-filled haven of Harry’s bed. But there was no rush, she told herself. Absolutely no rush at all.
Chapter Twenty-Three
On Monday evening after work, Sophie left Clifton curled up on her sofa, the smell of her cheese and tomato toastie still lingering in the air, the sea a black void beyond her kitchen window, and walked to the village hall.
The days were getting colder, and today the sky had been a cloudless, washed-out blue, so even though it was just gone six o’clock, the darkness was dusted with stars and a layer of glittering frost. Sophie had pulled her woolly hat down over her ears, her gloved hands were shoved deep in her pockets, and her nose tingled with cold.
Mistingham was still bustling, with cars turning into the Blossom Bough car park, the hotel lit up like Norfolk’s most welcoming dolls’ house: windows aglow, twinkling chandeliers and elaborate Christmas trees visible through the panes.
The lights were on in the hall, and as Sophie walked across the crunchy, frost-hardened grass, she glanced up at the stately oak. Despite what Harry had told her, it lookedstronger than ever, its branches waving jauntily in the light wind. She felt a fizz of excitement as she thought how good it would look draped in lights, the lower limbs adorned with handmade decorations.
When she stepped into the musty, dusty hall, Jazz was already there, standing among sleek black equipment: a microphone, amplifier and snakes of cable.
‘This is sound kit.’ She grinned at Sophie, then pressed a button on the amp so it squealed with feedback.
‘Did Harry drop it off?’ Sophie asked, disappointment settling in her gut. She took off her hat, then realized it wasn’t much warmer in here than it was outside.
‘May did,’ Jazz said, not looking up. ‘Apparently Harry had some kind of issue with Felix –bigsurprise …’ she rolled her eyes, ‘but she said all the equipment should be working, and it does seem to be.’
‘Is Felix OK?’ Sophie asked.
Jazz glanced up. ‘Oh. Yeah, he’s fine. He got into somewhere he wasn’t supposed to, or something. I wasn’t really listening. But he’s all right, and Harry is, too: just pissed off.’
Sophie nodded. She would message him later. She’d hardly stopped thinking about him since they’d said goodbye at the manor yesterday lunchtime, Sophie insisting she needed to collect Clifton from Fiona’s house. They’d parted with a promise to see each other again soon, to finalize what they needed to for the festival, and Harry hadn’t stopped kissing her until she’d physically extricated herself, and even then he’d come onto the gravel driveway in his bare feet, as if he couldn’t bear to let her go.
It had been harder to leave him than she’d expected. It wasn’t just that she was addicted to his touch – althoughshe most definitely was – but that she wanted to sit with him for hours in front of the fire in his study, listening to him talk about his family and his favourite books, about what he wanted for the future, and the moments that had shaped him.
She wondered why he hadn’t told the whole story to Fiona, the other villagers who’d judged him: that he’d had to stay away to save the bookshop and Mistingham estate, then to pay for his dad’s care. But she was beginning to understand him, and she thought he’d simply decided it wasn’t their business. He wasn’t accountable to anyone, wasn’t going to make excuses. She realized that was one of the reasons she admired him so much.
He was so certain about what he wanted, and what other people were entitled to when it came to his personal life, and it felt almost magical that he had let her in, told her about his past, about the vulnerabilities that were still there. And his touch had been both strong and tender, sometimes commanding, sometimes hesitant, as if he wasn’t entirely sure she was real, and needed to prove it to himself.
She didn’t want him to be uncertain about them, but could she really stay here, give up the independence that was so important to her, for a chance to be with Harry? She had done that once before; she had been so sure of Trent’s love, then it had ended so suddenly. That was the worst part: she hadn’t had an inkling that he was unhappy, had thought he’d accepted that it took her longer to settle into things. It had made her feel weak, and she had decided, then, that she shouldn’t be relying on anyone but herself.
Was this thing with Harry, that was still so new and full of promise, any different?
‘That’s good,’ she said, after a gap that was far too long to make sense, but Jazz didn’t seem to notice. ‘So the open-mic equipment’s all set?’
‘Yeah, and it’s robust stuff.’ Jazz was kneeling on the hard floor, checking the settings, her jeans already dusty. ‘It should be fine on the outside stage. You’re going to have this place as a sort of refuge, during the festival?’
‘It’ll just be a bit quieter,’ Sophie said. ‘It’s where everyone will come to make their decorations, and we’ll have some games and the book club discussion.’
‘Jane Eyre,’ Jazz said.
Sophie nodded. Her beautiful copy had become an anchor for her, something she returned to whenever she got home, every morning when she woke up. She read a few pages whenever she could, and she was a good way through it now.
