A Cosy Christmas Sampler

By Laura Briggs

Treat yourself to four best-selling Christmas reads in one box set!

Full of heartwarming cheer, these utterly festive novellas have been featured among the author’s most popular UK titles—and now you can own all four of them together in one special Christmas collection. From a cosy Cornish village to a charming farm in Yorkshire, spend the yuletide season in the company of friends, laughter, romance, and warm wishes for the new year.

Stories included in the A Cosy Christmas Sampler Box Set:

A Christmas in Cornwall

The sequel to the Top 100 UK A Wedding in Cornwall finds event planner Julianne in charge of a Christmas Eve ball at Cliffs House. Her feelings for handsome gardener Matthew Rose are blossoming from friendship to love, but things grow complicated when an old flame of Julianne's appears on the spot. And when Matt tells her his former career in America has invited him back, she worries about what it means for their future together if he says 'yes'.

Sea Holly and Mistletoe Kisses

Yuletide cheer comes to the seaside hotel Penmarrow in the third installment of the series A LITTLE HOTEL IN CORNWALL. Aspiring author Maisie continues to find inspiration among the hotel’s quirky staff, while also experiencing her first Cornish village Christmas, thanks to a little help from Sidney, the enigmatic and charming village groundskeeper. But when Maisie finds herself paired with a handsome American guest for the hotel’s ice carving contest it will lead to an unexpected dilemma of the heart.

A Winter Moon’s Welcome

It’s Lucy Granger’s first Christmas at the Yorkshire farm in this heartfelt sequel to The Llama Farm on New Moon Lane. Still settling in to life in the country, Lucy becomes the recipient of an unusual series of greeting cards that reveal more surprises about the farm’s background. And when the local vet Arthur Elliot visits the llamas, he makes a medical observation regarding Philly's health which requires a Christmas miracle.

The Holiday Bride

Wedding planner Gwen is back, and this time, it’s her own happy-ever-after that’s on the schedule in the second book in the series THE WEDDING CAPER. But Gwen’s wish for a Christmas Day ceremony is waylaid when a celebrity bride asks her to plan the marriage event of the season. With Gwen’s former boss rooting for her failure—and her tiny agency’s reputation on the line—can Gwen make her client’s dreams come true and still be a holiday bride?

***All four novellas in this collection have been previously released as individual titles.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laura Briggs
• Release date: Nov 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215591772

Laura Briggs

Laura Briggs is the author of several feel-good romance reads, including the UK best-seller 'A Wedding in Cornwall'. She has a fondness for vintage style dresses (especially ones with polka dots), and reads everything from Jane Austen to modern day mysteries. When she's not writing, she enjoys spending time with family and friends, caring for her pets, gardening, and seeing the occasional movie or play.

Book preview

Goodness, I feel exhausted! Lady Amanda pushed aside a stack of glossy tourist pamphlets and stretched out dramatically in her armchair. Are there any more details we need to discuss? Or at long last, are we at an end?

Just one more thing for today, I answered. The Christmas tree in the main hall — red and white?

Lovely. Throw in a bit of blue and we've got the Union flag and the American one, quipped Lady Amanda. I'll be serious now, promise. Red and white would be perfect with the rest of the event's motif, so I'm sure those colors will do.

I made a note in my planner. And the staff Christmas party —?

Oh, I'd completely forgotten. She smacked her forehead. Do ask Lord William if he's arranged for a couple of geese yet. I suppose turkey is more traditional, but goose is making a bit of a comeback, isn’t it? And even though Dinah usually has powers of persuasion over the local butcher, William was hoping to surprise her with a fine pair to stuff for the party.

I'll talk to him, I promised. We'll make certain it's a great event for everyone. I pictured the fun of the event — a real Cornish Christmas, something which Geoff and Dinah had hinted was a festive occasion.

It wasn't anything like Tiny Tim's Christmas dinner in Dickens' novel, I was sure, but I couldn't imagine what a real English village Christmas was like. And since this would be my first one, I intended to make the most of it — and not just for the sake of sending a quaint postcard to my friend Aimee back home, either.

I hurried away to get started for the day on the never-ending tasks of Cliffs House's event planner. Muffled voices greeted my ears from somewhere in the hall, and turning the corner, I encountered Gemma and Pippa hanging a festive wreath in the main hall. Glass balls of gold and red shone cheerily beneath the lights as both girls giggled, trying to balance the heavy creation until it was secured in place on the wall.

Don't let go yet! shrieked Pippa, as Gemma released her half of the wreath.

Sorry! squeaked Gemma. Is that better? She shifted it more to the left.

You two be careful, scolded Dinah. Someone's going to end up on their backside if not. She had bustled forth from the kitchen passage, a tray of cookies in her hands — three different kinds, all of them tempting beneath decorative piping or colorful sprinkles.

What do you think? she asked me. I've tried six different recipes, but these are the best. Ginger first, then the butter biscuits, then a nice cinnamon lace.

I took a bite of the ginger biscuit. It melted in my mouth after one crisp bite. Heavenly, I declared. I don't think any guests will be able to resist.

These aren't for the charity ball, said Dinah with a laugh. These are for the Christmas party. Proper to save the best for our own celebration, isn't it? She winked at me.

Julianne, coming to the pub tonight? Gemma asked, looking over her shoulder. There's a quiz tonight — all American television programs. My bloke Andy says you could beat anybody there. Andy was Gemma's latest boyfriend — one who bore more than a passing resemblance to one of the rugby player posters she adored, albeit a thinner, more awkward version.

Not tonight, I answered. I'm having dinner out. My voice shrank a little for these words, trying to go unnoticed — but my cheeks both had a very bright pink spot in the middle of each.

Ooh...with Ross, I'll bet, teased Pippa. She and Gemma exchanged glances — I had been on the receiving end of more than one good-natured joke recently regarding things between me and Matthew. Is he taking you someplace nice?

I'll bet he looks the part of a proper gentleman, all dressed up, mused Gemma, dreamily. Imagine him in a tuxedo, like James Bond.

It's just dinner at a restaurant he visits sometimes, I answered. Trying to sound casual about it. He says it's one of the best examples of South Cornwall's seafood.

All things said, I was getting used to the constant teasing over Matt and me. Matthew Rose, former professor and brilliant horticulturist, now a consultant gardener at Cliffs House — but the two young girls employed at the country house had nicknamed him after the handsome hero from Poldark due to his looks.

I had only seen pictures of the actor from the series, but the biggest proof of Matthew's looks was in the reaction of women to him. Women in Ceffylgwyn teased Matthew every bit as badly as Pippa and Gemma when it came to his looks. Even at a quiet restaurant just outside the village, I detected a couple of admiring glances cast in his direction by female patrons. And I could see the blush on Matt's face whenever he detected one, too.

He pretended not to notice as he sat down across from me at our table. What will you have? he asked, as I glanced over the menu. Would you like a recommendation from me? A favorite dish?

No, I want to select it completely on my own, I answered. I think I'm even going to point randomly to an item and eat whatever it is.

You're risking ordinary fish and chips with vinegar, he said. Or even boiled calamari. I could tell he wasn't being entirely serious, due to the glint of humor in his eyes.

I'll take the risk, I said, smiling. Besides, I need a risk. I have to be prepared for the upcoming charity ball. Surprises keep event planners on their toes, you see.

I found the idea of a ball on Christmas Eve a little surprising at first, I had to admit. Until I learned the primary sponsor for it was a business based out of Tokyo, Japan, where Christmas isn’t quite the phenomenon it is in other parts of the world. And since the proceeds were going to an international program dedicated to bringing clean water sources to impoverished nations, it seemed rather a lovely way to spend the eve of the most charitable holiday on the calendar.

Your life sounds exciting compared to mine, Matt answered. All I've done is coddle a few grafted roses through their first frost.

Lord William appreciates it, I said. The rose garden is definitely short on varieties since the previous gardener had an all-consuming passion for herbs and annuals, I've been told.

On the other hand, I might have an opportunity for a tiny bit of excitement myself, he said. The university has invited me to give a lecture in the spring. A review of my work in breeding disease-resistant antique roses during the Massachusetts project.

Really? I said. That is exciting, Matthew! You must be so pleased.

I am, he admitted. Until their invitation arrived, I hadn't realized how much I missed the academic world. Yes, it's less hands on than what I've been doing these past few years ... but there's something about exchanging ideas in a classroom that can't be dismissed.

I detected a little note of eagerness, and maybe yearning, deep in Matthew's voice. I hadn't thought about him regretting his decision to leave his Ivy League post after his broken heart. He had said more than once that he didn't regret Petal's decision to leave him, and all that happened as a result of it; but I knew that leaving his life behind, even for the place he loved most, had probably been hard.

Spring, huh? I said. I took a sip of my wine. I guess it seems kind of far away right now, doesn't it?

It gives me plenty of time to prepare, he said. I've been in touch with the president of the university. We've been emailing quite often. Maybe this will open the door to more lectures in the future, at some of the other colleges as well.

I'll bet they miss you, I said. Miss having you teach and lecture full time. Definitely miss your input in landscape architecture and plant propagation on their historic grounds. I swirled the wine in my glass, imagining the liquid's whirlpool was a tight spiral of rose petals — almost the same color as the blossoms Matthew had given me for an apology after our first meeting/argument.

You think they're trying to lure me back? Matt teased. He took a sip from his own glass. Coax me back into their fold permanently, so I'll give lectures in the mornings and treat diseased begonias and wayward rose canes in the afternoon?

They wouldn't be so scheming, I replied, with a pretend scowl of indignation. Besides, all they would have to do is ask. I'm sure that no one has to bribe you to use your gifts.

Matthew flushed, briefly. I wondered if a tiny part of him almost wished our made-up scenario was true — if it would seem like a rescue, now that he had no real gardening challenges to pursue in South Cornwall. In fact, he had little to do right now, between consulting jobs, short of completing a few odd jobs on Lord William's behalf.

Perhaps if I apply my gift correctly, I can force that carefully-coaxed rose into blooming in time for Christmas, said Matt, setting aside his glass, and changing the subject at the same time. The first time in many years.

The one you brought back from the brink of death? I echoed.

That's the one, he said. It's developed a flower bud or two already. It's a matter of keeping it healthy, warm, and well-watered so it can bring them into fruition.

The rose was a rare antique variety that had been left neglected in the greenhouse for years. Lord William had discovered it languishing there when he and Geoff Weatherby took over managing the grounds — a pitiful brown and green stick with only a few leaves, he had claimed. But in Matthew's hands, it had begun to slowly recover its life, sprouting new green canes, and unfurling reddish-green leaves.

Lord William says his mother was probably the last person to see it bloom, I said. Decades ago. How long do roses live, anyway?

I had the bare minimum's knowledge of botany, horticulture, or plant taxonomy despite my attempts to memorize plant names and gardening terminology since arriving in Cornwall. Matt had done his best to teach me a little more, loaning me books from his shelves, but I was still a hopeless beginner.

Roses can live long, rich lives, just like human beings, he said. Providing they have the right care. But it depends on the variety. Some live less than twenty — some live a veritable century.

So Lord William's rose might outlive me? I asked, jokingly.

Probably not. Matt's smile was one of amusement. It already has a good thirty years' advantage. And it's rather amazing it lived so long, given its condition.

I wanted him to tell me the variety's name again, so I could commit it to memory, along with other things he'd taught me lately, but the waiter appeared with our food just then. So I settled for praising the dish set before me, grilled fish in a chef's sauce, steamed asparagus beside it.

I glanced at Matthew as he ate, half-expecting him to tease me about my luck in randomly selecting my dinner. Lately, he teased me more often when we were talking. A lot of barriers had come down between us since that night I kissed him impulsively in the garden.

What were we, exactly? Tonight felt like a date, as had the other times we'd been out together — less than a dozen over the past few months, from casual evenings at the pub to a couple of restaurants like this one, with both of us in 'posh' clothes and on our best behavior.

We were comfortable together, even though there were still little awkward moments, where separate cultures or personalities collided; and there were moments of attraction, where I thought that I could lose myself in those dark eyes as we gazed into each other's. And there had been more kisses...but not the words that would mean no going back for either of us, emotionally-speaking. Even with all the butterflies and sparks of electricity that Matt's touch produced in me, not being quite sure where we were — or what we both wanted this to be — was definitely a problem we couldn't escape.

No one called us 'boyfriend and girlfriend' yet, I noticed — and we didn't even call ourselves that. It was as if something was standing between us, some final barrier that kept us both from planning a future together. Pieces of our different pasts were still in the way, somehow.

In a way, I was hoping tonight would change that, but it didn't. Matt was handsome in his suit, charming as always, and deep inside, I knew I was falling in love with him — desperately and helplessly so. But the words that would make everything between us fall into place — well, those feelings couldn't seem to become words in my brain. And they didn't seem to be coming from Matt's lips, in between the jokes and stories, no matter the tenderness and longing in his eyes. Lock glances, deep stares of emotional desire and unspoken feeling, look away — could this be an actual routine in our romance? And leading to what?

At least I knew it wasn't Matthew's formerly-broken heart that stood in the way. And I was pretty sure it wasn't my own romantic mishaps, either. So maybe it was something as simple as our unsettled goals: my life of less than six months in Cornwall, and Matt's tenuous career as a horticultural consultant.

Or maybe we were both just a little afraid what would happen if one of us admitted we were really, truly falling in love.

Matt poured a second glass for both of us. What shall we drink to? he asked. It's been six months to the day since you arrived in Cornwall, you know.

I felt as if he'd read my mind. Really? I said. I hadn't kept up with the exact date — the anniversary of my arrival at Cliffs House last summer.

I'm certain of it, he said. Even if I did have to ask Geoff Weatherby to be certain. There was a twinkle in his eyes as he lifted his glass. Well, Miss Morgen?

I thought about it. Nope, no toasting to a future as Matt's one and only love, I decided, even jokingly. To a bright and happy future, I guess, I answered. And to a happy Christmas in Cornwall.

To your happy future, then, he said. Now and always. His glass clinked against mine, and we both took a sip. Our eyes met, and I looked deep into his own, seeing the gentleness and the passion that had taken my breath more than once in our time together.

There was something so clear, so alive in that gaze. I wanted it to become words, so I could tell him I loved him. If it wasn't true yet, it wouldn't be long before it was; the more time I spent with him, and the better I knew him, the harder it was to resist that feeling. The real him — the passionate gardener, the chivalrous gentleman, the kindhearted friend, and the veritable genius, among his many sides — was breaking down every defense of friendship that still held me in place.

Dusk had given way to darkness when we walked to Matt’s car outside the restaurant. I could hear the restless water in the dark, and see the movement of the waves by moonlight. Moonlight transformed the coast into something both beautiful and menacing — the jagged edges of an island of dark rocks rising from the waters, a sheen of pale light on the waters rising and falling with the tide. A flash of navigation light was visible from the point where we stood in the harbor, from a fisherman’s vessel at sea.

What are you thinking about? Matt asked me. His hand rested on my back, the passenger door of his car opened for me as I gazed towards the sea.

I’m just imagining a lighthouse somewhere near that outcropping. The one that looks like a little peninsula, I said. It seems like the perfect spot.

He laughed. But not very practical, he said. This isn’t the shore for deep-sea fishing vessels or commercial ones, either. I’m afraid the romantic lighthouse you’re picturing is the Lizard’s lighthouse. It’s a bit further south.

The Lizard, I said. That name always sounds so weird to me. I’m picturing a big desert lizard, the kind with all the little spiky horns on its back.

It has its share of spiky rocks, said Matt. And it is covered in a type of rock known as ‘serpentine.’ But most historians agree its name is really derived from the Cornish language. ‘Lys Ardh’ means ‘high court’ in Cornish. It’s a beautiful place, full of rare plants and natural wonders…but its waters can be treacherous for vessels to navigate sometimes.

His voice grew softer with these last words, his cheek almost against mine. I could feel the heat from his skin mere inches from mine as he stood close behind me, gazing out at the moonlit sea. It would feel natural to lean back against him right now, and feels his arms encircle me in return — but I resisted the urge to do it, even with the fantasy tugging at my mind.

After a moment, Matt stirred. Sorry, he said. I was lost in thought for a moment.

So was I. I glanced at him over my shoulder, with a smile that I hoped didn’t betray my blushing cheeks. Had we been thinking the same thing until now? Or had Matt’s mind been somewhere else — exploring the Lizard to document rare specimens for instance?

We talked about the pub's quiz nights and the awful programs on television as we drove back to Ceffylgwyn later that night. Matt paused at the road sign for a moment.

Would you like to come back to Rosemoor Cottage for an hour or so? he asked. It's not late, and I had a cutting in a pot that I wanted to give you. Nothing valuable, but it's tough, hardy, and blooms beautifully with minimal care — a good choice for your first plant, I thought.

A plant? For me? I answered, dramatically. Are you sure you trust me with such a treasure, Mr. Rose?

I think you're ready, he answered, trying to look serious as he said this. After all, you've only damaged one or two protected Cornish heath plants, and un-potted a Japanese peace lily by accident. A relatively mild record of attempted plant homicide, really.

The heath was an accident, I reminded him. And that peace lily was in the way when we were trying to wrestle the furniture aside for the harpist due at the Cancer Awareness Foundation's tea. It was a victim of circumstance.

You'll find the plant I'm giving you much harder to kill, he answered. So, shall we stop by?

Love to, I said. Except I have to finish organizing my list of possible caterers for the ball. I didn't have time this afternoon after Lady Amanda and I finished double-checking the holiday decor. Another time?

Of course, he said. Tuesday. After the pub's quiz night.

Sounds perfect, I said.

I loved Matt's cottage, with its too-full bookshelves and its garden running amok with every kind of English wildflower known to mankind. Even in the midst of winter, there were still touches of green and splashes of color. It was a place I could never picture as grey or gloomy, even on the rainiest days.

What would you like to do for our next outing? Matt asked me.

I gave this a moment's thought. How about a picnic for the two of us in a cozy garden spot? I asked.

Matt laughed. Cornwall winters may be milder, but that doesn't mean it might not be a bit cool for sitting on a blanket on the grounds, he pointed out.

Then how about I cook dinner for us? I suggested. At your cottage. I'll buy the ingredients and bring everything I need.

You can cook? Matt didn't quite raise an eyebrow, but I thought he was tempted. I put on my best indignant expression.

Of course I can, I answered. It's just a myth that American women burn everything they bake. I can assure you that I'm handy with a saucepan and a casserole dish — besides, Dinah has been giving me some pointers, and says I'm coming along nicely, thank you.

I trust her judgment, said Matthew, solemnly. I swatted him on the shoulder.

Take me home, I said, crossing my arms. If we keep talking, I might end up hitting you again. Even in the car's darkness, I could spot his grin as he shifted the car into gear.

I kissed him goodnight after he circled and parked in Cliffs House's courtyard. A kiss on the cheek, lingering for just a second to notice his aftershave, and the heat of his skin. Our lips brushed, but we both hesitated before the kiss began; we both knew what happened afterwards, the electricity making it hard to stop with just one.

Goodnight, I said, softly. I waved goodbye as I watched Matt drive away. With a sigh, I imagined a different ending — one in which I had whispered the truth in Matthew's ear, then waited to hear him whisper back the same words.

Or heard silence in response. Even though I felt sure of his feelings, there was no guarantee, after all. Maybe deep inside, Matt still had doubts about us. Surely he didn't think I had them. Not after what these months had meant to me.

I turned and walked towards the house's main door, which was standing open even though the family wasn't expecting guests and all public visitors had gone home hours ago. Someone had arrived, however, and not someone local, since they hadn't used the informal entrance.

A man in a business suit and overcoat had been chatting with someone in the main hall, exiting the house as I approached, the door closing behind him. As I crossed his path, he glanced at me, and stopped. The visitor had blond, curly hair, a carefully-trimmed beard of light, short stubble that didn't hide his attractive, youthful features. But that wasn't why I was staring at him. And he wasn't staring at me because I looked irresistible in my red dress and wrap, either.

Julianne? he said.

My heart had fallen to the bottom of my chest. Dwight?

***

I hadn’t laid eyes on Dwight Bradshaw since the day we broke off our casual but somewhat promising relationship outside a coffee house in Seattle. That was almost a year ago, back when I still worked for Design a Dream, and Dwight was the financial advisor for one of the biggest digital security firms in the city. He hadn’t changed a bit from what I could see in the dim light of the manor’s courtyard. Still handsome, still polished and perfectly dressed for the role of a successful businessman. Only with a startled look on his face as he gazed at me from mere feet away.

"It is you, he said after a moment, features breaking into a grin of disbelief. I thought I might be imagining things for a second there."

Me too, I said. Feeling another jolt of surprise as he gave me a quick hug, the stubble from his beard brushing lightly against my cheek. Me and Dwight's breakup, while not the stuff of soap operas, hadn't exactly been cheerful, so this warm gesture wasn't exactly what I expected upon first meeting. Maybe a few awkward, forced polite lines instead.

You look fantastic, he said, stepping back to assess my appearance with a glance. Red always was your color, Julianne. Fiery and full of life—just like the girl who’s wearing it, he added, with a teasing note in his voice.

I felt grateful for the dim lighting, since red had began to infuse my cheeks with the compliment. Dwight had a certain charm with words that I had forgotten about since our breakup. Not so much the words themselves, but the way he made them sound—warm, playful, and completely sincere. It was a talent I imagined came in handy for his job, as well as his dating life — whatever his dating life was, these days.

Thanks, I told him, summoning a smile in response. Be polite, Julianne.

He smiled back, tucking his hands in the pockets of his wool trousers. Executive wear was practically Dwight’s everyday attire, I remembered. The closest thing to casual I had seen him wear were designer khakis and pullovers, and that was usually just for the time spent on his yacht. A sailing enthusiast, Dwight belonged to a Seattle yacht club, where he participated in several races—and frequently placed first— throughout the year.

Are you here on vacation? I wondered, thinking it wasn’t likely. Dwight had always preferred a metropolitan atmosphere, except for when he was out on the water, of course. Maybe he came here for the sailing then. But December was hardly the best time of year for that sort of activity in Cornwall, was it? And Dwight seemed more like the Newquay type than someone interested in sleepy little Ceffylgwyn.

Dwight shook his head. I’m here on business. The firm is helping to sponsor the big Christmas Eve gala they’re hosting at this place. I’m crunching the numbers for them, as usual, so I thought I would nip over here and have a word with the host and hostess on some budget expectations.

Nip over to Cornwall from Seattle? I raised an eyebrow. That’s kind of extreme isn’t it? Dwight chuckled at the words.

It’s not as far as you think. I’ve actually transferred to one of the company’s international offices. You’re looking at the newest chief financial advisor for the London branch of Spencer’s Digital Security.

Really? I hugged my wrap closer to my arms, conscious of goosebumps breaking over my skin. From the cold, of course, not Dwight’s unexpected words. Still…it was quite a coincidence. A stunning coincidence, even — me running into my ex just as things were finally comfortable, and my chances of starting anew were brighter than ever. My face was pale now instead of red, my head not quite sure how I felt about this.

What about you? Dwight asked. Design a Dream must be treating you well, if you can afford a Christmas vacation in a setting this idyllic. With a nod towards the manor before us, its stone exterior and elegant carvings stretching far overhead, with bowers and chimneys that were faintly etched amid the glow of moonlight.

I’m not working for Design a Dream anymore. In fact, I told him, pausing for a breath, I’m working here now. As the new event planner for Cliffs House.

Surprise flooded his cobalt eyes. So we’re both expatriates, I guess.

The words held a conspiratorial edge beneath the humor, making it seem as if this were some kind of bond we shared. Leave it to Dwight to make it seem as if we never lost touch with each other. As if we hadn’t fought about all the little differences that added up to the bigger reasons we couldn’t work as a couple. Or maybe he’d forgotten that last, awkward exchange outside the coffee house that ended with me taking the bus back home instead of accompanying him to our friend’s anniversary party. Curled up on my couch, I had devoured a carton of caramel salted ice cream for some post-breakup comfort, if memory served correct.

But that should be water under the bridge, shouldn't it? After all, I had that episode to thank for helping me cut ties with Seattle without a second thought to come to Cliffs House...and find Matt's tender gaze waiting to meet mine.

Expatriate seems a little strong for me, I told him. But Cornwall is an amazing place to live. The staff here is fantastic, and I’ve never been happier than I am working for Lord William and Lady Amanda. It’s definitely beginning to feel like home.

That was the truth. Although I'd only been here a few short months, Ceffylgwyn and Cliffs House felt as familiar — as comfortable — as my own hometown. And this without me being able to speak a word of Cornish, understand half the speeches of anybody using strong dialect, or explain to Aimee what exactly a 'Troyl' involves, even after more than one email on the subject.

You? You were such a Seattle girl, said Dwight, sounding amazed. And I thought by now you'd be in a serious relationship there — I mean after what happened. After all, I knew I didn't break your heart for good. Although he spoke these words lightly, I could tell he sneaked a glance to see what effect they had on me.

It wasn't that Dwight hadn’t touched my heart in some way, of course. It had taken more than one cry to get over the way things ended—but I had got over it. And look or not look, I was sure that Dwight had too, given the ease with which he referred to our mutual past. Anything else would be pure imagination on my part.

My cab to the train station is arriving any moment now, Dwight said, checking his watch. I have a meeting in Westminster bright and early in the morning.

Exciting, I replied. Secretly, I was relieved he would be leaving Ceffylgwyn in a matter of minutes. No matter how innocent our re-meeting was, I didn’t relish the thought of reliving any part of it. And I didn't want to explain to Matt that yet another one of us had an ex hanging around the manor for a short time.

How would Matt feel if he knew I was chatting with an old flame? Jealous? Trusting? Confident that I was in love with him, though I hadn't said it? Or perhaps he'd feel exactly the way I felt when I learned his ex-fiancée, Petal, was the bride-to-be in the first wedding I supervised at Cliffs House. Which meant he'd be a little bit hurt that I didn't mention this recent attachment in my past. Threatened even, although I didn’t think Matt seemed like the insecure kind.

All this speculation was going nowhere, since I didn't plan to bring it up with Matt, even to know what he was thinking. For now, I'd prefer that part of our relationship to remain a mystery. Besides, he needn't feel threatened or jealous, since things with Dwight had ended the way they should, and I didn’t regret it for a second. Even if seeing him again had proved to be weird and unsettling in some way I couldn’t quite explain.

England’s a big place, I reminded myself. No reason you can’t share it with Dwight—and no reason this has to be awkward or a big deal in any way at all.

And it wasn’t. At least, not for the few minutes we stood there waiting for his cab to arrive. Catching up on news about friends back home, most of whom Dwight had seen more recently than I had. Being overseas made it hard to keep up with even my closest friends, aside from the occasional phone call or video chat with Aimee and Nate.

When his cab pulled up, Dwight gave my hand a parting squeeze. It was great seeing you, Julianne. A familiar face on foreign shores is nice. And who knows? Maybe we’ll bump into each other in London. Have a cup of tea and catch up. He grinned as he climbed into the cab and shut the door.

I waved goodbye to him from the other side of the glass. Certain I would never see Dwight Bradshaw again, least of all for a cup of tea and a ‘catch up' as he put it, not if I had my way. And those are not the words of a bitter ex, in case you're wondering.

But we can’t really know the future, can we? This time, my instincts turned out to be quite wrong.

***

I haven’t done this since kindergarten. Honestly, that’s why it looks so bad, I explained, folding a strip of green paper into a loop that looked more like an oval than a circle. It promptly squashed itself flat beneath my thumb.

Gemma giggled. You didn’t have to tell us that, Julianne. I think we both reckoned paper arts weren’t your strong point. From the chair near the hearth, Pippa let out a quiet groan as her own scissors cut a crooked path through a sheet of red.

The three of us were assembling paper chains in festive colors for decorating the tree in the Cornish estate’s library. Its theme was a throwback to an old-fashioned holiday, the only tree in the house that wasn’t bedazzled with colored or clear lights and ornaments of a more elaborate nature for tourists and the upcoming charity gala. Instead, simple berries and paper chains would decorate its branches, along with some antique lace ornaments from the manor’s bygone days. Only my paper crafting skills were all but nonexistent after twenty-something years of not bothering with them.

Luckily for me, Pippa was in the same boat, struggling to paste her crookedly-cut paper strips together as the glue stuck to her fingers and hair. Watching us fumble around, Gemma let out a snort of derision. Look at you two! I mean really, any nursery group could do this with their eyes closed.

They’ve had more practice, Pippa pleaded. I was hopeless at paper crafts in school, anyway — must be the maths behind it.

Rubbish! said Gemma. I remember you in primary, making paper stars as good as mine.

They were crooked, I solemnly swear. You've just forgotten after so many years.

Meanwhile, I was busy trying not to glue my paper to my hair again. I lifted my eyes and laughed as I caught sight of Dinah watching us in the doorway. She shook her head, a hopeless smile on her face.

I was about to ask if you were having tea this afternoon, but I think it’s best you carry on here, she said, eyeing the drop cloths we had placed on the floor to cover the rug from possible spills and gummy glue bits. At this rate, the lot of you will still be folding little strips of paper when dinner’s laid out tonight.

No I won’t, I argued. This is just me getting warmed up. Once I find a natural rhythm, the work will fly by. You'll see. As I mangled another strip of paper, tearing it nearly in half as I tried to loop it onto the chain.

Without further comment, Dinah turned and disappeared back down the hall. Pippa and Gemma had glimpsed my latest monstrosity, and the three of us burst into giggles again. I let my scissors fall to the floor as I gave up all pretence of salvaging that part of the chain.

So, I told them, retrieving my scissors after I controlled my giggles again, tell me about some Christmas traditions at the estate. Just a hint or two at least.

All my co-workers were being coy about what Christmas at Cliffs House would be like, despite the fact I had prodded them for examples multiple times the past few weeks. All I knew was the menu consisted of goose with all the trimmings, and that presents would be exchanged at some point, with possibly a bowl of punch on hand to toast the holiday. It conjured up images from the 'Wassail' carol, but that wasn’t nearly enough information in my opinion.

Well, Gemma began, "don’t tell her that I told you, but— and she lowered her voice, glancing round as if to be sure we weren’t being eavesdropped on, — Dinah’s making her special plum pudding recipe for dessert this year."

Plum pudding? I was lost, envisioning something like the cups of store bought pudding my mother used to pack in my school lunches, my nose scrunching automatically in response. Or was it more like the blackened bowling ball that Tiny Tim cheers for in the movie A Christmas Carol?

Pippa quickly cleared up my confusion. No, not like the nasty sort you lot probably eat — all processed fruit like gumdrops and the like.

It’s suet with raisins, said Gemma. Cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger add a bit of spice to it, and black treacle makes it rich and moist. She sighed, a hint of longing in the noise, as if anticipating the taste of said pudding.

My mouth was already watering from the description, aware that Dinah’s skills in the kitchen would be at their best for such a special event at the Cornish manor. As of yet, I'd only sampled a handful of Cornwall's famous dishes, becoming a virtual 'oggy' addict at this point, thanks to Charlotte's pasties in the village.

My Auntie Ruth used to hide a treasure inside the pudding at Christmas, Pippa said, folding another strip of paper into a loop. A coin or a button with a fancy design. ‘Course, me cousin Freddie always made sure to get at it first. Right spoiled little brat he was back then—and still is, come to think of it.

We always make Christmas Cake instead of pudding at my house, Gemma said. Then everybody watches the Queen’s Speech as we tuck into the chocolate again. Oh, the sweet pleasures of a proper holiday chocolate. Mmmm.

I grinned. Sounds a lot like my family. Too many sweets, so we’re snoozing by early afternoon.

It would be the same as always this December at my family’s home back in the States, only without me, of course. Not for the first time, I felt a wave of homesickness, one of many I had experienced since moving overseas. At least I would get to see them open presents via the laptop video chat we were planning. And at least all this distance was for the sake of an amazing experience — which I hoped would include a liking for goose at the holiday dinner. I had yet to admit to several people that I'd never tasted any bird besides chicken and a good ol' holiday turkey.

How about snow? I asked. Any chance for a white Christmas in Ceffylgwyn?

The girls looked at each other, as if debating how much hope to give me. Not much of one, Pippa admitted, adding another link to the gold and red chain coiled by her feet. We’re more likely to see storms than snow.

Just think, said Gemma. We could go storm watching on Christmas.

Storm watching—an activity popular with tourists in Cornwall’s wintertime—was a pastime I had yet to develop a taste for. I knew plenty of Americans loved chasing storms in the Midwest in hopes of seeing a tornado — and plenty of English tourists had done the same in Kansas, too.

Then again, I had only tried storm watching once so far, so I wasn't being fair. Matt and I had walked down to the sand, keeping a safe distance from the waves. Waves that seemed to rise as much as twenty or thirty feet high before they crashed against the tall, majestic cliffs along the shore. Beautiful yet terrifying at the same time. I had buried my face in Matthew’s coat at one point and blocked out thoughts of giant tidal waves sweeping us away, breathing in the familiar scent of his aftershave as he held me in his strong, secure arms.

Well, maybe storm watching wasn't all bad.

Too late, I realized the others had noticed my dreamy little smile for this memory, their expressions revealing how transparent I was. Those secretive smirks — were they picturing me and Matt raging with the same tempest as the sea? They probably were. After all, they were all dying to know how serious Matt and I were.

I blushed fire red. Well! I said, brightly, trying to dispel any of these thoughts by showing off my latest handicrafts attempt. Look at this—over half way done now. And definitely better than some of the paper crafts I sent my grandmother when I was in grade school. I held up the chain in my lap, showing its gradual improvement from my mangled paper wads.

Pippa’s was looking much better than mine, but Gemma’s was nearly perfect by comparison to both of us. Hmmm. It would take some creative arranging, but I was sure we could disguise the varying degrees of quality when we finally wound these around the fir tree.

Paper chains finished, it was time for decorating the mantel. Carefully, Gemma and I wove a garland from evergreen clippings, holly berries, and wintersweet, a fragrant flower with yellow-golden blossoms that Matt had sent over that very morning from the garden. Pippa located some scented candles from the pantry, their metal antique holders flanking each end of the plain white mantle. The final result was simple but elegant, and even the tree had a quaint, pleasing feel with its homemade decorations. It would feel like home, and that was exactly the point.

Gemma and Pippa were needed back in the kitchen by the time we were done, so I retreated to my office, intending to go over some of the unfinished details for the charity ball. As I sat behind the desk, my work mobile rang. The number on the screen was unfamiliar. The voice that greeted me when I answered, however, was not.

Dwight, I said, feeling my breath hitch, cautiously, with this word. What a surprise. It was, and I wasn't sure it was entirely pleasant. I didn't have a longing to hear from my ex-boyfriend again, really. While I was curious why he called, I was still a little annoyed, although not as much as I thought I would be.

Is it bad timing? he asked. I can phone back—

No, no. It’s fine. What could this be about? Surely he didn’t mean what he said about having tea together, at least not this soon. It must be something for the charity ball, I thought.

I had a favor to ask of you, Dwight continued. Well, more like a favor for some friends of mine, actually. They’re planning a Christmas wedding, but their planner has just dropped them last minute due to scheduling conflicts. Some big London agency, I think. They’re devastated, of course.

That’s terrible, I said. They need help finding another agency, I presume? I can recommend some places—

"They’ve tried that, Julianne. It’s too close of a deadline and the best planners are already booked through spring anyway. I thought…well — hoped — you could help them somehow. You know, give them some advice, help them to fill in the missing pieces, that sort of thing."

Um, well…

My hands were basically full with the details for the Christmas Eve ball, and I couldn’t let anything interfere with my duties at Cliffs House. If I were to somehow disappoint Lord William and Lady Amanda at the biggest event of the season…well, I just couldn’t think of it even.

You were the best at Design a Dream, he continued. They should've promoted you if they had any sense. Anyway, I thought someone with your talent, and with your heart, was exactly the person who could help a friend with a problem like this.

I’m sorry, Dwight, but I’m fairly swamped here, I began. The charity gala is coming up, as you know, and that’s something I have full responsibility for. I wish I could help, I just don’t think I have the time to commit to a wedding on top of my current duties.

Harsh and formal and cold. That’s how I sounded, no doubt, even though that wasn't how I meant it. I was being overly-careful to keep Dwight at arm's length, that's all. But I was being honest about having more on my schedule than I could handle.

Dwight sighed faintly over the phone. Of course, he said. What was I thinking? Except that it’s Christmas and I could appeal to your sense of charity. I know that you wouldn't give an answer like that if it wasn't true. His joke was a halfhearted one at best, with this flat and sober ending tacked on. I felt a pang of conscience.

I really am sorry Dwight. If I only had the time— maybe I could help with a few little —

It wouldn’t be a huge time commitment. Dwight had leaped on my words, eagerly. Most of the details were taken care of already, so you would just be double checking those. You know, making some phone calls to the appropriate business contacts, finishing up a few little perfect touches. You probably have an address book filled with the best of the best in London's bridal industry by now, he added, with a chuckle.

I did, actually. My role as chief event planner at Cliffs House might be relatively new, but I had covered a lot of ground since my first assignment. I was now a familiar face to several of the reputable bakeries, florists, and caterers from Cornwall and Devon to the heart of London and could probably arrange something for Dwight’s unfortunate friends, even with a big event monopolizing my time. With a sigh, I gave in.

I could probably manage a couple of trips to London before the holiday, I answered. I'll see what I can do. That’s all I can promise for now, I’m afraid.

You’re an angel, Dwight replied. Thanks a million, Juli. They'll really appreciate having you rescue them, I promise.

An angel, hmm? That didn’t explain why I felt vaguely like a traitor as I penciled a meeting time with Dwight and his friends into the diary on my work desk. Was it my work schedule at Cliffs House I was afraid of betraying, or my relationship with Matt? The little seed of conflict over which one was the bigger problem was sprouting more quickly than I wanted to admit.

***

A hearty fire was blazing in the hearth of the Fisherman’s Rest as Matt and I walked through the door on Tuesday night, its rosy glow illuminating the pub’s small interior. Stone hearth, high wooden beams, and a bar of rich cherry wood. It was the quintessential English pub, the way I had always pictured one would look. Strands of clear Christmas lights trailing from the beams only added to its cozy charm tonight, as Matt and I shrugged out of our coats and scarves inside the doorway.

We had agreed that skipping quiz night twice in a row would be an unkindness to our teammates, since we were two of only seven members in our regular group. And, since tonight’s trivia theme was American cinema, a variation on last week’s television trivia, I stood a fair chance of helping us win for a change. Though I couldn’t help wishing we were back at Rosemoor cottage instead, sharing that romantic dinner I had planned to make for Matt as soon as Dinah’s cooking lessons assured me it was time for such a gutsy move. Something involving pheasant, maybe, but definitely not the ox heart from Dinah's The Best of English Cooking Through the Centuries.

The pub was packed inside, anywhere from eighty to a hundred locals showing up for pub nights on average. Matt kept his hand on my back as we searched the crowd, a warm and protective touch that I was loathe to lose as our friends spotted us from across the room.

Julianne, Ross, over here! Gemma waved to us from a table in the corner near the hearth. Her boyfriend Andy was beside her, his athletic, yet lanky build unmistakable. Across from them was the rest of our team: Rosie, the administrator for the local cat shelter; Susan, a hair stylist from Falmouth; and Susan’s husband, Clive, who used to work as an undergardener at Cliffs House before retiring to his own garden work at a cottage by the sea.

How’s it going, mate? Andy greeted Matt with a handshake, as the two of us took our places at the table. My seat was directly across from Matt’s, next to Susan, who turned to greet me with a smile.

Don’t you look smart tonight? she observed, glancing over the tartan skirt and boots that I had paired with a blouse and fleece jacket. That hairstyle isn’t bad either, she added, with a glance at my reddish brown layers that I had pinned back with a clip, rather than do battle to tame it with my straightening brush and curling iron at the last minute. "Suits you better than your usual look, I think. Not that I'm saying it couldn't do with just a bit more of something...off the sides, maybe."

I hid my grin for this compliment, since Susan was forever nagging me to get my hair cut at her salon in Falmouth. She was obsessed with persuading me to change my look, claiming my features were crying out for something short and daring, a touch of Emma Watson’s pixie cut from the celebrity magazines on her salon’s waiting room table. Given her dedication to adding me to her pool of customers, it was quite a concession for her to admit any look I sported ‘wasn’t bad.'

Thank you, Susan, I said, with a smile of victory. I rather like it myself.

It hadn't taken long before I had begun to feel a part of these weekly gatherings at the Fisherman’s Rest. I never had my own hangout back in Seattle, so to speak, but I much preferred the idea of a pub to a bar anyway. And Ceffylgwyn had a way of pulling people into its fold, if they were really interested in being part of it — just like the small towns and villages from television and novels.

Of course, they teased me endlessly about my accent. And my wretched attempts at using Cornish and English slang. Try as I might, I couldn’t remember the right time for saying I was ‘chuffed’ about something or that something was ‘daft’. Or saying I would do something ‘dreckly’—a Cornish phrase similar to ‘directly’ but meaning the speaker might accomplish their task anytime between now and next year, from what I had gathered. Their good-natured ribbing reminded of a Washington college classmate I had teased occasionally over his Alabama accent. If this was comeuppance for that particular episode, I was getting off easy in punishment.

Matt was chatting with Clive about gardening, while Andy and Gemma shared some private confidence that involved her giggling quite a bit. From the seat on my left, Rosie ‘the cat keeper’ as she was known in the village, studied me with an arched brow before leaning closer. No sea food cravings for the two of you tonight, I take it? she asked.

So news of our little dinner date had made the rounds in the village gossip. I merely smiled and shrugged, determined not to give in. Everyone who asked was simply fishing around to determine how serious the two of us were — and they probably thought my polite or vague answers were merely being coy.

I wish they wouldn't ask — at least until we're both on the same page for sure, I thought. I felt a twinge of longing as I pictured myself finally being open about my feelings for Matt. With him, at least. That would be a start.

Tell him, a voice seemed to urge. What’s the worst that could happen? But I knew what, feeling a shiver at the thought of driving him away with a sudden declaration of love. Well, not that sudden, but everyone has different timing. What if Matt felt I was rushing him after a handful of dates and kisses? What if I panicked as soon as I told him and wished I had waited? I didn’t want to blow this, with everything going so well between us.

Such anxious thoughts were forced aside for the usual small talk. Rosie was telling someone who stopped by our table about the basket of tuxedo kittens someone had left on the shelter doorstep