Page 29 of Under the Mistletoe with You

His bedroom door is firmly closed, and boy does he miss his bed already.The couch is small and old and in certain places there are springs that are a littletoospringy and dig right in.The chill in the air tells him it’s going to be a cold night, so he gathers every single blanket including the ones that are just to cover up how worn some of the inherited chairs look, and layers them up over him like a lasagne.Although it’s been a long day, it’s still too early to sleep.Maybe he can find something familiar to bake, he thinks to himself, as he’s probably stuck here for at least another day.So he gathers a couple of Christmas cookery books from the spare room and takes them to read in his nest.The Little Library Christmasand a frankly enormous Nigella one balance in his lap, and slowly he flicks through the recipes.

He doesn’t have any of the key ingredients for Christmas – not a single chestnut or sprout in sight.Naturally, he has an obscene amount of nutmeg and cinnamon downstairs but that’s not going to go very far without the rest.Before he owned the bakery, he’d be able to come up with alternatives, or even just dream up things irrespective of what was on his hurriedly scribbled inventory list.In the end, his brain whirrs too much for him to lose himself in the recipes.He sets them down on the floor and lies back, willing sleep to find him.

But here lies the problem.

The only way he’s managed to fall asleep for the last few months is by putting on a film.Practically speaking, he can still watch something.He has a bunch downloaded on his tablet, so he doesn’t have to turn on the TV, and he can use his headphones to listen so as not to wake Nash.Although, from the snoring currently rumbling from the bedroom, he’s pretty sure that Nash is completely flat out.

But he doesn’t watch just any film to fall asleep.He watchesNash’sfilms.And he’s not sure he could take the mortification of Nash walking in on Christopher watching one.

No, he’ll just have to fall asleep the old-fashioned way.

Except, his mind keeps turning to the snoring from the other room.No one else has been up here in months.

You get used to being lonely, he’s realised.It becomes a constant dullness.But now, amongst all this change and chaos, it feels magnified.Suddenly, Christopher can’t help but think that not being alone at night would be quite nice.

Time, his old enemy, returns to pass by excruciatingly slowly.Christopher is in for a long, lonely night.

Chapter Nine

Christopher

Christopher wakes with a start as an enormous crash resounds through the bakery below him.

What on earth was that?

He leaps to his feet, or at least, he tries to and spectacularly fails.Clearly, the part of him automatically reacting was operating on the presumption that he was in his bed.He’s so tangled in blankets that he sprawls over the coffee table and bangs his knees hard.

‘Christ!’he yells, kicking his feet free.

It’s still dark outside, and he has no idea if it’s the middle of the night or morning.Who would be breaking in on 22nd December?Did he even lock the front door after Nash arrived?

His mind races as fast as his pounding feet, as he whirls down the stairs and into the bakery kitchen.

Nothing could have prepared him for the sight before him.

First of all, everything is white.

Like,everything.

For a brief, horrifying moment, he imagines the café windows have smashed, letting in all the snow.But the white doesn’t seep through his socks.It’s not cold.And neither is the air ...well, no more than usual.

He scoops some up in his hand, and with a very different, rather confused kind of horror, he discovers it’s flour.

Why is there floureverywhere?

‘Christ,’ he mutters.

A rustle sounds across the kitchen, as if in response.

‘Who is there?’he barks, arming himself with a very big pair of tongs.He advances towards the noise, which seems to be coming from the other side of the huge work table that runs down the middle of the kitchen, makeshift weapon thrust forward.‘Show yourself.’

In reply, he hears a groan.‘A little help?’calls a familiar voice.

He rounds the corner of the table and finds Nash on the floor, flour-drenched.

‘What in the bloody hell are you doing in here in the middle of the night?’

‘It’s morning.’