One Christmas Morning & One Summer's Afternoon by Tilly Bagshawe Read Free Book Online

arrogant features break into a grin and felt suffused with loathing. Why was he such an utter, utter dick? And why could nobody else in Fittlescombe see it? OK, so he was handsome in a rough-and-ready, farmhand sort of a way. But it hardly made up for his fatally flawed character, his rudeness, his vindictive streak masked as humour.
    ‘He had a meeting about his son,’ she said stiffly. ‘It was last-minute and it couldn’t be helped.’
    ‘And you buy that, do you?’ Gabe asked casually, not taking his eyes off the road.
    ‘I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.’ Folding her arms, Laura stared out of the window in silence.
    Gabe responded by turning up the music, ejecting Coldplay and tuning into Radio 1. Some awful teen band were playing, one of those Christmas songs with synthesized sleigh bells and cheesy lyrics about snowflakes and children’s wishes. Gabe hummed along tunelessly, strumming the steering wheel in time to the music until at last they arrived at Briar Cottage.
    ‘I’ll walk you inside.’
    ‘No, thank you. I’m fine,’ said Laura.
    ‘I wasn’t asking,’ said Gabe. ‘It’s not gonna be my fault when they find you on your doorstep tomorrow morning, dead from hypothermia because you’ve forgotten your key.’
    The garden path was treacherously icy. In her flimsy loafers, Laura found herself slipping all over the place. Throwing her arms out wildly to try to get her balance, she ended up leaning on Gabe, whose work boots gripped the ice like crampons. Halfway to the door, without asking, he scooped her up under one arm as if she were a stepladder or a Nativity play prop, depositing her on the front step like a Christmas parcel. Blushing furiously, as much from anger as embarrassment, Laura jammed her key in the lock so hard she almost snapped it.
    ‘You might want to invest in some boots,’ said Gabe as the door swung open and she practically fell inside. ‘And an AA membership. Next time I might not be driving by.’
    ‘Oh no! What on
earth
would I do then?’ Laura said waspishly.
    Gabe scowled. ‘You might be a bit more grateful.’
    ‘And you might be a bit more—’
    ‘What? A bit more what?’
    He stepped forward, so he stood just inches away from Laura, his broad shoulders filling the narrow cottage doorway like a marauding Viking warrior. It was a challenge, and Laura’s cue to step back, but something kept her rooted to the spot. For a few seconds words failed her. They remained locked in standoff.
    ‘Never mind,’ she said eventually. ‘To be honest with you, Gabe, I’m cold and I’m tired and I would like to go to bed.’
    ‘Fine. Goodnight.’ Gabe turned to go, a look of cold thunder on his face.
Ungrateful cow.
    Just as Laura was about to close the door behind him, resisting with some difficulty the urge to slam it, Gabe suddenly changed his mind. Turning around he said bluntly, ‘He’s lying, you know. Daniel. He’s using you.’
    ‘Oh, my God!’ Laura practically screamed with exasperation. ‘Using me? Using me for
what
? Daniel’s an amazing, talented, phenomenally successful playwright with a flat on Pelham Crescent and God knows how many millions in the bank. I’m an unknown, ex-television writer with a defunct Fiat Punto, a fat dog and an
arsehole
on my doorstep who I’m going to be forced to work with every fucking day between now and Christmas Eve and whose sole purpose in life seems to be to make
my
life hell! What could Daniel Smart possibly,
possibly
want from me?’
    For a moment Gabe just stared at her. He’d never seen Laura lose her rag quite so comprehensively before. Her cheeks were flushed apple red, a combination of her high emotion and the biting cold, and her mass of dark curls had escaped their elastic band and fell to her shoulders in a gloriously tangled cascade. The overall effect was disturbingly sexy, but Gabe pushed the thought aside.
    ‘I’m not going to dignify
that
with an answer,’ he said coldly. Stalking