Tic-Tac-Mistletoe - N.R. Walker Page 0,64

for me to miss him so much after just three days? I wasn’t sure, but as I looked around my house, I considered taking all the Christmas decorations down but couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Instead, I sent him a quick text to let him know I’d arrived safe and sound, and it was nice knowing someone cared, someone that would worry and miss me should something have happened.

I knew he was having Christmas with Liv and Josh’s side of the family so I made myself busy cleaning out the fireplace and getting a new fire going. I put a soup on the stove for dinner, then Chutney and I cosied up on the couch when my phone beeped with a message.

Glad you made it. I survived socialising with a houseful of strangers for Christmas dinner, including one moody teenaged niece who didn’t get the phone she wanted, a three-legged cat named Hokey Pokey, and a drunk grandpa with a wicked sense of humour.

I laughed out loud as I read it.

Sounds amazing. Dare I ask about the cat?

Probably safer not to. Same with the grandpa. I’m traumatised and currently decompressing in my room pretending to unpack my suitcases.

I chuckled again. Sounds fair. I’m pretending to watch some terrible movie on TV but I’m really texting some hottie I met three days ago.

Anyone I know?

Maybe. He’s an Aussie guy, darkest brown eyes I’ve ever see, and a beard that I’m totally into.

Aww.

Oh, and he can’t drive in the snow.

Hey!

I laughed again. But my dog adores him and he makes me happy, and I can’t wait to see him again.

His reply took a second to come through. Same, Ren. Wish I was there with you right now.

That made my heart swell and ache at the same time. Soon, right?

Promise.

We’d agreed on next weekend, but that felt like a lifetime away. I took a selfie of me and Chutney lying on the couch and sent it to him. Night, Haims.

Night, Ren xox

I smiled at the xox, being tic-tac-toe and all.

I really missed him. I ached to be with him, to speak to him, to touch him, to hear him laugh. But if this was going to be a long-distance thing, I needed to get used to it. I refused to be sad about it, dwelling on what I was missing, and instead, I focused on the positives.

I’d met someone who made me happy, someone who made me realise I didn’t have to settle for loneliness.

And that was a very good feeling.

The next morning, Mrs Barton came into the store bright and early, carrying a stack of containers. I took them for her. “Morning,” she said cheerfully. “I brought you in all kinds of leftovers from our Christmas dinner.” Before I could argue, she put her hand up. “I can barely close my refrigerator door, there is so much food. Ham, potatoes, apple pie, you name it, we had it.” Then she sighed. “Now tell me, how was your day? I worried about you being alone on Christmas Day . . .”

“I, uh . . . I wasn’t alone,” I began. I briefly contemplated not telling her—I’d never discussed any of my relationships with her—but I was too excited not to tell her. “It’s a long story, but it began with a guy running his car off the road in that snowstorm.”

“Oh my,” she whispered, her hand to her heart.

“He was fine, he wasn’t injured or anything, but I took him home. It was snowing pretty hard, we needed to get him out of the cold. He’s an Australian guy who’d never driven in snow before.”

“And he drove in the snowstorm?”

I nodded. “Anyway, the short version is that his sister lives in Mossley, but his rental car had to be towed, and then Beartrap Road was blocked.”

“Oh, that poor man.”

“Yep. He stayed with me for a few days and I drove him to his sister’s place on Christmas Eve. I spent Christmas with them and came home yesterday afternoon.”

“Oh, that sounds lovely,” she said, her face all warm and rosy.

“Yeah, he is.”

She put her hand on my arm, her face suddenly serious. “Are you . . . ? Oh my word, Reynold. Are you and him . . . ? Does this young man have a name? What does he do for a living? He’s from where, did you say?”

I chuckled, relieved and a little embarrassed. “His name is Hamish.” I filled her in on the details and I knew damn well my stupid