A Cornish Christmas by Lily Graham Page B

months?’
    He grinned. I did too – couldn’t help myself. ‘Small sacrifice,’ we both said together.
    â€˜Still... you could probably have half a glass of some champagne or something if you’re really desperate...’
    I made a face. ‘I’m rather desperate. But still... I don’t want to risk it.’
    He nodded. ‘Bad day?’
    â€˜Not exactly...’ I looked at him and cleared my throat. ‘I found my paint,’ I said, and searched his face for telling signs.
    â€˜Your paint?’ he asked, confused, staring at the ham, no doubt deciding where its Christmas future lay. Considering it was only November, the plan was obviously rather grand.
    â€˜My missing red paint?’
    He frowned. ‘Oh yes... was it all there when you looked again? Told you,’ he said, crossing the kitchen towards his cookery book collection. ‘You were overwrought when you came home with your mum’s desk, maybe you just didn’t see it.’
    My eyebrows shot up. Stuart was many things, a dear generally, with the most expressive eyes this side of Cornwall and a talented creative cook, who had the fabulous ability to look good in anything he wore. But he wasn’t an actor. Unless he took his cues from the Christmas ham, there was no way he would have been able to maintain that air of nonchalance.
    I sighed deeply and went back to sniffing the wine bottle. Dammit. I had really hoped that I wasn’t getting an all-express ride on the lunacy train.
    â€˜Chocolate,’ said Stuart suddenly.
    I paused from my sniffing. ‘With the ham?’
    â€˜No, bit too rich, I think. More of a steak accompaniment in the culinary stakes. I’m considering a classic honey glaze.’
    â€˜Glad to hear it,’ I said.
    â€˜With some wasabi, perhaps...’
    I sighed.
    â€˜I was thinking that perhaps some chocolate would make you feel a bit better... if you need a glass of wine?’
    I looked at him in surprise... See, he’s a dear. ‘I’m okay, thanks. The sniffing helps.’
    â€˜Okay, well, I’m fully prepared, just so you know. For the cravings...’
    I laughed. ‘You are?’
    â€˜Oh yes,’ he said mischievously. ‘I’ve thought of all the possibilities. The boot, pantry, fridge and freezer are fully cognisant of any eventuality... I did my research.’
    â€˜You spoke to Tomas?’
    â€˜I spoke to Tomas,’ he agreed.
    â€˜And what did Tomas have to impart?’
    â€˜Well, always have pains au chocolat on hand, condensed milk in the fridge and a tarte tatin in the larder... if you want to avoid having a cranky wife.’
    â€˜A cranky French wife,’ I corrected. ‘My tastes don’t run to condensed milk.’
    â€˜Well, to be fair, probably neither do the French wives. Tomas said he kept it for himself, to keep his energy up. He had two wives, you know.’
    â€˜ What ! At the same time?’
    â€˜No, one after the other. Sisters, apparently.’
    â€˜Oh... that’s... a bit, well, gross really.’
    â€˜Depends on the sister,’ said Stuart, with a lascivious wink.
    I laughed. ‘One of the few reasons I’m rather glad that I didn’t have a sister.’
    â€˜Pity!’
    I smacked him.
    He grinned. ‘No, I just meant it would have been nice.’
    I smacked him again.
    He laughed and backed out of my reach to safety. ‘For you... I meant for you.’
    â€˜Uh-huh. I believe you, but thousands might not,’ I said.
    He laughed, but said somewhat seriously, ‘Not sure how I would have handled The Terrorist without Smudge.’
    I nodded. This was very true. ‘Though Smudge is my sister too now, and Catherine... she’s always been like one.’
    â€˜Oh yes, always did like red-heads...’ he said, before running to hide in the pantry.
    â€˜Very amusing. I will have you say that in front of Richard