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The Present: The must-read Christmas romance of the year!
Charlotte Phillips
This book can also be read with The Present by DS Devlin. Two books, one unforgettable Christmas…12 magical gifts, one love that lasts a lifetime…On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me … one romantic Christmas you won’t forget.When helping to clear out her beloved grandmother’s home, Lucy Jackson discovers twelve beautiful Christmas decorations hidden in the loft. As she discovers their heartbreaking story, a touching romance develops with the handsome gardener next door.Readers love Charlotte Phillips’ The Present:‘A gem of a Christmas read…fabulous’ Rachel’s Random Reads‘A charming, unashamedly romantic tale…perfect for an afternoon in front of the fire with the christmas tree lights on’ Jane Hunt Author Book Reviews
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017
Copyright © Charlotte Phillips 2017
Cover images © Shutterstock.com (https://www.shutterstock.com)
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017
Charlotte Phillips asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008272760
Ebook Edition © December 2017 ISBN: 9780008272753
Version: 2017-11-13
Table of Contents
Cover (#u5f542d50-f5a8-531c-aaf8-3b50d7863fc4)
Title Page (#u5ca755a7-1723-58b8-bc3f-96b1cd9bad53)
Copyright (#u3ecb4a6f-ab2a-5d12-a040-6c1fbf335257)
Dedication (#u07bb55af-6ee9-580c-b0c0-a1db7ca9de43)
Chapter 1 (#ua6f32ec4-f366-551f-b09c-13a4383f6436)
Chapter 2 (#u4778a003-9fef-5baf-b312-05945b8e6741)
Chapter 3 (#u499182f0-8634-57bc-90b1-afcade6f488a)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
For Sam, Lib & Gem, with lots of love.
Chapter 1 (#u9a30f89f-7f1f-548e-9d95-0b0e30fb78fa)
Clearing out Gran’s attic had seemed pretty straightforward right up until the point at which Lucy Jackson fell through the floor.
Okay, so there was the amount of stuff. Turned out there was a simple reason why Gran had kept such a tidy home that had nothing to do with housekeeping skills of a bygone age. It was because there was seventy-odd years’ worth of clutter filling the bloody roof. Stack after stack of boxes, an old clothing rail hung with dust covers, black bin liners bulging with who-knew-what, odd bits of furniture. From Lucy’s vantage point, currently waist deep in a hole in the attic floor, she could see a pile of photographs spilling from a nearby box, the topmost one of a smiling toddler in the arms of a skinny young woman in shorts and a halterneck top. They shared the same honey-coloured curly hair. Typical. There must be a few hundred pictures in this loft, and she had that one in her sightline, like what she really needed right now was a reminder of her mother, currently AWOL somewhere in the Mediterranean while Gran was struggling in hospital. Despite the jaw-dropping size of the tat pile, which spoke of a serious hoarder, it had, right up until ten minutes ago, been just a simple matter of transferring it all from the top of the house to the bottom.
If it hadn’t been for the box.
Even in the dim light from the one dusty bulb, it had looked expensive. A wooden box with a curved lid, the kind of box that might organise a jewellery collection, the kind of box that Gran would surely have given pride of place in her bedroom instead of shoving it away up here out of sight. It had been sitting all by itself in the furthest cobweb-filled corner, in a place where the sturdy attic floorboards ended and where the thin board between the wooden joists looked as if it might not hold the weight of a thirty-year-old who was half a stone short of reaching her target weight but who had abandoned dieting because Christmas, with all its cheese and crackers, was only a few weeks away. She had taken a tentative step towards the box, and added her weight slowly. She had stretched her arm out, and her fingertips tantalisingly brushed the lid, drawing soft lines in the dust that coated its polished surface. There had been a small creak, but nothing serious, it was obviously going to hold, so she relaxed and lunged forward.
The room disappeared from view in a cloud of dust and plaster as she plummeted through the attic floor with a yell and a splintering crash.
As the dust cleared, she could see the box, still sitting smugly just out of reach in the dusty corner. While she was now stuck waist deep in the floor. Unless she could muster up some kind of help she would most likely still be here come teatime. Gran had been in hospital for a week, and Rod wouldn’t miss her for hours yet, not until he arrived home from work on the dot of seven and wondered where – her mind automatically scrolled through their weekly meal plan – the chicken stir-fry was.
What the hell was she doing thinking about food? She must be in shock. Mentally slapping herself, she suddenly remembered Gran’s handyman, last seen half an hour ago through the window as she climbed past it on her way up the loft ladder, outside shoring up the garden fence. Not her first choice of rescuer. With a build like Tom Hardy and a trail of adoring girlfriends in his wake, Jack Marchant was perfect for admiring from afar while smugly knowing you’d bet on the safe and dependable option who would never break your heart. Gran was forever gossiping about Jack’s latest conquests. Having bet on the safe option however, didn’t make it palatable to look a total numpty in front of the hot option, and so she did a quick mental run-through of all her other choices, of which there really were none. The joist she was leaning on gave a warning creak, and, discarding her pride, she gathered all her strength together, took a deep, dusty breath, and yelled at the top of her voice.
‘HELP!’
She waited and listened. Absolutely nothing. Nothing but another creaky, splintering sound as she shifted her weight a little against the joist. The unpleasant fact crossed her mind that she could probably shout as long and as hard as she wanted to, but she might still be stuck fast for hours. She opened her mouth to yell again, this time adding in some real top-of-the-lungs volume, just as Jack Marchant’s head and shoulders appeared through the loft hatch. He had tousled dark hair, strong cheekbones, and eyes that crinkled a little at the corners, as if there was the slightest amusing thing about her current situation. It was too late to stop the yell, and he screwed his face up as it echoed through the attic. Even her own ears rang with the force of it.
‘I’m not sure they heard that in Central London,’ he said, pulling himself up easily and sitting on the edge of the hatch.
She made an apologetic face.
‘Sorry. I went for full volume because I thought I’d be stuck here for ever.’ Her face felt hot underneath its coating of plaster dust. He looked as if he’d walked off a film set, with his tool belt and his work-shirted broad shoulders, and she suddenly felt very stupid, buried in the floor. ‘I didn’t expect anyone to turn up in the first two minutes. What are you, a superhero?’
He winked at her.
‘I could be.’
For goodness’ sake.
‘I also do gardens and building care. I just save the world in my spare time.’
She stared at him, and he grinned back at her.
‘I came in from the garden to fix that dodgy window in the kitchen, so I could hear you crashing through the floor.’
He made it sound as if she were a baby elephant.
‘You need to keep your feet on the joists, or make sure you stay on the boards at that end.’ He jerked a thumb to the other end of the loft where the lifetime’s worth of clutter was piled up.
‘I know that,’ she said, nettled. ‘I’m not a complete idiot. There’s a box over there in the corner, balanced on that joist. I was trying to snag that. I honestly thought that if I was careful there wouldn’t be a problem.’
‘Without the boards put across, these places just aren’t made to bear that kind of weight.’
Losing patience with the general implications that she was heavy, which he was doing absolutely nothing to dispel, she made another futile attempt to pull herself up, struggling to free her legs. Bits of wood and plaster splintered and chipped, and something gave underneath her, making her squawk in fright.
‘Stay still for heaven’s sake,’ he said. ‘The whole thing could go at any moment.’
He stood up quickly, and balanced on the joists, his head bent to avoid the ceiling.
‘If you’re trying to get me to stay calm, you need to work harder,’ she squeaked.
‘Just don’t bloody move, and you’ll be fine,’ he said, moving carefully, keeping his feet on the cross-joints.
‘Do you think you can get me out of here?’ She could hear the edge of panic in her voice. ‘It’s Jack, isn’t it?’
He nodded.
‘’Course I can. Just let me work out how best to do it.’
‘I’m Lucy.’
‘I know,’ he said. He walked around her, effortlessly sizing up the situation. She looked up at him from the floor feeling totally foolish. ‘Your gran talks about you all the time.’
Oh, just bloody great. She hadn’t considered that gossip worked both ways. Lucy could just imagine Gran making him a brew and forcing home-made cake on him while she held up his work, chatting non-stop about her granddaughter. She closed her eyes briefly. She badly needed to get her head around the idea of Gran no longer being formidable and full of energy. Her soldier-on façade had been so effective that Lucy had continued to think of her as managing perfectly well for far too long. This most recent fall had made that glaringly clear.
‘I’ve seen you around, obviously,’ she said.
Obviously. He was pretty hard to miss, with his super-fit physique and jeans-and-work-boots combo. As he worked in the daytime and Lucy was generally around more in the evenings, there hadn’t been much opportunity to say much more than a quick hello, but she’d been increasingly aware of his presence over the last year or two. Another sign that Gran, a keen gardener herself, was doing less while he was doing more. Another sign that Lucy should have stepped in earlier.
‘Grab onto me and I’ll haul you up,’ he said, at last, bracing his feet on the joists and leaning forward. Before she could suggest any alternative, possibly one that didn’t involve him being in her personal space, he slid one muscular arm around her waist and snapped away bits of broken wood with his free hand. Her face was pressed briefly into the soft fabric of his shirt. He smelled of wood and furniture oil and warm skin. She clutched at his shoulder as he started to pull her. If he happened to let go now she would go straight through the floor.
‘I’m not going to let you fall, okay?’
There were splintering and scraping sounds as he pulled her up, and then suddenly she was blissfully free of the floor. He placed her down carefully, making sure she put her feet on the joists. She noticed he didn’t rush to take his arm away, supporting her as she found her footing.
‘Are you hurt?’
The right leg of her jeans had a long and ragged rip in it, and her knee throbbed a bit. He crouched and examined her leg gently.
‘Well, there’s my pride …’ she said.
He looked up at her and gave a half-smile, which to a different girl in different circumstances might have been heart-melting, but in her case could only be interpreted as sympathetic. There was dust in her hair, dirt smeared on her clothes, and he’d just seen her at possibly her most undignified.
‘You’ve got quite a graze there,’ he said, standing up. ‘It’ll need sorting out. Let’s get you downstairs.’
‘So you do medical treatment too?’ she said, batting his arm away as he tried to help her across the attic and back to the hatch. ‘I can do it, I’m fine.’
‘I’m a superhero,’ he said. ‘I do everything.’
‘In that case, would you mind grabbing that box without falling through the ceiling?’ She nodded at the wooden box, still nestled safely in the corner among the cobwebs.
No way was she was going through this humiliating experience and still not have the box to show for it.
Jack watched as she negotiated the loft ladder and then walked downstairs, clearly trying to give the impression that she was completely unscathed when the graze on that leg must hurt like a bastard. She clearly had no clue how close she’d come to breaking her bloody neck. The crash had sounded as if half the roof had fallen in. He stood by until she hobbled into the kitchen, by which point he could no longer help himself.
‘Sit down, will you?’ he said, exasperated, taking her firmly by the shoulders and pulling out the nearest chair with his foot. ‘That leg obviously needs looking at, and you’re fooling no one with the gritted teeth.’
She frowned up at him, but didn’t argue. He pulled out a second chair and lifted her foot onto it. Half the right leg of her jeans was hanging off and he could see a bleeding scrape underneath.
‘I can either cut these off or rip them,’ he said.
‘That’s a bit brutal, they’re my favourite jeans,’ she protested. ‘Isn’t saving them an option?’
He held up the enormous ragged flap of denim that was practically hanging by a thread.
‘Seriously?’
She made a huffing noise and sat back, resigned, while he grabbed the Stanley knife out of his tool belt and cut the fabric away. Her shin was one long graze, fortunately not too deep.
‘Where does Olive keep her first-aid stuff?’
She pointed at the high corner cupboard. He found antiseptic wipes and dressings, and she held her hand out for them impatiently.
‘I don’t have time for this, I’ve got tons to do,’ she grumbled as she scrubbed the wound with an antiseptic wipe. ‘That attic up there is like something from “Hoarders: Buried Alive”. I’ve got four weeks off work to sort the house out, and as if that isn’t enough, there’s bloody Christmas to organise.’
