Mistletoe and Magic, page 11
“Shit,” Charlie muttered, pulling his collar up uselessly against the deluge. “So much for your weather forecast.”
Eva was too frustrated to muster a response and could only manage a huffed exhale. They were in the middle of the moors, the car park at least twenty minutes behind them. There was no point turning back on themselves, they had to dash forwards. Charlie spotted what appeared to be the only building for miles— luckily it was a pub. Although, it looked like it had grown out of the landscape itself, all weathered stone and tiny windows.
“Run for it,” he said, and so they did, Tilly leading the charge with the confidence of a dog who knew exactly where the warm fires and potential food scraps were.
They burst through the pub door in a spray of rain and Yorkshire mud, gasping and dripping onto worn flagstones. The pub—The Shepherd’s Rest, according to a crooked sign—was exactly what Eva would have imagined if someone had asked her to design the perfect countryside pub. Low beamed ceilings, a fire crackling in an enormous stone hearth, the smell of woodsmoke and ale and something cooking that made her stomach rumble.
Eva looked down at her filthy boots, then spotted the sign that read ‘muddy boots welcome’.
“Charlie Blackwood!” The bartender—a middle-aged woman beamed at them. “Haven’t seen you in donkey’s years. And you brought company!”
“Hello, Mags,” Charlie said, looking slightly embarrassed. “Just escaping the rain.”
“Course you are, love. Get yourselves by the fire. I’ll bring the blankets.”
They claimed a table near the fireplace, Tilly immediately curling up on the hearth rug like she owned the place. Eva peeled off her soaked coat, acutely aware of how her wet hair was plastering itself to her head in what was definitely not an attractive way.
“Here,” Charlie said gruffly, handing her his jumper. “You’re shivering.”
“Won’t you be cold?”
“I’m a Yorkshireman. We don’t feel the cold.”
The jumper was warm and soft and smelled like him—that mix of old books and wood shavings she’d noticed before. It was also enormous on her, the sleeves hanging past her hands, she looked like a child dressed in their parent’s clothing. But it was blissfully warm.
“Thanks,” she said softly.
Mags re-appeared with the fleece blankets. Tilly accepted one with the dignity of a duchess, allowing herself to be dried while maintaining eye contact with Eva the entire time, as if sharing some secret female solidarity about the silliness of men. Mags offered a knowing look that made Charlie scowl. “I’ll bring you both something to warm up with,” she said. “The usual, Charlie?”
“Please.”
When she’d gone, Eva asked, “The usual?”
“Tea,” Charlie said. “Properly made. None of that microwave nonsense you Americans do.”
“I don’t microwave tea!”
“You tried to once. I can tell.”
The horrible thing was, he was right. Eva had definitely microwaved water for tea in her college days. “That was years ago. I’ve evolved.”
“Have you?” He was almost smiling. “Next you’ll tell me you’ve stopped putting ice in everything.”
“Now you’re just being culturally insensitive.”
“Am I?”
The tea arrived, along with what Mags called ‘a little something to keep you going’—which turned out to be enormous slabs of fruit cake that could have doubled as building materials.
Eva bit into hers and made an involuntary sound of pleasure. “Oh my God. This is incredible.”
“Mags makes it herself,” Charlie said. “Family recipe going back generations.”
“Everything here goes back generations,” Eva observed. “It’s like the whole country is built on layers of history.”
“That’s exactly what it is,” Charlie said holding his hands up to the firelight. “Layer upon layer, each generation building on the last. Sometimes it feels like the weight of all that history will crush us.”
“Is that why you make maps? To document it all?”
Charlie was quiet for a moment, staring into his tea. “I make maps because there’s a permanency about them that’s pretty comforting, to be honest. Streets don’t just pack up and move to London. Buildings don’t decide they’ve found something better. They stay where you put them.”
The pain in his voice was so raw that Eva reached out instinctively, her hand covering his on the table. He looked down at their hands with a slightly crumpled brow, like he never had someone try to connect to him in this way before.
“People leave,” he said quietly. “It’s what they do. My parents couldn’t wait to get out of York. Important jobs, important lives somewhere else. Left me with Gran when I was seven. Came back for Christmas sometimes, when they remembered.”
“Charlie …”
“My ex-fiancée left too. Sophie. Said York was too small, too limiting. Said I was too focused on the past, not ambitious enough.” He laughed bitterly. “She’s in New York now. Marketing executive. Probably has the life she always wanted.”
Eva squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry.”
“Gran was the only one who at least tried to stay. And even she …” He trailed off, then seemed to shake himself. “Anyway. That’s why I don’t believe in fairy tales. The happy endings from those books you were swooning over earlier. People don’t stay. They don’t choose love over opportunity. They leave, and you learn to be okay with that.”
“Your grandmother must have loved you very much,” Eva said carefully.
“She did. But she understood the weight of leaving too. She never got over someone who abandoned her.” Charlie pulled his hand away, wrapping it around his mug. “She waited for him. He was supposed to come back to her. He never did. She married someone else eventually, had a kid, made a life. But she never forgot him.”
“Maybe he tried—”
“Don’t,” Charlie cut her off. “Don’t romanticise it. He left. She spent the rest of her life telling stories about love while never believing she deserved it herself. That’s not romantic. It’s just sad.”
Charlie turned himself away from her, avoiding her gaze. Music drifted from the pub’s ancient sound system—something that sounded distinctly American. Charlie’s demeanour appeared to soften slightly, and he hummed along under his breath.
“Is that … country music?” Eva asked, grateful for the change of subject.
Charlie flushed slightly. “Maybe.”
“You like country music?”
“The old stuff. Real country. Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline.”
“Those are the only two country artists British people ever name,” Eva teased. “Like when Americans say they like British music and only mention The Beatles and The Rolling Stones.”
“Fine,” Charlie said, sitting up straighter. “Willie Nelson. Merle Haggard. Loretta Lynn. Gram Parsons. Emmylou Harris.”
Eva stared at him. “How do you know Gram Parsons?”
“Gran loved him. Said his music understood heartbreak.” Charlie was definitely smiling now. “Used to play Grievous Angel on repeat after too much sherry.”
“Your Yorkshire grandmother listened to cosmic American music?”
“She contained multitudes.” The smile faded. “She always said she should have been braver. Should have chased what she wanted instead of just accepting what was expected.”
The song changed, and Charlie hummed louder, actually tapping his fingers on the table.
“What is this?” Eva asked.
“Ray Charles,” Charlie said. “I Can’t Stop Loving You. Pure country heartbreak.”
“Ray Charles isn’t country!”
“This song is. Don Henley wrote it. Pure Nashville heartbreak.” He was grinning now, actually grinning. “Americans. You don’t even know your own music history.”
He started singing along, quietly at first, then louder when Eva laughed. His voice was surprisingly good—rough around the edges but with real feeling.
“You’re ridiculous,” Eva said, but she was smiling so hard her cheeks hurt.
“I’m from Yorkshire, Eva” Charlie corrected. “We’re never ridiculous. We’re ‘characters’.”
Eva smirked at his remark, laughing and rolling her eyes. It was then that Eva noticed the sprig of mistletoe hanging from the beam above their table. Her laughter died in her throat. Charlie followed her gaze and went very still.
“Ah,” he said.
“Yep,” Eva agreed.
They stared at each other across the table. The fire crackled. Ray Charles crooned about heartbreak in the background. The rain hammered against the windows like it was trying to get in.
“Well, rules are rules,” Charlie said finally.
Eva’s heart was doing something complicated in her chest. “What? I mean, I know it’s tradition but come on Charlie don’t be ridiculous …”
Charlie stood slowly and came around to her side of the table. Eva tilted her face up as he approached her. Shit, this is happening then. Anticipating his lean in, her eyes fluttering closed, and—
He kissed her forehead. Gently, sweetly, like a blessing.
Eva’s eyes flew open. Charlie was grinning again, that rare, transformative expression that made him look years younger.
“Technical compliance, tick,” he said. “I’ll get us a fresh pot of tea.”
He headed to the bar, leaving Eva touching her forehead and trying to remember how to breathe. Tilly looked up from her spot by the fire with what Eva could swear was amusement. “What the hell just happened Tills?” she whispered at the dog. The dog’s tail thumped once, twice, in what was definitely approval, and she made a soft ‘hmmph’ sound that seemed to say ‘well, it’s a start, I suppose’.
When Charlie returned, teapot in hand, the awkwardness Eva expected didn’t materialise. Instead, something had shifted between them, like a door opening just a crack to let light through.
“So,” he said, settling back into his chair. “Your turn. What are you running from?”
Eva laughed, but it came out shaky. “What makes you think I’m running?”
“You changed your holiday destination last minute, came to York alone with no plan, and you’re following the trail of a woman who died years ago. That’s not exactly typical tourist behaviour.”
Eva stared into her tea, trying to gather courage. Her go-to reaction here would be to deflect. She didn’t like being the centre of attention, having any kind of focus solely on her. People say ‘a problem shared is a problem halved’ but somehow Eva had never felt that way. Sharing felt like being a burden. She never wanted to put herself on anyone or cause any problems. Taking a moment to reflect on how Charlie had opened up earlier about the darkest parts of himself, she sighed. Then, surprising herself, she felt the words she’d been bottling up inside spill from her lips. She told him everything. About Richard, about the promotion she didn’t get, about a life that looked perfect on paper but felt like wearing someone else’s clothes. About her mother’s expectations and her own fear that she’d never be enough.
“I’ve spent my whole life being what other people wanted,” she said. “Good daughter, good girlfriend, good employee. And where did it get me? Dumped in a steakhouse by a man who thinks my dreams are too dreamy, while simultaneously thinking I’m not ambitious enough.”
“Sounds like a tosser,” Charlie said with feeling.
“He was. Is. But I chose him, didn’t I? Because he fit the image. Because my mother approved. Because on the surface he looked right for the life I was supposed to want.” She pulled Charlie’s jumper tighter around herself. “I’ve got to this point in my life and I don’t even know what I actually want. How pathetic is that?”
“It’s not pathetic,” Charlie said quietly. “It’s human. We all do it—build lives based on other people’s blueprints. Then we wonder why they never quite fit.”
“Is that what you did?”
“In a way.” He considered his words. “I stayed in York because it’s safe. Because things are consistent, predictable and secure I guess. But maybe that’s just another kind of running, isn’t it?”
They sat, watching the fire, the perfect excuse for things left unsaid. The rain had softened to a steady patter, less violent but still insistent.
“Your grandmother,” Eva said eventually. “She sounds like she was amazing.”
“She was,” Charlie agreed. “Complicated and sad and brilliant. She used to say that love wasn’t about grand gestures or perfect moments. It was about choosing to stay and stick it out when leaving would be easier.”
“But the man she loved left.”
“Yeah.” Charlie’s voice was soft. “I think she never forgave herself for not going after him. For choosing duty over love. She made peace with her life, I think, but she never forgot him.”
“But—”
“We should probably head back,” Charlie broke her off, clearly done talking on the subject for now. “Florence will send out a search party if we’re gone too long.”
The rain had finally stopped, leaving the world washed clean and gleaming. They made their way back to the Land Rover, Tilly bounding ahead to claim her spot in the middle.
“Thank you,” Eva said as they drove back through the transformed landscape. “For telling me about your grandmother. And for the terrible country music education.”
“Ray Charles is a genius,” Charlie insisted. “And you’re going to admit it eventually.”
“Oh he is, I agree there.”
He glanced at her, then back at the road. “Listen, I have some friends.”
“That’s nice,” Eva cut in, before she could help herself.
“Yeah well,” Charlie continued, staring straight at the road. “A Christmas dinner. Just friends, nothing fancy. You should come.”
Eva had to pause. Did he just ask her to meet his friends? For dinner?
“Are you inviting me out of pity?”
“I’m inviting you because Tilly insists,” Charlie said. At her name, the dog’s tail thumped against the seat. “See? She’s very persuasive.”
“Well, if Tilly insists …”
“She does. Vehemently.”
The drive back was quieter but not uncomfortable. Eva found herself getting drowsy, the warmth of the car, Charlie’s jumper and the emotional weight of the day all catching up with her. Tilly had migrated mostly onto her lap, a warm, breathing blanket.
She must have dozed off, because she woke to the sensation of Charlie’s fingers gently moving a strand of hair from her face. His hand lingered for just a moment, and she kept her breathing steady, not wanting to break whatever spell had allowed this tenderness. She felt Tilly’s tail give the slightest wag, as if the dog was awake too, in approval of this development.
“It’s always best not to get too close,” he murmured, so quietly she almost missed it. “She was right about that. You can’t rely on people to hang around, no matter how you feel. No matter how much you want them to.”
Eva wanted to open her eyes, to tell him he was wrong, that some people did stay. But something in his voice—the raw honesty of someone speaking to themselves—kept her still.
They drove the rest of the way in silence, Eva pretending to sleep while her mind raced. Charlie Blackwood was a man built of defences, each one carefully constructed from the disappointments of people who’d left. But today, in a pub in the middle of nowhere, she’d seen through the cracks.
And despite all her resolutions about self-discovery and not needing a man, Eva Coleman was beginning to suspect she was in trouble. The kind of trouble that came with grumpy mapmakers who sang country music and kissed foreheads under mistletoe and looked at their dogs like they’d had no greater best friend.
The kind of trouble that felt dangerously like coming home.
Chapter Nine
Mates and Mince Pies
A bomb had not, in fact, gone off in Eva’s room at The Riddle & Quill, despite all evidence to the contrary. Her suitcase lay defeated and empty on the floor, having vomited its entire contents across every available surface. Sweaters draped from lampshades, jeans hung from the wardrobe door like surrendered flags, and a particularly optimistic sundress—what had she been thinking?—lay crumpled in the corner like a tropical casualty of Yorkshire winter.
Eva stood in the centre of the chaos, wearing only her underwear and an expression of pure desperation, her phone propped against the mirror with the selfie camera on. The ancient mirror only showed her from the shoulders up, but her phone’s screen revealed the full catastrophe of her seventeenth outfit attempt.
“This is hopeless,” she muttered, pulling off yet another sweater—too formal? Too casual? Too American? She tossed it onto the bed, where it joined its rejected brethren in a soft mountain of knitwear. “Why do I own so many beige things?”
She reached for a deep green cashmere sweater, pulling it on and studying her phone screen critically. Dark jeans—safe choice. The green sweater—nice but not trying too hard. She did a slow turn, checking every angle like she was preparing for a red carpet instead of a pub dinner with people she’d never met.
“Ridiculous,” she told her reflection, both in the mirror and on the phone screen. “It’s just dinner. With strangers. Who happen to be Charlie’s friends. Who will definitely judge the American who destroyed his Christmas market stall with mulled wine.”
But something about the evening felt important—like a door opening to a part of Charlie’s life he kept carefully guarded. And Eva, much to her own surprise, very much wanted to step through that door without looking like she had got dressed in the dark. Or in a bomb site.
She grabbed a scarf—no, too much. Earrings—too fancy. Simple studs—better. One final check on the phone camera, then she surveyed the destruction around her. The room looked like a discount clothing store had got into a fight with her suitcase, and both had lost. This was a problem for late evening Eva.
The sound of muted mumbling voices from the floor below caught her attention and she froze. With one last mirror-twirl Eva was spiralling into panic mode. Charlie was right on time, of course. She grabbed her coat and started frantically shoving clothes under the bed, into drawers, anywhere they wouldn’t be immediately visible if Florence happened to walk by her open door.
