‘I was hoping you’d still be here.’
‘My favourite Grinch.’ I feel myself light up at the sight of him. The name is supposed to be an insult, but it no longer sounds like one. It might help if I could stop smiling so wide that my face is already aching. He’s only been here for half a second, but at least his smile matches mine.
He’s leaning on the doorframe with his good shoulder, and as I’m up a step on the shop floor, I’m taller than him for once. A section of his hair has flopped over his forehead and my nails dig into my palms as I clench my fists to stop myself reaching out to tuck it back.
‘What do I owe you?’
‘What?’ I look down at the wallet in his good hand.
‘For the gift-wrapping. I said I’d settle up with you later.’
‘Oh! God, don’t be so daft – you don’t owe me anything.’
‘No, really, it’s your paper, bows, ribbons, and most importantly, your time.’ His fingers work to pull a note out of the brown leather wallet and my hand shoots out to stop him, my fingers tingling as they cover his hand.
‘Don’t you dare. You don’t owe me anything, end of story. The world is a really sorry place if people can’t help out their broken-armed friends once in a while.’
He raises an eyebrow but I hold his gaze and he eventually looks down at my hand on his. ‘I got the impression your friend wasn’t happy with me.’
‘She’s just thinking of the competition between the shopkeepers. She thought you were taking advantage because I owe you for the giant nutcracker.’
‘You don’t owe me anything. Don’t worry about the nutcracker. You’ve given him a whole new lease of life …’
He doesn’t mean … No, it’s not possible. He means because it’s being mended, not because it came to life. Probably. I shake my head as my mind wanders off to the story of the ballet and the magical nutcracker prince again.
‘So how are you?’ My hand is still on his. Why is my hand still on his? Why am I not removing it? ‘You look better than you did last night.’
He grins and his cheeks take on a red tinge. ‘I’ve made an effort not to twist my upper body or steal any nutcrackers today, so I’m functional. Marginally.’
The zip of his wallet is sticking into my palm, but his warm skin is under my fingertips and it feels nice to stand here with my hand on his, like a little throwback to yesterday.
‘I wanted to see you anyway – I wanted to say thank you again for last night. I was too embarrassed to say much with an audience this morning, but I’m so sorry for the whole thing. Leaning on you, making you hold my hand, making you listen to my business woes … I think there was even singing at one point, wasn’t there? And then topping it all off by falling asleep on your sofa … I’m so sorry, Nia. Now you know why I don’t take those painkillers in public.’
My hand tightens on his. ‘You were fine. You have nothing to be embarrassed about. I’m just glad you’re looking better today.’
‘Do you have any idea how comfortable your sofa is? I haven’t slept properly since the accident, but using the cushions to prop myself upright meant I stayed in one place and didn’t put the pressure on my ribs that lying down does. I was so surprised when I woke up and realised I’d had a good night’s sleep.’
‘Good. No offence, but you looked like you needed it.’
He smiles up at me and I smile down at him and his fingers wriggle out from under my hand so they can curl over the top of mine and hold them tighter. ‘Nice jumper choice today, by the way.’
I glance down at my black jumper with a large rainbow-coloured Christmas tree in the centre of it. It’s so bright and cheerful that it makes me happy every time I look at it.
‘Sorry, you’re probably busy. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I should go …’ He looks vaguely back to the opposite side of the lane but makes no move to let go.
Why isn’t this weird? It should be weird, right? Standing here smiling, half-holding hands with someone who’s hardly more than a stranger. I didn’t get any extra work done last night and I should be going home early and getting some new things cut in my shed so I can paint them when the shop’s quiet tomorrow, but I can’t make myself push him away.
‘Thanks for your advice about the windows,’ I say in a burst of inspiration for a way to make him stay a bit longer.
‘It looks a lot better.’ He moves his hand out from under mine, puts his wallet back in his pocket, and wanders across to my side of the window on the left of the door, and I step out and follow him.
‘It’s still under construction. Stace had to leave early but we were going to change the whole thing. I thought of making it look like a living room to showcase my decorations with a small tree in the corner and a little wooden fireplace with some painted flames coming out of it, and then putting in miniature mannequins to look like a family wearing Stacey’s jewellery. We’re not sure what to do with the other side yet.’
‘You need to take out all these awful foil things.’
‘They’re not—’
He doesn’t let me finish the protest. ‘They might be nostalgic, but your products are buried by them. Standing here, I can’t tell what you make and what’s just a decoration you got from the pound shop to make the window look nice. I get that you’re trying to make it
