Christmas in the Boss's Castle

He didn’t even think. ‘My wife is dead and Christmas without her is unbearable.’

No one asked him that question. Ever. Not in the last five years.

Everyone tiptoed around about him. Speaking in whispers and never to his face. His friends had stopped inviting him to their weddings and christening celebrations. It wasn’t a slight. It was their way of being thoughtful. He would never dream of attending on his own. And he just couldn’t bear to see his friends living the life he should have with Anna.

The words just came spilling out unguarded. They’d been caught up inside him for the last five years. Simmering under the surface when people offered their condolences or gave that fleeting glance of pity.

‘I hate Christmas. I hate everything about it. I hate seeing trees. I hate seeing presents. I hate seeing families all happy, smiling at each other. I don’t need any reminders of the person missing from my life. I don’t need any at all. I particularly don’t need some stranger digging through my belongings and taking out the last thing I have of my wife’s—the only thing that I’ve kept from our Christmases together—and laying it on my pillow like some holy talisman. Will it bring Anna back? Will it make Christmas any better?’ He was pacing now. He couldn’t help the pitch of his voice. He couldn’t help the fact that the more he said, the louder he became, or the broader his Scottish accent sounded. ‘No. No, it won’t. So I don’t do Christmas. I don’t want to do it. And I don’t want to discuss it.’

He turned back around to face her.

She looked shell-shocked. Her eyes wide and her bottom lip actually trembling. Her hand partially covering her mouth.

He froze. Catching himself before he continued any further.

There were a few seconds of silence. Tears pooled in her eyes. ‘I’m s...sorry,’ she stammered as she turned on her heel and bolted to the door.

Finlay didn’t move. Not a muscle. He hadn’t even taken his thick winter coat off since he’d arrived.

What on earth had he just done?

He had no idea who the Maids in Chelsea were. He had no idea who Clio Caldwell was.

But he didn’t doubt that as soon as she found him, he could expect a rollicking.

CHAPTER TWO

ONCE THE TEARS started she couldn’t stop them. They were coming out in that weird, gasping way that made her feel as if she were fighting for every breath. She stopped in front of the elevator and fumbled for her card.

No! She didn’t have it. He still did.

She looked around. Fire exit. It was the only other way out of here. There was no way she was hanging around.

As soon as she swung the door open she started upwards instead of down. Her chest was tight. She needed some air and she must be only seconds away from the roof. The grey door loomed in front of her. Was everything in this place black or grey? She pushed at the door and it sprang open onto the flat roof.

The rush of cold air was instant. She walked across the roof as she tried to suck some in.

She hadn’t even thought about the cold. She hadn’t even considered the fact it might still be snowing. The hotel was always warm so her thin shirt was no protection against the rapidly dipping temperatures on a late December afternoon.

But Grace couldn’t think about the cold. All she could think about was the man she’d just met—Finlay Armstrong.

The expressions on his face. First of anger, then of disgust, a second of apparent amusement and then the soul-crushing, heart-ripped-out-of-his-chest look.

She’d done that to him. A stranger.

She’d caused him that amount of pain by just a few actions—just a few curious words.

She shivered involuntarily as the tears started to stream down her face. He’d implied that he’d sack her.

It was Christmas. She’d have no job. How could she afford to stay in the flat? As if this Christmas weren’t already going to be hard enough without Gran, now she’d absolutely ruined whatever chance there was of having a peace-filled Christmas.

Her insides curled up and tumbled around. Why had she touched that angel? Why had she thought she had a right to decorate his room? And why, why had she blurted out that question?

The look on his face...the pain in those blue eyes. She shivered again. He’d lost his wife and because of that he couldn’t bear Christmas. He didn’t want to celebrate, didn’t want to be reminded of anything.

The little things, the little touches she’d thought he might like, the tree, the decorations, the lights and the smells had all haunted him in a way she hadn’t even imagined or even considered. What kind of a person did that make her?

She knew what it was like to find Christmas hard. A hundred little things had brought tears to her eyes this year—even while she was trying to ignore them. The smell of her gran’s favourite perfume. The type of biscuit she’d most enjoyed at Christmas. Even the TV listing magazine where she used to circle everything she wanted to watch. But none of that—none of that—compared to the pain of a man who’d lost his wife.