If Every Day Was Christmas: A gorgeous and heart-warming Christmas romance Page 3

  Davey raised an eyebrow. ‘I didn’t know that. Seems a shame to waste all your talent.’

  Tom shrugged. ‘You should get back to the pub. I’ll come in early tomorrow.’

  Davey’s forehead creased but he nodded. ‘How about ten? I can pick you up.’

  ‘I’ll walk. It’s not that far and I’ll need to take Cooper out anyway.’

  ‘You can bring him to work if you want. Johnny loves dogs and he’s not going anywhere tomorrow. Borrow anything you need from the boot room when you go outside.’ Davey pointed towards the hall before heading for the front door.

  After he’d left, Tom took a quick look around the house. It was cosy and clean, and would suit him and Cooper fine until the end of the month. There was dog food in one of the kitchen cupboards so he fed Cooper and wandered into the sitting room, aware all the time of the guitar standing in the corner, calling to him. Sighing, Tom picked it up and put it carefully into the boot room along with the stand and shut the door, leaning his head against it for a moment. As he did, his mobile found a signal and began to ring.

  ‘Sonny.’ Tom’s grandfather, Jack Riley, sounded bright and cheery.

  ‘How’s the cruise?’ Tom asked, contemplating whether he should light the fire to give himself something to do.

  ‘A hit. I’ve made a posse of friends already and we’ve all been invited onto the captain’s table tonight. I’m heading to a poker game in a minute, I’ve plans to fleece some guests. The weather’s good – which you’d expect in the Caribbean. I think the only thing missing from this experience is your grandmother. She’d have loved it.’ He paused. ‘And you.’

  ‘It was your Christmas present. Besides, I had business here.’ Tom swallowed the ball of guilt his grandfather wouldn’t appreciate, wondering if there was any Jack Daniel’s in the kitchen. He didn’t drink much anymore, but suddenly felt a little homesick, and bourbon always reminded him of celebrations with his grandparents. There hadn’t been any of those these last three years.

  ‘I still miss her, but I feel like she’s here somewhere, watching me. She’d have got a real kick out of this boat, would have made me walk every deck at least four times trying to see if we could spot anyone famous.’ Jack laughed. ‘Then she’d have spent the rest of the day boasting about you.’

  Tom nodded because the words wouldn’t come. His grandmother had been dead for almost three years and he still found it hard to talk about her. ‘How are you feeling?’ He sat on the sofa and sank into the leather, shaking his head at Cooper when he looked tempted to hop up. The dog came to place his head on one of Tom’s feet, earning himself a stroke.

  ‘Good – no heart attacks, strokes or headaches if that’s what you’re asking. This cruise is just the tonic I needed. I’m fine, sonny. It’s been three years, you need to stop worrying.’

  ‘Worrying is part of loving someone,’ Tom murmured, repeating one of his grandmother’s favourite phrases, then almost kicking himself when he recognised the words.

  ‘I recall your band recording a song about that.’ His grandfather hummed a little of the tune. ‘So what are your plans for Christmas?’

  ‘Usual.’ Tom frowned. ‘Although I’m not sure where I’ll get a Chinese takeaway around here. Not without a magic carpet.’

  ‘Alone again?’

  Tom nodded. ‘Just the way I like it.’

  His grandfather sighed. ‘Not every woman you meet is going to be like Marnie. You’ll need to take a chance on someone again at some point…’

  ‘I loved her,’ Tom said simply. ‘I let her down.’

  ‘She let you down, Tom – and she wasn’t the first.’ He puffed out a breath. They’d had this conversation a million times and neither of them had the appetite to repeat it. ‘Where are you exactly?’

  ‘In Scotland, visiting a friend.’ Tom unlaced his wet shoes and pushed them off as Cooper went to eye the fireplace. The wind outside kicked up a notch, making the chimney whistle. ‘I’ll be here for a few weeks. I’ll try to find a landline number so you can call me at the pub where I’ll be working.’

  ‘Are you performing?’ Jack sounded hopeful.

  ‘Nope. I’ll be staying out of trouble, serving behind the bar.’

  His grandfather sighed. ‘Music’s in your soul, sonny – and you’re not going to be happy until you pick that guitar back up. I’ve told you that a million times.’

  ‘And I’m still ignoring you,’ Tom said, as his chest ached.

  ‘You’re supposed to listen to your elders.’ His grandfather snorted. ‘Then again, I didn’t listen to mine. I’ll have to wait until life teaches you the lessons I can’t. Or your grandmother sends you a sign.’

  ‘She’s gone,’ Tom said. ‘And I’ve learned all the lessons I want.’ Which was the reason he’d never pick up a guitar again. ‘Talking of learning lessons, I’ll be putting a kitchen in while I’m here – drawing on everything you taught me.’ Tom smiled, remembering helping his grandfather with some DIY once. Then recalling the trip to the hospital when Jack had tried to slice his finger off.

  ‘I was always better at gardening.’ His grandfather chuckled. ‘Jokes aside, you can’t keep drifting. It’s just another form of running.’

  ‘I’m giving back,’ Tom said quietly.

  ‘You gave the world so much already with your music. You don’t owe it a thing,’ his grandfather said gently, before the signal suddenly cut out, leaving Tom alone, staring at the phone, wishing he was right.

  Three

  Apple Cross Inn was buzzing when Meg made her way into the entrance, stomping her feet on the mat to get rid of the worst of the snow. She pulled her coat off so she could hang it on one of the hooks by the pub door already heaving with jackets. It was the fifth of December and she was feeling a little put out that after days of calling her mum and dad’s phones, and emailing, she hadn’t been able to get in touch with either of them. After the message her dad had left a couple of weeks before, she hadn’t been able to pin him down to a proper conversation. She knew everyone was okay because she’d received a direct message from her sister who still lived at home. Despite that, Meg had an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  ‘Here for the Jam Club meeting?’ Agnes greeted Meg as she approached the bar with Cora and Fergus, who was pulling grumpy faces at everyone. ‘We’re in the usual place.’ Agnes inclined her head towards a small room off to the side of the pub where the weekly Jam Club meetings took place. Meg had joined the sessions in the summer, when she’d put her shop on the line in a bet with Lilith Romano, owner and chef at Lockton Hotel. They’d both vowed to win the annual Lockton Jampionships and, with the help of her best friend Evie Stuart, Meg had won – and discovered a new love of cooking. She was still finding her feet in that department, but enjoyed the weekly gatherings.

  ‘Cora’s got some Christmas jam to share.’ Agnes threw an arm around her friend’s shoulder.

  Cora sighed and pointed to the hessian shopping bag filled with glass jars by her feet. ‘I made a promise to find a jam that Marcus likes before Christmas.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘I’ve tried blackberry, strawberry, gooseberry, even cranberry with a twist. He hates them all. I’m hoping someone at the Jam Club can suggest something new.’

  Marcus Dougall, a policeman who serviced Lockton and the surrounding area, was well known for his dislike of all things jam-related. Cora was hoping her Christmas Promise, along with a little of the wishing well magic, would help her to come up with a recipe he’d love.

  ‘The man’s an ee—’ Fergus clamped his mouth shut before opening it again. ‘Embarrassment,’ he finished, looking ruffled. ‘There’s not a Scotsman alive who doesn’t like jam.’

  Agnes chuckled. ‘Fergus has promised not to call anyone an eejit for the whole month,’ she explained. Her eyes shone as she patted his hand. ‘It’s not an easy task.’

  ‘And Agnes has promised not to interfere with anyone’s love life. So you and the rest of the single population in and around
Lockton can relax, Meg.’ Fergus’s grey eyes gleamed as he stroked her hand in return.

  ‘Love will find a way with or without my help.’ Agnes grinned as she blew him a kiss. ‘Speaking of love, I heard from my beautiful granddaughter earlier.’

  ‘She called me yesterday too.’ Meg nodded, wishing her friend Evie were here. But after meeting ‘the one’, Callum Ryder, when he’d stayed on Buttermead Farm in the summer, Evie had fallen pregnant and the pair had decided to spend a couple of months at Callum’s home in New York. ‘She’s having a wonderful time.’

  ‘They’re a good match.’ Agnes smiled. ‘But I can tell you’re missing your friend.’

  Meg shrugged. In truth she had been a little lonely. She loved Lockton, but her dad’s message had worried her. She didn’t like talking about her problems, had only just begun to open up to Evie, and now she had no one to confide in. But she didn’t want to bother her friend when she was miles from home.

  Agnes gave Meg’s shoulder a quick squeeze as someone sounded a bell in the other room. ‘That’ll be Morag, we’d better not keep her. Remember, I’m always at the farm if you want to talk. See you in a wee minute, lassie.’ Agnes followed Fergus and Cora as they made their way to the meeting.

  Meg felt her insides jerk in unwelcome response as Tom walked up to serve her. He looked less tired than he had a few days before, although just as dishevelled. His almost-black hair tickled the top of his fitted shirt and a five o’clock shadow darkened his jaw. His eyes dipped to Meg’s sweatshirt, which had a sparkly Christmas tree printed on the front, before sliding up to her face which she’d dusted with glitter. She’d swiped extra on earlier after another unsuccessful attempt to call her dad. ‘I’m not sure whether to serve you or hang a bauble on you,’ he said with a smile, as he smoothed a cloth across the bar.

  ‘I’ll have a mulled wine, please,’ Meg replied archly, determined to keep him at arm’s length. Tom’s brown eyes sparked with something that could have been humour before he nodded. ‘Since you mention baubles, have you heard about the Christmas Promise Tree?’ she asked. Meg watched as Tom picked up a bottle of margarita mix and added a dose into a cocktail shaker without answering, then sloshed in a dash of orange liqueur before turning his back. ‘That doesn’t look like wine,’ Meg observed grumpily.

  ‘It isn’t,’ Tom said. ‘It’s a thank you for the rescue and chocolate bar the other day. If you don’t like it, I’ll get your wine. It’s on me.’

  ‘It’s not necessary.’ Meg sighed, trying to hang on to her dislike. He looked good without his coat. His jeans were dark and fitted, he had long legs and a bum with just the right amount of curve. His black shirt was tight enough that she could trace his spine upwards to broad shoulders that stretched the cotton every now and again as he worked. His hair was a little too long and scraped the edges his collar. If it weren’t for his feelings on Christmas, Meg might have fancied him. She ignored the tingles working their way across her skin as she watched.

  ‘Davey mentioned the village promise and the concert you’re putting on.’ Tom finally answered her question.

  ‘And did anyone tell you that you can make a promise of your own?’

  Tom shook his head, threw a handful of sugared cranberries onto the top of the drink and gave it a stir, before placing it in front of her without ceremony. ‘I call it The Worst Noel,’ he said. ‘My own creation – better not get behind the wheel of your van until you’ve given it a chance to wear off. Since you’re not dressed as an elf, I’m guessing you’re not working tonight?’ Tom watched her closely.

  She sipped. The drink was good, creamy with a citrus flavour and enough alcohol to make her lips buzz. ‘It’s nice.’

  ‘You sound disappointed,’ he said, as she put the glass back on the bar.

  Meg shrugged. ‘It could do with some edible glitter and a new name – something less anti-Christmas. I feel like you’re trying to get me to renounce my favourite season. In case you were wondering, it won’t work.’

  ‘It was worth a try.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘What would you call it?’

  ‘Elf’s Delight.’

  Tom snorted. ‘You can call it that if you like – I’m sticking with my name, and I’m not sure why you’d want your insides to sparkle, you’ve enough of the stuff on the outside.’ His eyes skimmed her cheekbones.

  Meg picked up the glass and took another sip. ‘There’s no such thing as too much glitter.’ Her hormones did a little happy dance when his lips quirked.

  ‘I’m guessing those words are tattooed across your chest?’

  She gave him one of her deadpan stares, wondering why she was flirting. ‘We elves never reveal where our tattoos are located. How are you settling in?’ she added when his eyes darkened, making the tingles across her skin leap downwards in response. There was something about his face, something familiar. It was as if she’d known him for years. Which was crazy, and exactly the kind of thing Agnes would pounce on if she said it.

  Tom shrugged. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Where are you from? I feel like we’ve met.’

  Tom frowned. ‘I’m pretty sure I’d remember you.’ His eyes skimmed her cheeks again. ‘I’m from down south – for the last few years I’ve moved all around the country.’

  ‘Are you trying to figure out where you fit?’

  ‘Something like that.’ He nodded without looking at her. ‘You? Your accent doesn’t scream North Pole quite as much as your wardrobe.’

  She smiled. ‘I’m from London originally, I’ve lived in Lockton for three years. No plans to change that.’ Tom put his hands in his pockets. ‘So are you going to make a Christmas Promise?’ Meg cocked her head. He looked so uncomfortable she almost felt sorry for him.

  ‘I don’t make promises – I’ve a habit of not keeping them.’ Tom looked serious.

  ‘Not trying something is the same as failing at it,’ Lilith interrupted across Meg’s shoulder, startling her and making Tom’s chin jerk up. His expression was all relief as Lilith sidestepped Meg and leaned on the bar. Lilith was of Italian descent, in her early thirties, and a couple of inches taller than Meg’s five foot two. She had a curvy body, a mouth to match it and eyes the colour of coal. She’d wound her long, dark hair onto the top of her head and wore a pair of immaculate designer jeans, a silky pink blouse that set off her olive skin and a set of boots with sky-high heels that had no business being out in the snow. ‘At least, that’s what my papa tells me,’ Lilith added, shooting her eyes across the counter until they fixed on Meg’s drink. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I call it The Worst Noel,’ Tom replied. ‘Want one? If you’re driving I can tone it down.’

  Lilith chuckled. ‘Sì. I have a lift lined up with someone staying at the hotel, so don’t hold back on anything. I’m surprised you’re drinking that, Meg – it doesn’t even have a Christmas-themed straw.’ She shook her head at the glass as the tune in the background changed to a Christmas song, and Meg noticed Tom tense. He turned away from the bar as he assembled the drink, leaving Meg feeling strangely bereft.

  ‘You here for the meeting?’ Lilith’s tone was a lot less hostile than it would have been a few months before. Since Meg had beaten her in the Jampionships, Lilith had been driving some of her hotel guests to Meg’s shop. They’d formed an uneasy alliance when, in turn, Meg had begun to recommend the hotel to hikers and other drop-in customers.

  ‘Yes,’ Meg said simply, sipping more of the cocktail.

  ‘The Jam Club’s started, you should—’ Davey wandered through the door that led to the kitchen behind the bar and stopped dead when he saw Lilith draped across it. His cheeks flushed, and he opened and closed his mouth as if searching for his next breath.

  Tom tipped his head towards the room the others had headed for earlier as he handed Lilith the cocktail and took her money. ‘You don’t want to miss anything.’ He glanced at Davey, who was standing in the same place, gazing at Lilith. ‘Besides, Davey, you were going to show me where you keep the spare red
wine in the back.’ He suddenly snapped his gaze in the direction of the kitchen. ‘Is that Johnny shouting?’

  Meg couldn’t hear anyone and Davey just looked confused.

  ‘We’d better go.’ Meg picked up her drink and stepped away from the bar, steering Lilith in the same direction, reluctantly charmed by Tom’s efforts to save his friend from embarrassing himself any more. ‘I assume you’re here for the Jam Club too?’

  Lilith shook her head. ‘I came to speak to Morag about a parcel I’m expecting, but I suppose I could join you for a while.’

  ‘Cora needs some ideas for a new Christmas jam – perhaps you could suggest some Italian recipes?’ Meg guided Lilith towards the Jam Club, conscious of Tom’s gaze on them. Wondering why the man with the dark brown eyes and dislike of Christmas interested her quite so much.

  Four

  Tom drove carefully as he navigated towards the same spot on the road where he’d punctured his tyre a week before. The car was fixed now and his spare had been replaced, but he wasn’t taking any chances. Snow had stopped falling for the first time in days. The downpour had been almost constant since he’d left this morning for Morridon to pick up more supplies for Davey’s kitchen. He turned on the radio, snatching his hand back as if he’d been bitten when he heard a fuzzy rendition of ‘If Every Day Was Christmas’. The song he’d written and recorded with The Ballad Club a few years before. It had shot into the charts immediately, but he hadn’t heard it for months – he switched the radio off.

  His thoughts slid to Meg as he passed the spot where she’d picked him up in her Christmas van, remembering the glitter across her cheeks when he’d served her in the pub and the sparks of warmth in her blue eyes. Then he bounced over a snowy hillock in the road and, as he did, noticed a couple of figures walking in the distance, dragging suitcases through the snow. They were moving slowly, leaving tiny wheel-tracks in their wake. As Tom drew closer he slowed the car and wound his window down. In the back, Cooper hopped up so he could press his nose against the glass.