Page 40 of I’ll Be Home for Christmas

Twenty minutes later—as promised—Ryan was at the gates.

Fred buzzed him in and told him to come straight to the workshop.

He knocked the door with his boot, and she looked up to see him smiling through the window, a large box in his hands and two paper cups balanced on the top.

She let him in, swiping the cups as he passed her. “Thanks, coffee bitch.”

He grinned. “You’re welcome.”

She had wondered if there would be some awkwardness between them after their confessional on Saturday night, but he was his usual chirpy self, and she followed his example.

“Your mum tells me you’ve designed a new website for the business.”

“It’s not finished yet, but I’ve got the aesthetic locked in.”

“Can I see?”

She pulled up the new home page to the website on her laptop.

“Oh wow, Fred, it’s great! I love it. The animation is so cool.”

“Thanks,” she said, trying and failing not to smile so broadly that she looked like a demonic clown.

“I’ve spruced up the Instagram page too.

Mum didn’t have time to keep on top of it—and it’s not really her thing, to be fair.

” She clicked the link on the home page, held out by a fairy dancing on top of a mince pie, and Instagram loaded in a new window.

“Nice intro,” he said, clicking on her “meet the makers” post. “Such a good idea to incorporate the area, too, really gives people a feel for where you get your inspirations.”

She knew he’d get it.

“I’m going to do posts of all the gift makers, too, and tag their profiles. I guess that’s going to include you now.”

“Hopefully, if you and Bella like the packaging. Great pics of the beach; you’ve captured the wildness.”

She laughed. “That’s not hard, it is wild.”

“Yeah, but not everyone has an eye for taking pictures. Are you going to play up the history of the business? Man, we need to go through your aunts’ archives for old photos, there must be tons of old stuff we can use.”

“We?” She gave him a friendly side-eye.

“Did I say ‘we’?” He looked up.

“Yep.”

He laughed and raked his hand through his hair, tucking it back behind his ear. “Sorry, got carried away. Must be the ghosts of all those school projects we did together coming back to me.”

“Oh, you mean all those joint projects that I did all the work for?” Ryan had been famously lackadaisical about all things to do with education, whereas she had been book smart and focused. Their friendship had been an enigma to most of their teachers.

“Hey, I helped out with the presentation part, because you hated speaking in front of the class; that’s what made us the dream team.”

She snorted but he wasn’t wrong. She’d never been good at public speaking; her nerves always got the better of her. She’d once fainted during a History presentation. She had no doubt that her fear of speaking up in meetings had contributed to her being overlooked at work.

“Seriously, I know marketing and advertising is your area of expertise, but if you ever want someone to help you trawl through the archives, or just someone to bounce ideas off, then I’m your man.

It might even help to inspire my own social media presence, which is seriously lacking, which is another word for crap. ”

“Is it?” she asked, innocently. She knew it was crap.

His personal Instagram was nonexistent, she’d checked it out right before she’d gone to sleep on Krampus Night; two or three photographs uploaded in the last six months.

It had been a disappointment in terms of snooping.

And his Coast Roast Insta page was almost as bad.

“Your website looks great, though,” she said, diplomatically.

“I paid someone to design the website. I had loads of ideas of the kind of thing I wanted, but I couldn’t pin it down.

Some things never change.” He gave an apologetic grin, and shrugged.

“You always had the vision and the wherewithal to see a thing through to its fruition. I always have seventy-six ideas flitting around inside my brain, and not a chance of getting any of them to settle.”

“It hasn’t stopped you creating an incredible business. I haven’t achieved anything like your success. You did it, Ryan, you brought Coast Roast to life.” She punched his arm affectionately.

He scrubbed his hand through his hair again and smiled, shyly. “I’m still not exactly sure how that happened.”

“Vision, hard work and determination,” she said, making sure to catch his eye. “Did you get the same company to design your packaging for the mini coffee sachets?” she asked, motioning to the closed box on the bench.

“No. I wanted to do it myself.” He shifted self-consciously as he continued.

“It’s a big deal, having something of mine in Hallow-Hart Crackers.

I wanted the design to reflect my business but also to suit yours, I didn’t want to let the side down.

And Bella—unlike you—is far too nice to tell me if she hates something, so I needed to make sure I got it right. ”

God, he was so nice it was killing her. He was ticking boxes she didn’t even know she had.

“Ryan Frost, maker and actualizer of plans; you’ve changed,” she said, smiling.

He shrugged. “I guess I have. We both have.”

“Seventeen years will do that.”

“I don’t understand how it can have been that long when in my head I’m still only eighteen.”

“Huh, eighteen-year-old me would not have been joining the family business,” said Fred.

“Hmm, you make a good point, eighteen-year-old me preferred tea.”

“Would you like me to take a look at your social media for you?” she asked. “I’d be happy to help you put a strategy together.”

Ryan rubbed the back of his neck. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“Actually, you’d be doing me a favor. I can’t bear to see an underutilized Instagram page, and yours is causing me trauma.”

He laughed. “Well, in that case, yes, please help me.”

“And maybe I could take you up on your offer of letting me bounce ideas off you?”

“It would be my pleasure.” He smiled at her. “I like spending time with you,” he added, and though the smile remained amiable, his eyes flashed with an intensity that shot a bolt of pleasure down her spine where it pooled like mercury between her hips.

“Mmm, m-me too,” she stuttered, knowing full well that her cheeks were glowing.

Ryan saw, and his smile softened. They were standing so close; she could smell the roasting coffee that had permeated his clothes, see the flecks of gold in his irises.

He reached his hand out and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, letting his fingers brush against her hot cheeks.

She had to bite her lip to stop herself from moaning at his touch.

He dropped his hand back to his side and she could still feel the cool trace of him on her skin.

She tried to focus on breathing normally.

“Fred…” He held her gaze. His voice was a rasp that raked through her and made her whole body tighten in delightful anticipation.

“Yes…” The word came out of her mouth almost ridiculously whispery.

BZZZZZ-ZZZZZ-Z

The intercom for the front gates blared like a siren, and their tender moment dispersed into the ether like steam from a kettle. Fred darted behind Ryan, discombobulated from their encounter as though she had just been rudely awakened from a dream, and picked up the handset.

“Hello?” she said into it, hoping that her heartbeat would return to normal soon.

Crackling on the line was followed by a man’s voice shouting, “I’ve got wood!”

“I’m sorry?”

Ryan sniggered behind her.

More crackling. “…Aggie’s order for logs!”

“It’s Mr. Bishop,” said Ryan, and suddenly the world made sense again.

She buzzed the farmer in, and she and Ryan made their way around to the front of the house to meet him.

Mr. Bishop’s tractor was idling on the driveway. Behind it was a trailer filled with neatly chopped kiln-dried logs.

“Greetings, troublemakers!” he shouted from his cab. “Been getting frisky in any more sandpits lately?”

Ryan choked, seemingly on nothing, and Fred sucked in a breath. Mr. Bishop chortled merrily to himself at their discomfort.

“Permission to drive the old girl round to the wood store?” he shouted.

“Sure,” Fred returned, running on ahead to open the wooden double gates at the side of the house.

Together they stacked the logs in the woodshed and when they’d finished, Aunts Aggie and Cam arrived with a tray each of hot chocolate and warm mince pies.

“Right, I’d better be off,” said Ryan.

“Oh.” Fred couldn’t hide her disappointment.

“I’m on elf duty at the grotto later, and I need to get some roasting done at the shop before I leave.” He picked up another mince pie and dropped it into his top pocket.

Aunt Cam nodded approvingly.

“You didn’t get to show me your cracker coffee sachets,” said Fred, aware that she was finding excuses for him to stay. “Do you want to talk me through them, or tell me anything to pass on to Mum?”

“Um, no, it’s all pretty self-explanatory. Maybe discuss it between you and get back to me? I’ll probably be at the grotto till late tonight.”

She nodded. “You never stop, do you?”

He shrugged and grinned. “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop!” he growled, in a near perfect imitation of Mr. Bishop.

Mr. Bishop gave a roar of appreciation. “Was that supposed to be me? I’ll give you idle hands, Ryan Frost, you little toerag!”

Ryan dodged away from having his ear playfully cuffed by the elderly farmer, and called out, “See you later, all!” as he headed down the steep drive to his car.

The box Ryan had delivered was still on the workbench, and Fred lifted the flaps and looked inside.

The coffee was in sachets, about three inches square, which could be easily folded to fit into the cavity of a cracker.

The main body of the sachet was illustrated in a classic modern 1920s style with lettering to match.

A rich orange sunset with navy blue waves rolling toward tall green-and-white cliffs.

On the back was the flavor profile and instructions on how to make the best cup of coffee.

She couldn’t fault his designs. They made a stylish artisanal gift that suited Hallow-Hart Crackers in every way.

Like his shop and his coffee, this project had taken a great deal of thought, time and attention to detail.

She could feel the care that had gone into it.

Just like she could feel his passion for Coast Roast. These were the things that didn’t tally with the boy she’d once known.

The Ryan who left homework to the last minute, left everything to the last minute.

Who was always busy doing a hundred and one things, and starting a hundred and one more, and never finishing any of them.

The Ryan who only considered the future in terms of how the next day’s weather might affect his plans and whose name was synonymous with the phrase “happy-go-lucky.”

Or perhaps these things tallied precisely with a man who had matured emotionally, and learned to channel his flighty tendencies into characteristics that allowed him to soar; a thoughtful, ethically minded entrepreneur driven by an almost pathological enthusiasm.

This Ryan, it seemed, had retained all the things she had loved best about her childhood friend—kindness, a killer sense of humor, an aptitude for fun—and had gained some unexpectedly welcome additions.

This Ryan was turning out to be absolutely fricking perfect for her.