He seems to be hurting more than a broken arm would cause, but I’ve never broken anything, so I wouldn’t know.
Eventually he gets onto his knees and has to stop. His good arm is laid along a low shelf and his forehead is resting against it, his chest heaving as he pants for breath.
I go to ask if he’s okay, but it’s obvious he isn’t. ‘What happened to your arm?’ I ask instead.
‘I got knocked over,’ he says without looking up.
I freeze again. My fingers tighten on the amber stone I was fiddling with, hoping he’s going to elaborate, but he doesn’t. No. No … it can’t be. Obviously he doesn’t mean by me. Just now. When I knocked over the nutcracker and happened to break the exact same arm. That’s ridiculous. Even though I wished for a prince last night and the more I look at him, the more strongly he resembles a Disney prince. He’s like Aladdin, Prince Eric, and Flynn Rider got together and had all the best parts of themselves put into one person. He’s got Eric’s floppy dark hair, Aladdin’s wide-set brown eyes, and Flynn’s smile, and I feel every childhood crush coming back with a vengeance. It’s some kind of sign – it’s got to be. Obviously he can’t actually be the nutcracker come to life, but what if the whole nutcracker thing is some kind of nod from the universe and this is a sign? What if this guy really is the Prince Charming I’ve been waiting for?
When he looks up, there’s sweat beading on his forehead from the effort it’s taken him, but he gives me a soft smile that makes every thought disappear from my mind and my body goes hot all over, and I realise I’ve spent the last few minutes staring at him.
‘I’ll clear these up.’ I look away and start gathering up the mini bare-wood nutcrackers, anything to give myself something to do besides stare at him.
I take a couple of armfuls over to the counter, and he doesn’t look up again until I go back for the third and final lot. ‘At least it wasn’t the snowglobes. That would’ve finished the job for the multiple things that have been trying to kill me this week.’ He glances at the tiny globes lined up on the next shelf along. ‘And been a lot messier to clean up.’
It makes me smile as I put the nutcrackers down and go back to hold my hand out. ‘Now do you need a hand up?’
He smiles gently up at me and seems to consider it for a moment before reaching out and slotting his right hand into mine. My fingers close around his and I widen my feet and brace my knees and pull him up. Agony crosses his face as he stumbles to his feet and when he gets upright, he doesn’t let go of my hand, even as he leans against the shelf for support, short of breath again. I can’t imagine how badly that arm must be broken if it’s causing him this much pain.
Eventually he opens big brown eyes with dark circles under them and moves from holding on to my hand to shaking it softly. ‘Seeing as we’re shaking hands anyway, I’m James.’
‘Nia,’ I murmur, feeling ridiculously entranced by his eyes. They’re light brown, an unusual wood-like colour. You’d expect someone with such dark hair to have dark eyes, but his are so light they’re almost out of place. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Well, let’s just say it’s a good thing the painkillers from last night are still in my system or I wouldn’t be functional at all.’ He ducks his head and his hair flops forwards, and I can’t help noticing he’s around six foot tall – exactly the same height as the nutcracker.
Somehow, my hand is still in his, and we’re still mindlessly shaking them even though the introduction phase and the awkward phase have passed and we’re now just two strangers staring at each other and holding hands. A little tingle has sparked from the touch of his fingers and I can feel it gradually sparkling up my arm, across my shoulders, and down my spine, and it takes a long few minutes for me to realise I came here for a reason.
‘I’m so sorry about your nutcracker,’ I say in a rush.
‘My what?’ He blinks, looking dazed for a second, and then awareness seems to hit him hard enough to make him jump and he yanks his hand back and pushes it through his hair, which instantly falls across his forehead again anyway. ‘Oh, that. Don’t worry about it.’
‘I’m so sorry. I broke it, I have to pay for the damage.’ I don’t add “assuming you aren’t actually it come to life” to the end of the sentence. That would be one way to make an impression and not the good kind.
‘Oh, please. I couldn’t give a toss. You’ve done me a favour – I’ll mend it and sell it at a reduced price. It needed to be reduced anyway – believe me, no one is going to pay £926 for that thing.’
‘Yeah, but I damaged your stock. Everyone knows about the “you break it, you buy it” rule. I can’t afford it outright, but if you’d let me start paying—’
‘Nia, don’t worry about it. It doesn’t matter.’
‘Yeah, but—’ I start again, but he cuts me off.
‘It’s nice of you to offer, but forget it. It’s just another Christmas decoration – exactly what everyone needs around here.’
‘You work in a Christmas decoration shop …’ I say slowly, confused by his attitude. I thought he’d be calling the police to have me done for criminal damage given half a chance, and now he’s telling me I don’t even have to pay it off?
‘Exactly. I think there
