Christmas at Hope Cottage: A Magical Feel-Good Romance Novel(7)

‘No, stay,’ said Evie, patting the chair next to her.

Emma snorted. ‘That’s okay, thanks,’ she said, shuffling into the living room where she closed the door and leaned against it, fighting the sudden wave of nausea from her hazy vision as well as something else, a feeling that always came whenever she was here: the urge to get involved despite her better judgement; but she wasn’t going to get sucked back in to the family madness – not if she could help it.

She made her way to the sofa and closed her eyes. Waking up only to need a nap seemed like a bad sort of joke, but that’s what her life had turned into lately.



* * *



Emma woke up a few hours later when Pennywort started to scratch at the door to be let outside. Emma got off the sofa with some difficulty, crossing the flagstone floor into the now mercifully empty kitchen. When Emma opened the back door though, the breath caught in her throat; there across the low wall of their garden, next to a lolloping black Newfoundland dog, who looked almost as big as a baby bear, stood Jack Allen. Despite her hazy vision, she’d recognise him anywhere.

She felt her throat turn dry. Her knees turn weak. It had been four years since she’d seen him last, since she’d left Whistling in a storm of hurt and pain, with the vow that she would do whatever it took to get over him.

She’d almost succeeded – or so she’d thought. It was most unfortunate, she realised, standing there in her fluffy pink, dog-hair-covered robe, with one arm and leg in a cast, hair a wild, rust-coloured mess, to discover that somehow, despite everything, she still felt exactly the same way about him as she always had.





Chapter Three





Jack was gaping at her from across the garden wall, where he’d come to a complete stop, his dog barking at his heels.

Emma closed her eyes, fought for calm and lost. She’d been thinking of this moment for years, and what she’d do when she saw him again. Somehow it had never included standing in her fluffy robe, looking like an extra from The Walking Dead, wincing in sudden pain as her broken foot started to throb when she put pressure on it as she shifted on her crutch.

She’d hoped to get back inside the cottage before he saw her but it was too late. He’d already opened the low garden gate in a rush, his mouth forming her name in shock.

It didn’t help that, despite her fuzzy vision that still showed her most things in repeat, he looked, if possible, even better than she remembered. It wasn’t fair that age did that to men. As he neared she saw that his face was leaner, his features more defined. But it was the familiarity that made the ache in her chest bloom, an ache that was separate from her injuries. He was still the same, same trim, athletic build, same dark blond hair that he used to twirl with his fingers whenever he was thinking of something, same hazel eyes that crinkled around the corners and made her feel like the only girl who’d ever existed; a dangerous trait, because, as she knew, that wasn’t always true, was it?

Jack’s beautiful eyes were wide with concern now as they trailed over the purple bruises on her face, the scabs from where her face had grazed the road and the casts on her arm and leg. His hand reached out as if to touch her, then stopped, as if he remembered himself. ‘Emma! I heard you’d been in an accident but I had no idea it was this bad. What happened?’

She cursed Pennywort for needing to go outside at this exact moment. What was Jack Allen doing here now? This was not how she had wanted him to see her. If she had pictured seeing him again it was with her looking happy, dressed in something glamorous and in the arms of Pete, not in her pyjamas, with a face full of bruises, unwashed hair and a head full of scrambled senses.

She explained about the postal van, though she didn’t go into detail about her other injuries. There just wasn’t a casual way to bring up brain damage.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, staring at her.

She felt her stomach flip, wishing he wouldn’t look at her that way.

She bit her lip, looked away.

‘Thanks.’

There was an awkward silence, in which neither of them knew what to say to the other after how they’d left things four years before.

‘Look—’ he started but was interrupted by his dog, who was trying his best to mount Penny, to the old bulldog’s utter horror.

‘Sorry – he’s a bit too friendly,’ he said with a laugh, breaking the tension and pulling the bear-like dog away from Pennywort, who looked deeply affronted. Emma couldn’t help snorting at the bulldog’s outraged expression.

‘Well, I should probably go…’ said Jack hesitantly, his eyes darting past her to the door, which stood open behind them. ‘Don’t want Evie to come out and curse me,’ he joked.

She couldn’t help the furrow that appeared between her eyes. ‘You think she would?’

He looked embarrassed, his mouth opening, perhaps for some wry comeback that never materialised.

‘I thought the Allens didn’t believe in any of that.’

He laughed. ‘Yeah, well—’

There was a sound from behind and they both started.

‘Emma!’ said a voice she didn’t recognise.

She blinked, looking for the source. With the usual confusion of sounds and senses since her accident, she pictured stretches of long sandy beach, sunshine and cocktail umbrellas and tequila sipped out of short glasses. Then a tall handsome man, with an unruly mop of dark curly hair and large, laughing brown eyes, stepped out in front of her. He seemed to have been drawn in bold black lines; despite her patchy double vision, he, unlike everyone else so far, appeared in sharp relief. He was wearing black, from his long-sleeved V-neck sweater to his jeans and low, leather boots, yet somehow it was like he was in technicolour.