I turned, biting back a smile. He was seated at his table, sleeves now rolled up exposing his surprisingly muscular arms, his tie was gone and had a faint flush on his face from the heat. The sight was… unexpectedly nice.
“Move closer to the window,” I called back. “It’s safer there.”
He grinned faintly. “You mean colder.”
“Exactly.”
The bell above the door jingled as another burst of snow swept in. Ivy went to greet a customer, leaving me behind the counter wiping down the surface and trying not to think about how easily Oliver had started to fit into our days. Still, I noticed he seemed more restless today. Between bites of his scone and half-drunk coffee, he answered calls, his tone clipped and formal.
“No, Richard, I’m not back yet,” I overheard him say quietly. “Yes, the storm’s still bad. No, I haven’t forgotten the meeting. I said I’ll handle it remotely.”
He ended the call with a soft sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.
When I brought over a slice of cranberry tart, he smiled gratefully but looked worn out. “Apologies. London’s not taking my imprisonment very well. Apparently, my absence has ruined three dinner parties and at least one golf game.”
“Tragic,” I said, deadpan.
He laughed under his breath. “You’ve no idea.”
“Actually, I think I do. This town would throw a fit if Ivy missed the Christmas bake-off. People get very attached to their routines.”
He leaned back, watching me with amusement. “You’re comparing your bake-off to London society events?”
“They’re both exhausting and full of gossip. The only difference is, ours has better food.”
That earned me a real warm, low, genuine laugh. It did funny things to my chest.
A few hours later, the lunch rush had passed, and the bakery was quiet again. The snow outside had thickened into a soft white haze, and Ivy was humming as she restocked the shelves.
“You know what you should do?” she said suddenly, breaking the silence. “Take Mr Grant to the Winter Wonderland tonight.”
I nearly dropped the tray I was holding. “Excuse me?”
She grinned, eyes sparkling. “Aye, the whole town’ll be there. Ice skating, stalls, the Christmas tree maze–it’s grand. He’s stuck here another week anyway, poor lad. Might as well show him what Highland Christmas really looks like.”
“Ivy—”
“You’re the perfect tour guide. Nobody knows this place like you. Go on, Bri. Be nice. The man’s trapped in a hotel with nothing but shortbread and business calls. Do a good deed.”
I groaned. “You can’t be serious.”
“Don’t be a wimp,” She shot me a grin. “Besides, he looks like he could use some fun. You’d be doing him a favour.”
I turned toward Oliver, who was packing up his laptop. He did in fact look very tired. Not the usual kind of tiredness that could be fixed with coffee, the kind that came from being far from home and pretending it didn’t bother you.
“Winter Wonderland?” I asked before I could talk myself out of it.
He looked up, surprised. “Sorry?”
“Oh—umm.” I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, instantly regretting opening my mouth. “The festival. Ice skating, Christmas market, tree maze, terrible hot chocolate.” I hesitated, clearing my throat. “With whiskey, would you like to go?”
A slow, boyish smile broke across his face. “You had me at whiskey.”
I tried — really tried — not to smile. “Ivy thinks I should show you around. Apparently, I’m the resident historian.”
“I’d be honoured,” he said, mock-serious, then softened. “Only if you’re sure you don’t mind.”
I folded my arms. “It’s just a tour, Mr Grant. Harmless.”