Page 8 of One Last Gift

“Ah, you’re giving me too much credit. What if they’re all breaking my heart, hmm?” He reached out, prodded her teasingly in the ribs, and she swatted him away, then prodded him back. He grabbed her hand to keep her at bay, but held on to it. The cool tips of his fingers sent electricity humming over her skin. He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand.

She cleared her throat and, because she wanted to link her fingers through his, because she wanted to lean in, right in that moment, and press her lips against his, she pulled her hand back from his gently, and tucked her hair behind her ears.

“So,” Sam said, finishing his beer and showing no sign that he’d noticed her reaction. “Another drink, or shall we brave the rest of the slope?”

Cassie sighed. “If I don’t go now, I’ll probably wimp out for good.”

Sam laughed. “Right you are. Come on then, let’s brave Everest.”

Chapter Three

Sam unlocked the door to the chalet ahead of Cassie, having declared that it was too late to try to conquer another slope, which she was incredibly glad about—even if she suspected that he might just have said that for her benefit. And yes, she knew, logically, that she had to practice if she was going to get any better, but she’d rather do it at her own pace. There was a green slope, apparently—maybe she’d hire an instructor and do that one, and then there would be less pressure. Or maybe she’d admit that skiing, unsurprisingly, was clearly not her thing, and make the most of the chalet and the fireplace and the books she’d brought with her. For a moment, as she stepped in behind Sam and switched the light on, she imagined a scenario where her parents were still alive, and they’d all come on a family holiday together. Would it just be her, the wimp, staying indoors while the others went off up the mountains? Or would it be her and her dad opting for the quiet time? Her mum had been the brave one, she knew. So like Tom, who was utterly fearless.

Sam shut the door behind Cassie while she shrugged off her ski jacket and hung it up, trying not to react to his presence right there, so close. The warmth of the chalet cocooned them, Tom having done some fancy setting with the heating so it would be cozy for them when they got back, and Cassie headed for the kitchen, where the underfloor heating made the tiles warm, even on her now-bare feet. The whole place was like something out of a brochure; it reminded her a little of the cottage in The Holiday. It was all wood-paneled, and actually smelled of that gorgeous musky wood smell. The floor of the living space, right next to the kitchen, was wooden too, with a white, fluffy rug right by an enormous stone fireplace. A giant squidgy sofa with white blankets stood just off the rug, and two smart armchairs faced the centerpiece of the room—a little wooden coffee table, where a candlestick stood. Cassie had wondered more than once how Tom had found a place like this for the money they were paying, which, because of Hazel and her, was definitely not at the luxury end of the scale. He’d refused to tell her how much it cost, just asked for a specific amount, which made her suspect he might be paying slightly more to cover it. That hadn’t surprised her, even though she tried to talk him out of that kind of thing all the time.

Sam followed Cassie to the kitchen, and she looked over her shoulder at him. “Shall I make mulled wine?”

“Sure.” He frowned. “By ‘make’ do you mean ‘heat up’? Don’t you just buy the stuff from the shop? Do we have any?”

Cassie rolled her eyes. “There’s a better way to make it. And I’ve got the ingredients, don’t worry.” She took down a bottle of red wine, one of brandy, some cinnamon sticks, a bag of oranges, maple syrup and cloves. She’d picked it all up at the supermarket yesterday; they’d gone on a group outing as soon as they’d arrived here—Tom driving, Hazel and her in the back of the tiny rental car.

“All that, for one glass of mulled wine?”

Cassie laughed. “Yes. I might even make enough for two each, if you’re lucky.”

The chalet felt oddly quiet as she set about adding things to the pan and slicing oranges, and she felt the weight of Sam’s gaze on her, even with her back to him. So she was glad when he said, “Shall I put some music on?”

“Sure. Something Christmassy?”

He shrugged his agreement and crossed to the speaker on the table by the Christmas tree. She’d insisted they decorate it when they got here, and though all three of them had claimed she was ridiculous, taking off the decorations that had already been put up just so they could do it again, she thought they’d secretly enjoyed it. She’d even brought them each an ornament—a decoration that had been somehow broken, but which she’d fixed, so that it could keep being used. Although Tom, obviously, had refused to go along with just one color scheme, and now the tree was a bold combination of red, gold, blue, and silver. The presents they’d brought each other were already sitting underneath the tree, and Cassie knew her envelope from Tom was there right on top—the clue that would start her treasure hunt. He’d been getting more adventurous with it in recent years—the clues were no longer confined to the house, but took her on a journey around the local surroundings. She wondered what he’d planned this year, given he didn’t know the area. She didn’t doubt he’d have figured something out though—he was always creative with it.

Cassie heard Mariah Carey start up on the playlist Sam put on and smiled wryly to herself. “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” Well, quite.

Sam came back to the kitchen and leaned against the counter as she stirred the mulled wine. She glanced over at him. “It always makes me think of Linda’s pub, mulled wine,” she said, almost like a confession. It made her miss it, too. She’d loved working there, and she missed the easy banter with the customers—customers she knew, because the village was small enough that you knew everyone—missed Linda’s fussing, her easy and direct way. She waitressed in Leeds now, to help cover university costs, but it just wasn’t the same. It was a chain restaurant and it lacked…soul, she supposed.

“You still think you’ll open your own place, one day?” Sam asked.

Cassie hesitated, then shrugged. “Yes,” she admitted. “One day. I mean, I’ve got to work my way up first, get some experience, but I want to set up an events venue, I think. Maybe combine it with a B&B. And I could have weddings there, for instance, and then the bride and groom and the close guests could stay over. Or I could host, like, epic thirtieth birthdays. And it would be in the country, so people could feel like they were really getting away, and I’ll pick somewhere that’s a bit older, and I’ll do it up, make it loved again, and make it mine, you know, and…” She looked at him again, bit her lip. “Sorry, I’m ranting.”

He smiled. “I like hearing you rant. Shows you’re passionate about it.”

She nodded slowly. She supposed she was. And she sometimes felt stupid, that this was what she got excited about, although she couldn’t help it, could she? But she didn’t like the word: “passionate.” It always made her think of her parents, about how they died—how, afterward, everyone said that at least they died because they were doing something they loved, something they were passionate about.

Cassie finished stirring and ladled the mulled wine into two mugs, handed him one, blew on her own, and took a sip. It was a whole lot better than the shop-bought stuff the rest of them had wanted to get, if she did say so herself.

Sam’s phone buzzed and he slipped it out of his pocket. Cassie saw his lips tighten into a hard line. “Everything OK?” she asked automatically.

He flicked her a glance, said nothing. And she remembered that look. “Your dad?” she asked softly.

He hesitated, then nodded. “How’d you know?”

“You get this look…” She shook her head. Maybe it sounded like she’d spent too much time observing him. Maybe she had spent too much time observing him. “Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” He set his phone down, scowled at it, then sighed. “He was supposed to be coming to see me and Mum after New Year, when we get back from skiing. But obviously, he’s canceled. His new girlfriend needs him, apparently,” he added.

Cassie heard the edge of bitterness there. She reached out, laid a comforting hand on his arm, and squeezed.

“Anyway, whatever.” He looked at her, gave her a half-smile. “Nothing new, right?”