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Acknowledgements
Mum, thank you for putting up with the giant 6ft nutcracker in your living room for the past year! Unfortunately he didn’t turn into a handsome prince on Christmas Eve! Thank you for always being there for me, for the constant patience, support, encouragement, and for always believing in me. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Love you lots!
Thank you to an amazing author and one of my very best friends, Marie Landry, for making me feel not-alone in this strange year and for being a highlight of every single day. I’m so grateful for having you in my life! Caru chi!
Thank you so much to Lor Bingham at Calico Bespoke Gifts (https://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/CalicoBespokeGifts) for her endless patience and kindness in answering my questions about her gorgeous crafts and decorations to make sure Nia knew what she was talking about!
Bill, Toby, Cathie – thank you for always being supportive and enthusiastic!
An extra special thank you to Bev for always taking the time to write to me, and for always being so encouraging and supportive and kind!
Thank you, Charlotte McFall, for always being a tireless cheerleader and brilliant friend.
Thank you, Jayne Lloyd, for being such a good friend through hard times. Fingers crossed that 2021 will be a better year!
The lovely and talented fellow HQ authors – I don’t know what I’d do without all of you!
All the lovely authors and bloggers I know online. You’ve all been so supportive since the very first book, and I want to mention you all by name, but I know I’ll forget someone and I don’t want to leave anyone out, so to everyone I chat to on Twitter or Facebook – thank you.
The little writing group that doesn’t have a name – Sharon Sant, Sharon Atkinson, Dan Thompson, Jack Croxall, Holly Martin, Jane Yates. I can always turn to you guys!
Thank you to all the team at HQ and especially my fabulous editor, Belinda Toor – thank you for not laughing when I pitched an idea about magical nutcrackers!
And finally, a massive thank you to you for reading!
Keep reading for an excerpt from Snowflakes at the Little Christmas Tree Farm …
Chapter 1
I am never drinking again.
Please tell me that pounding, throbbing sound is not coming from inside my own head. I peel one eye open and severely consider not bothering to open the other one.
I’m slumped on the living-room floor and propped upright by the coffee table, with my face smooshed against the keyboard of my open laptop. My movement jogs the mouse and the dark screen comes back to life, and my eyes hurt at the sudden brightness. I wince and push myself away, instantly regretting it when my stomach rolls at the movement.
When I can bring myself to peer blearily at the screen, there are loads of new emails in my inbox – and most of the subject lines say ‘congratulations’. More spam, no doubt. ‘Congratulations, you’re the sole benefactor of a millionaire Nigerian prince. Give us your bank details and we’ll pop a million dollars straight into your account. Totally legit, honest.’
There are three empty bottles of Prosecco beside me, and my phone is worryingly nearby. Why do I remember squealing ‘thank you, luffly robot voice, we’re moving to Scotland!’ into the phone at some unmentionable hour of the night? While sitting on the living-room floor? With my computer? And my phone? I glance at the empty bottles again.
Oh God, Steve. On the desk in his office. With Lucia from accounting. That’s why I’d broken out the emergency Prosecco. And then the emergency emergency Prosecco. That bare bum thrusting in among the spreadsheets was enough to drive anyone to drink. I’d never seen it from that angle before. There in all its spotty, hairy glory. And all that grunting. Did he ever grunt like that with me? I’d always thought it was sexy, but when you walk into your boss’s office and find him humping your colleague on the desk, it sounds more along the lines of ‘stuck pig’. Which, conveniently, is exactly the way I described Steve yesterday, with a few choice swearwords thrown in for good measure, as I clambered onto a filing cabinet and announced to the whole office what had been going on, quit my job, and stormed out with a satisfying door slam. I’d then sat in the fire escape stairwell and let the tears fall, hurt and annoyed at myself for trusting him. I hadn’t, at first. I knew he flirted with everyone and didn’t really believe he liked me, but he was so charming, so believable, and I’d let myself be taken in. Why did I ever think it would be a good idea to get into a relationship with my boss? Why did I ignore the rumours that circulated the office about him? Why did I drink three bottles of Prosecco last night? Why … wait, why does that email say ‘receipt for your payment’? I must’ve gone on eBay and bought another pair of shoes that look pretty but, in retrospect, were obviously designed for women much younger than me and with much slimmer feet and more attractive legs than mine, who also possess some ability to walk in heels, which I do not.
I squint and move closer to the screen. That email’s from an estate agent. Scottish Pine Properties. I recognise the name because I’ve been daydreaming
