The Best Little Christmas Shop

  Home for the holidays…

  Icing gingerbread men, arranging handmade toys and making up countless Christmas wreaths in her family’s cosy little Christmas shop isn’t usually globe-trotter Lexi’s idea of fun. But it’s all that’s keeping her mind off romance. And, with a broken engagement under her belt, she’s planning to stay well clear of that for the foreseeable future…until gorgeous single dad Cal Martin walks through the door!

  Christmas takes on a whole new meaning as Lexi begins to see it through Cal’s adorable five-year-old son’s eyes. But, finding herself getting dangerously close to the mistletoe with Cal, Lexi knows she needs to back off. She’s sworn off love, and little George needs a stability she can’t provide. One day she’ll decide whether to settle down again – just not yet.

  But the best little Christmas shop in this sleepy, snow-covered village has another surprise in store…

  The Best Little Christmas Shop

  Maxine Morrey

  ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

  Contents

  Cover

  Blurb

  Title Page

  Author Bio

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  Endpages

  Copyright

  MAXINE MORREY

  has wanted to be a writer for as long as she can remember and wrote her first (very short) book for school when she was ten. Coming in first, she won a handful of book tokens – perfect for a bookworm!

  She has written articles on a variety of subjects, aswell as a book on Brighton for a Local History publisher. However, novels are what she loves writing the most. After self publishing her first novel when a contract fell through, thanks to the recession, she continued to look for opportunities.

  In August 2015, she won Harper Collins/Carina UK’s ‘Write Christmas’ competition with her romantic comedy, ‘Winter’s Fairytale’.

  Maxine lives on the south coast of England, and when not wrangling with words loves to read sew and listen to podcasts. As she also likes cake she can also be found either walking or doing something vaguely physical at the gym.

  Her website is: www.scribblermaxi.co.uk

  Email: scribblermaxi@outlook.com

  You can also find her on Twitter @Scribbler_Maxi

  On Facebook www.facebook.com/MaxineMorreyAuthor

  On Instagram @Scribbler_Maxi

  On Pinterest @ScribblerMaxi

  Thank you, as always, to James who continually believes in me, even when I don’t believe in myself, and for happily listening to me rattle on about imaginary people. Your love and support is what keeps me thinking I might actually be able to do this.

  Also, a big thanks to my editor, Clio Cornish. This book was a bit of a pickle at times, refusing to behave and I am so grateful to her for believing in it and helping bring it to fruition. Her kindness and willingness to listen has been incredibly appreciated. I’m so sorry we missed out on that cake and hope to rectify the situation very soon.

  I’d also like to thank the friends that have listened to the worries and accepted the cancelling of plans as deadline approached with good grace and understanding. Special thanks goes to Rachel Burton for her listening ear, wise words and brilliant humour.

  And finally, I want to say a huge thank you to my readers. I still can’t quite believe I get to do this and I know that none of it would be possible without you. For that support, I am eternally grateful. Thank you.

  For José

  Chapter One

  I dropped my bag on the floor, flopped face down onto my childhood bed, and let out a groan. This was so not how it was supposed to be. But then I’d learned that there were some things in life that no matter how much you planned or wanted them, just weren’t to be.

  Letting out a sigh, I wriggled over onto my back, staring up at the ceiling blankly for a moment before dragging myself up and wandering over to the squishy sofa that sat beneath the window, snagging my furry slipper boots on the way. Plopping down into the softness, I pulled the boots on before turning to look out of the window. Folding my arms across the back of the sofa, I leant my chin on them and peered out into the last vestiges of daylight.

  My room was separate from the rest of the house – a self-contained studio flat above the garage that my parents had created for me in my early teenage years, providing an escape from my three brothers. Not that we didn’t get on – I was lucky in that respect. But a girl still needs her own space and, more importantly, her own bathroom. The fact that Mum often used to come and sit with me clued me in to the idea that I wasn’t the only one using it as respite from all that testosterone.

  Mum and Dad had always wanted a girl. They never planned to have four kids and I was definitely a last-ditch attempt so there was some relief when I popped out. From the time I was born, I’d been dressed in, and surrounded by, more pink than was really acceptable, even for a very girly girl. And therein lay the problem. I was, very definitely, not the girliest of girls. I could have the prettiest dresses and the cutest little bunches but I was still coming home covered in mud, with scrapes on my knees and a big grin on my face.

  To their eternal credit, Mum and Dad were never disappointed and had never tried to force me into doing something I didn’t want to, or stop me doing the things I did. Trailing along after my brothers – Matt, Dan, and Joe – up to their elbows in car parts and wood and oil and mud, I was at my happiest. It was hardly a surprise then that my choice of career wasn’t traditionally feminine either, and after years of working my way up, I had been well on my way to becoming Chief Engineer for the number one driver in our team. But “had been” was definitely the operative term.

  My eyes drifted to the corner of the sofa where my old, much-repaired teddy bear lounged comfortably. I reached out and pulled him to my chest, folding my arms across him as my mind drifted back over the past year. I’d spent the best part of it trying to find another place that fit me so well as the Formula One world had, but after going from place to place, had come up with nothing that felt quite the same.

  I was therefore, at present, effectively unemployed. I’d been lucky enough to have never been in the position before and it was a distinctly odd feeling and definitely not one I was comfortable with.

  I let my gaze drift down to where weak, cloud-shrouded moonlight was now highlighting the bare branches of the huge honeysuckle bush that sat beneath the window. In the summer, its heady, intoxicating scent would drift up and fill the space. Now it just looked spiky, bare, and barren. There was a knock at the door and I rolled my head to see my eldest brother, Matt, enter carrying my case and another smaller bag.

  ‘Where d’you want these?’

  I shrugged. ‘There’s fine. Thanks, Matt.’

  He gave me a glance, ignored my instructions, and carried the luggage across the room, laying them next to the off-white French-style wardrobe and chest of drawers.

  ‘Any chance of a cuppa?’

  I let out another sigh and dragged mys
elf off the sofa and over to the tiny kitchenette. It had rarely been used for anything more than a sandwich and endless cups of tea and hot chocolate because, although I might have wanted a little independence all those years ago, I also knew that my mum was pretty much the best cook in the world.

  Big family dinners were our thing. It didn’t have to be a special occasion. The everyday was special in our house. It was fun, sometimes noisy – OK, always noisy – with plenty of discussion and a lot of laughter. I think that’s why I’d enjoyed the team atmosphere of work. We’d got on well and, being away from my family so much, it had provided me with a surrogate one.

  I boiled the kettle and pulled a couple of mugs out of the cupboard whilst Matt grabbed a pint of milk from the mini fridge that Mum had clearly stocked up earlier in the day.

  ‘I’d ask if you’re glad to be home but it’s pretty clear from your face that you’re not,’ Matt said as he plopped milk into our tea.

  ‘What?’ I looked up at him, genuinely horrified. ‘Of course I am!’

  ‘OK.’ He took a slurp, watching me over the rim of the mug. ‘But you are aware you’ve got a face like a slapped bum?’

  I rolled my eyes at him, picked up my mug, and took it back to the sofa, pulling the handmade quilt draped across the back of it over my legs as I sat down. Matt sat next to me, his mere presence calming me as it always had. He and I had always had a special bond. As the eldest, he’d seen it as his job to take care of all his siblings but especially me as the youngest, and being a girl. It didn’t matter how many times I tried to tell him not to treat me differently, I always got that little bit of extra attention from him. And secretly I loved it. Whatever happened, I always knew Matt would have something wise and comforting to say.

  ‘So, guess you’re really stuffed on your career then if you’re home?’

  All right. Maybe not always.

  I gave him a stony look. ‘Thanks for that.’

  He shrugged and took a sip of tea. ‘I’m sure you’ve got a plan. You always do, no matter what life throws at you.’

  I lowered my eyes and watched a traitorous tear splosh into my drink.

  ‘Lex?’

  ‘Hmm?’ I kept my gaze lowered.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Matt put his mug down to the side of the sofa and reach out to take mine. I made a half-hearted attempt to hang on to it for a moment but gave up. I was tired. It had been a long day of travelling and really, I was just tired of all of it, of putting on a brave face for everyone, pretending that everything was under control when the truth was quite the opposite. Matt tilted and dipped his head, forcing me to look at him.

  ‘What is it?’

  I just shook my head. ‘I don’t have a plan, Matt. I’ve tried everything. No one wants to take me on. As far as they’re concerned, I bailed on the team and broke my contract and all the previous years of utter and absolute commitment mean absolutely nothing. I’ve tried everyone I can think of. I thought normal stuff would be OK but just doing MOTs and basic repairs nearly sent me insane within a couple of weeks. I literally don’t have a clue what to do now. I’m effectively homeless, jobless, and I’ve apparently totally burned my bridges in the racing world. You’re right. I’m stuffed.’

  Matt took a deep breath, reached over one brawny arm, and scooped me up against him, wrapping the other one around me as I flopped dejectedly onto his chest.

  ‘You’re not stuffed. Something will work out. It might not be what you originally had in mind but it doesn’t necessarily mean it won’t be just as good. And you’re neither homeless nor jobless. You’ve got a home here – and you always will have. You’re not jobless either. The shop opens at nine tomorrow morning and there’s a tonne of Christmas wreaths that need to be made up. Since we got featured in that fancy magazine, the orders have shot up. We’re all chasing our tails trying to keep up with the demand and get everything out in time. I know you’re not thrilled to be home, but we’re thrilled you’re here.’

  ‘Only because you’re short-staffed,’ I grumped.

  Matt gave me a squeeze. ‘Don’t be a grouchy arse. You know that’s not the only reason. It’s nice to have you here. We all miss you.’

  My eyes started filling again. ‘I missed you all too.’ I shoved myself up and turned back to face him. ‘And please don’t think I’m not happy to be home. I am. You know I am. I guess it’s just in different circumstances than I thought it might be. I feel a bit like … I’m not sure who I am right now.’

  Matt gave a half laugh. ‘Lexi. You are you. You’re not, and never will be, defined by what job you do. You’re fun, intelligent, and apparently some blokes think you’re sort of pretty so –’

  I stuffed a cushion over his face and he waggled his arms and legs about comically and I found myself laughing properly for the first time in what felt like months. In fact, it probably was months. I took the cushion down, and Matt took big, dramatic breaths, his eyes wide.

  ‘You daft sod.’ I leant in on my knees and gave him a big hug. ‘Thanks, big brother. I really missed you.’

  Matt dropped a kiss on top of my head. ‘I know you did. I’d miss me too.’

  I sat back and shoved the cushion at him. He grabbed his tea and finished the last of it before picking up both the mugs and rinsing them out in the tiny sink.

  ‘Come on. Mum’s got a lasagne big enough to feed the whole village over there. Everyone else should be here by now too.’

  I hesitated in the quick brush I was giving my hair as part of the attempt I was making to pretend that I was totally put together and hadn’t just been having a blub. Not that it mattered. They’d all see straight through me anyway. Just like Matt was doing now.

  ‘Whatever it is you’re thinking, don’t,’ Matt said.

  ‘They’re going to think I’m a failure. That I should have made better decisions.’

  ‘Lex. They’re not. Not one person thinks that. At least not one person who matters. You made the only decision you could.’

  He was right. Deep down I knew that. Not that it made things any easier.

  ‘Stop thinking about it now. It’s done. And I’m hungry so stop faffing and come on.’

  I tossed the brush onto my bed and headed for the door. ‘Nag, nag, nag,’ I mumbled as I passed him, neither of us bothering to hide the big grins on our faces. As much as it was scary in one way, it felt unbelievably good to be home.

  Chapter Two

  A week later I was still up to my eyeballs in Christmas wreaths and in full realisation of what Matt had meant when he’d said orders had soared. The Four Seasons had started life as a quirky little gift shop many years ago – opened by my newlywed parents. It had a USP before that was even a thing in that it followed the seasons. In summer, it was stuffed to the roof with bunting, picnic blankets and baskets, tiki lamps, parasols and everything else you could think of, and plenty you hadn’t, for a perfect summer’s day.

  But now, in the grips of winter, it was overflowing with Christmas-related goodies and a warm, cosy ambiance. This was enhanced by a massive tree that had only just fit in the door and was topped off with classy but festive instrumental music playing softly in the background.

  Much of the stock was locally made, some by my family, others by friends, and the rest sourced from artisans both here and abroad. My parents had always loved discovering and nurturing new talent, although since Dad’s heart scare a couple of years ago they’d stepped back a little and my brothers now took it in turns to do the travelling for this side of the business, cramming it in around everything else including their families.

  From a little shop in the village, over the last forty years, the business had grown into a very successful online one too and my brothers still had more plans for it.

  The shop was part of my childhood, part of the fabric of my life. I’d actually taken my first steps in it, and growing up, I’d help choose new stock for the next season. Talking shop was never banned at our dinner table. It was positively encouraged
. My brothers and I had been chief toy testers for many years and now my nieces and nephews had taken over that mantle.

  Even though my own career had taken me out of the country for over half the year, my family had always made sure I was still included as much as I had the time for. Mum would email me a few pictures, or send me some product samples, asking what I thought. Depending on my mood, and how far away from home I was at the time, it was sometimes a bittersweet experience. I loved that they made a point of keeping me involved in any way they and I could manage, but I knew that had I been closer, I’d have been sat around the big, timeworn pine table discussing that same product with my family in person. Laughing, teasing, talking. And the truth was, I’d never stopped missing that.

  Running a business was hard work but the shop had grown along with our family and, as such, it was almost another family member. Even when it took nearly every minute of our time, we loved it. And, much to my surprise, I now found myself sat back behind the project desk next to the till and experiencing exactly what Matt had meant about orders having shot up.

  I put aside a completed wreath, gave a glance around my currently quiet surroundings, smiling at the warm fuzzies it set off somewhere deep in my soul, and began work on the next one.

  Winding mistletoe around the main structure, I held it up, eyeballing it and sussing where the holly would go. The process was remarkably soothing and although I’d been doing much the same thing for the past week, in between serving customers, I’d felt some of the tension I’d been carrying around for a long time very slowly begin to ebb out of me.

  Creating was good for the soul my parents had always said, and although I’d been taught some basic skills, I’d always been more interested in tinkering with the old Jag Dad had in the garage below my room. It was one of those projects he always meant to get around to but never had, and then his heart attack had happened. It had been a huge scare for all of us. Dad had always seemed full of life and indestructible – big and broad like my brothers – but his heart attack had brought us down to earth and now we all fussed him probably a little too much for his liking.