All I Want for Christmas: Romance in the Lakes, #1

By Tracey Mayhew

Will Christmas be the only thing Jess finds herself falling in love with this festive season?

 

After a devastating loss tore her family apart, Jess Harrison left the lakeside village she calls home and hasn't looked back. Three years on, she returns to help Holly Richards, her best friend and business partner, through her own rough patch and quickly finds herself falling back into village life as if she never left.

 

But a chance meeting with a handsome stranger soon has Jess confronting her own ghosts of Christmases past and she finds herself accepting his offer to help her rediscover her Christmas spirit. Can friendships, both old and new, help restore Jess' faith in Christmas and can she find love along the way?

 

Discover the wonder of Christmas with this endearing romance, perfect for fans of Carole Matthews, Debbie Macomber, Phillipa Ashley and, of course, all things Christmas! This is Book One of the Romance in the Lakes series and can be read as a standalone with its own guaranteed HEA - no cliff-hangers here, folks!

 

So, what are you waiting for? Download your copy today!

 

Official reading order:

 

Book One: All I Want For Christmas

Book Two: Because of You

Book Three: Crazy For You

Book Four: Don't Go Breaking My Heart

Book Five: Endless Love

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tracey Mayhew
• Release date: Apr 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393617266

Book preview

1

Ithought there was only one thing that would have me running back home, but, it appears I was wrong; a phone call in the middle of the night from my best friend’s daughter also had the power to do it.

Okay, so ‘middle of the night’ may be a bit of a stretch but it was late enough to make me worry, I can tell you. You see, Amy isn’t one of these tearaway little monsters that’s always giving her mother a hard time, far from it; she’s the sweetest, most loving kid anyone could ever hope to meet. She’s the type who, even at the age of thirteen, would prefer a sleepover with friends, so they can watch an illicit horror movie, rather than a party with boys and booze. So, when she called, I knew, instantly, it wasn’t a ‘come and bail me out of jail’ call.

No, this was far worse.

Let me get you up to speed: about a month ago, my best friend, and business partner, Holly Richards, found out that her husband of fourteen years was cheating on her. It wasn’t just a one-off, either (not that I’m saying that would make it any better). No, this was a full-blown affair that had, apparently, been going on for over a year. And the lucky lady? His secretary, of all people. Yes, Mike Richards always was a walking cliché in my eyes.

You’ve probably figured out by now that I’m not Mike’s biggest fan; well, I never have been, to be honest. Even back in school, when he was supposed to be dating Holly, he was always sniffing after any girl with a pulse; I don’t know if he actually did anything with any of his poor, unsuspecting targets, but the fact he was even trying did him no favours in my eyes.

The fact is, I’ve never understood what Holly saw in the guy or why she put up with so much of his crap. There was even a time when I thought, maybe, I had him wrong: I mean, why would anyone put up with him if he really was that bad? Clearly, Holly knew him far better than I… maybe he had some hidden charm that I just couldn’t see.

So, over the years, I’ve put my hatred of Mike Richards aside for my friend’s sake: I was there, smiling like an idiot, when they got married at eighteen (far too young for anyone, if you ask me) and I was there when she gave birth to their two beautiful children, Josh and Amy; I even held my tongue when he tried to stick his nose in when Holly and I were setting up our little teashop in the village.

But I always knew he’d screw up.

I just wish he’d had the decency to do it long ago, before the kids could really understand.

Anyway, back to tonight and Amy’s phone call.

Apparently, Holly isn’t coping well; according to Amy, she cries herself to sleep every night and seems to be stuck in a never-ending cycle of watching cheesy romance films and listening to ‘their’ favourite playlist on her iPod. But, what worries me the most is that she’s barely able to get herself together long enough to open the tearooms; normally, she loves spending the day there, chatting to our regulars, so if she can’t be bothered to do that, something must be seriously wrong.

By the way, I want it stated for the record that I knew nothing of this. When Holly phoned a few weeks ago, telling me about Mike’s affair, she was furious and I was more than happy to stoke those flames; I can do angry, especially when it’s about Mike. And, let me tell you, that phone call had been an interesting one; it seemed all my pent up anger towards the man had come pouring out and we had whiled away a good couple of hours imagining all the painful ways we could make him pay for what he’d done.

Oh, yes: I, Jessica Harrison, can do angry.

What I can’t do is hysterics.

I’m just not that type of person.

Now that I think about, maybe that’s why all of Holly’s texts to me these past couple of weeks have been so breezy; not because she’s actually happy but because she doesn’t want me to know just how miserable she is.

Now I feel terrible.

I’ve let my best friend down; I’ve let her wallow in her own misery while I’ve just been going about my own life without a second thought - so long as we checked in a few times a week, I was happy with that.

I’m such a bad friend.

And now her children are suffering; I mean: it’s bad enough to know their father has left them, but they’re now watching their mum go downhill, too. And Josh is looking to do his final exams next year – how’s the poor kid going to cope with all that added stress? It’s way too heavy for any fifteen-year-old.

Thank God Amy had the sense to call because, like my mum always used to say, now that I know there’s a problem, I can set about fixing it.

It wasn’t easy but, after making a few phone calls and cashing in all the annual leave I haven’t taken (who needs annual leave, anyway, when you don’t have a life?), I’m here: wired on caffeine, racing down the M6 at two in the morning towards a place I’ve spent the last three years avoiding.

But this isn’t about me.

It’s about Holly.

And, I may be a little late, but I’m going to make sure that, in the next few weeks, I’m there for her, and the kids, in any way they need.

2

With the caffeine beginning to wear off, I’m starting to feel exhaustion creeping in; my eyelids are getting heavy and I’ve opened both front windows in the hope that the icy November air will keep me awake long enough to make it to the tearooms and my flat above.

Usually, I have the radio on but it seems that every station is already playing Christmas songs and they’re the last things I want to hear, right now. I don’t do Christmas at the best of times but when it’s three in the morning and Roy Wood is singing about how he wants it to be Christmas every day… I just don’t have the energy for that.

Why do they play Christmas songs so early these days, anyway? I mean, it’s bad enough that the shops start stocking Christmas cards and decorations straight after Halloween but I’d still like to know I could switch on the radio without being bombarded by infuriatingly annoying pop songs about the most overrated time of the year.

I mean, let’s put things into perspective: Christmas is one day of the year when people pretend to be happy; the rest of the year…? It isn’t all happy families, let me tell you.

I know what you’re thinking. You think I’m a Grinch; you think I’ve always been like this, but you’re wrong. I used to love Christmas. I used to love spending time with my friends, and family, putting up Christmas decorations, eating until I was stuffed and then watching TV together. But, sometimes, life changes, people change, and nothing’s ever the same again. I gave up on Christmas a long time ago; to me, it’s just another day, except you have slightly better TV.

But, I digress; I usually do when I go on a rant about something.

Refocusing my attention on the road ahead, I perk up and can’t help smiling as I start to recognize the signs pointing me back to all the places from my childhood: Kendal, Windermere and, eventually, Keswick and Ullswater. I don’t care what people say about London being the ‘in’ place; despite everything, my heart will always belong to the Lakes.

I pull off the M6, feeling the old, familiar, comfort I always get here; this place reminds me of so much: my mum, my friends and, despite everything that’s happened between us, even my dad. Shaking those thoughts from my mind, I focus on the road, switching my beams on full blast and reducing my speed; I know these roads like the back of my hand but they’re still treacherous, especially in winter.

Following the winding road, it doesn’t surprise me to find I’m the only one driving at this time of the morning; clearly, most people aren’t as foolish as me or as desperate. I glance to my left at the copse of trees now hidden in darkness, knowing that behind them lies Ullswater, in my opinion (and I know I’m biased), the most beautiful of all the lakes in the area. Knowing it’s there, I feel safe, like I’m coming home to an old friend.

It isn’t long before I reach Keldsthwaite and can’t help the rush of relief I feel knowing that my journey is almost over. I glance at the clock on the dashboard; if I’m lucky, I might make it to bed before four, which will give me four hours sleep until Holly arrives to open up.

I can’t help wondering if she knows I’m coming. I suspect she probably doesn’t; it was a gutsy move on Amy’s part to call and ask me to come but, knowing what it would take for me to come back here, I can’t imagine her mother being in on it.

Pulling into the driveway of the tearooms, I head around the back to the little private car park. A sense of nostalgia creeps up on me as I recall the last time I’d been here; it had been Amy’s tenth birthday and we’d thrown a party for her in the tearooms.

The following day, I’d visited my dad and we’d had another of our ‘discussions’, which was really just more of us snapping and sniping at other. It was then I decided that, however much I loved this place, however much I belonged here, it really wasn’t big enough for the both of us; not when we kept tearing each other apart. So, I’d left, taking up the offer of helping a friend set up a business in London, thereby putting as much distance between us as I could.

Pathetic, I know; I mean, what twenty-nine year old does that? But, things had been going badly between us for a while. Don’t get me wrong; we used to be close but, without Mum around, things just became harder for us and, in the end, I’d decided it was best to give us both some much needed space. In fact, all it had really done was give him the perfect excuse to pull further away from me.

When I’d left, I’d made it clear to him I would return when he was ready to talk properly but I’m still waiting for that call.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I’ve cut all ties; Holly’s been down to visit with the kids (without Mike, thank God, who was always too busy to come) and I’ve taken them sightseeing, doing all the tourist-y things the kids wanted to do. I’ve had another of my friends, Sofia de Luca, come stay with me on a number of occasions, too…

But not Dad; never Dad.

I wonder if I could pluck up the courage to visit him while I’m here. Not a day goes by that I don’t wonder how he is, what he’s doing; I’d give anything to be able to pick up the phone and know that my dad would be on the other end with a cheerful hello, word of advice, or a joke to make me feel better. The last few years would have been a lot easier if he had been.

Getting out the car, I collect my cases and head to the back door, letting myself into the tiny hallway before trudging up the stairs to my flat. On opening the door, for the first time in three years, I can’t help but screw my nose up at the faint musty smell; clearly, no one’s been up here since I left. Not only is it musty, it’s also empty and cold.

Heading over to the window, I throw it open, not caring when I get hit with an icy blast. Taking a deep breath of the icy air, I gaze out over the glassy depths of Ullswater; part of the reason this place does so well is because it offers such glorious views of the water and, beyond that, the stunning mountains.

I smile: it’s good to be back.

Turning, I gaze around the flat; it’s not huge, literally one open-plan room for the living room and kitchen, a tiny box bedroom and a small bathroom, but it was my home and I loved it here. I smile to myself as I recall the nights Holly and Sofia had come over – Holly, to get a break from the kids and Sofia, to avoid the latest guy who was trying to get too serious with her.

It’s been a long time since I’d felt that carefree, that happy.

However, as my eyes fall on my two cases, I feel a deep sense of sadness knowing that pretty much everything I own is in them. Yes, I may have moved to London but it was never a life I wanted or felt connected to; in all honesty, I’ve just been waiting to come home.

And now I am.

I’m just not sure how Dad will feel about it.

Sighing, I bypass the offensive suitcases on my way to my bedroom; throwing myself onto the bed, I sink into the mattress, not caring that it isn’t made – that’s just another job I’ll get round to – and, finally, I let myself relax as I set my alarm.

The hard work will start in four hours but, for now, I’m going to sleep.

3

I’m not sure what wakes me up; it’s one of those moments when you’re pulled from sleep and you’re left confused.

Rolling over, I reach blindly for my phone, eventually locating it on my bedside table. I groan as I see the time: 7.30? What the-? What happened to sleeping for four hours?

I sigh, dropping my head back onto my pillow; the grey, morning light has filtered into my room, raindrops leaving trails on the glass. I close my eyes but it’s no good; I’m not going to sleep now. Nope, I’m awake so I might as well get up and start the day; I’ll get the tearooms ready for opening up. At least that’s one thing Holly won’t have to worry about and it’ll give us a chance to have a coffee before we open.

After finding my toiletry bag, I head to the bathroom, catching a brief glimpse of myself in the mirror. God, I look rough; there are shadows under my eyes and the blonde hair I usually take so much pride in is looking a little lack-lustre (and that’s putting it kindly). To be honest, I look a little crazy.

After brushing my teeth, I run a brush through my hair before pulling it into a ponytail; with my hair a little tamer, now, I look somewhat normal. I deftly apply some make-up to hide the bags under my eyes and realise I’m beginning to feel a little more human.

I get dressed quickly, throwing on the first hoodie and pair of jeans I can find, and head downstairs. Opening the door, I pause, allowing the damp, frigid air to wash over me, enjoying the scent of rain in the air; the air’s so different here than in London: fresh… clean. London in the rain is so grey and depressing, in total contrast to the Lake District, which is so green and vibrant.

Stepping out, I pull my hood up as I head around to the front of the tearooms, my feet crunching on the gravel; rounding the corner, I glance up at the sign as I always do, smiling to myself: Scone Away From Home.

It had been thanks to my mum that we finally settled on this name. Holly and I had been going through too many possibilities to count with nothing sticking for either of us; eventually, probably sick of hearing our endless suggestions, Mum had thrown that name into the mix. Almost immediately, we knew it was the perfect name; our aim had always been to make the tearooms homely, somewhere people could come for home cooked meals and cakes with their families, or after a hike, and it just seemed to fit our brand.

Yogi, here, boy!

With no time to turn to see who’s calling, I’m attacked by a hairy, brown monstrosity, that seems intent on trying to cuddle me, or eat me, I’m really not sure which. What the-? I gasp, struggling to stand under the unexpected weight of the dog.

I try to push him away but he’s going nowhere; his muddy paws and wet fur leaving damp patches across the front of my hoodie. But, worse than that, there’s a thick, gloopy, trail of drool hanging from the corner of his mouth, threatening to drop onto my arm, as he tries to lick my face.

Hey, Yogi; get off her, would ya?

I look up as a hand comes into view, pulling the dog away, and I can’t help but stare as I find myself looking into the most amazing blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Now, I’m not one to get poetic about a man’s eyes but, honestly, it’s like looking into the clearest ocean. Wow… I find myself muttering before I can stop myself.

The guy standing in front of me is gorgeous. His dark hair is damp with sweat, and rain, as it falls down over his forehead; he’s wearing jogging bottoms and a thin, orange, hi-viz running jacket over a black T-shirt. He’s panting slightly but looks like he could run a good few miles more. If I had to guess, I’d say he was a little older than me - in his late thirties, maybe?

Hey. He nods, grinning smugly, as he looks me up and down.

Under his gaze, I can’t help blushing. Hello, I reply coolly, trying to regain some of my composure; I’ve never been so completely thrown by a guy before. I’m usually the one in control, not fighting butterflies.

He gestures at the dog, now sitting, obediently, by his side, panting up at me, his