After the slightest hesitation her hands came up to his shoulders and she angled her head so that her lips found his, softly, hesitantly. He let her set the pace and was rewarded when she relaxed against him, though the contact was light through her thick coat. Fireworks burst in his chest as their mouths opened and they sank into a hot, deep, drugging kiss that set him tingling and removed all thoughts from his head apart from I’m kissing Laurel again.

It was she who ended the kiss. He would have stood under the porch of The Nookery for hours, uncaring if they disappeared in an icy snowdrift so long as he was kissing her. She gave a soft, breathless laugh. ‘So that’s why you walked me home, huh? To get your goodnight kiss?’

He knew she was joking to defuse the intensity. He nudged her hood back so he could nuzzle her ear. ‘Worked, didn’t it?’ He kept his hips angled away from her because there was a block of something decidedly not ice-like, hot and burning against his lower stomach.

She disengaged herself. ‘I’ll see you on Saturday.’

‘Yes.’ He felt as rocked and giddy as their teenage kisses had ever made him feel. He hoped that, this time, their relationship would sooner or later progress beyond kissing in doorways … like into his bed in Mistletoe Cottage, her luscious body naked in his arms. He made sure not to let the thought reflect in his smile, not wanting to send her off with a lust-crazed leer. He watched her open the wooden front door and close it behind her. Heard the lock click. Then he turned for home, becoming aware of ice-block feet and burning-cold hands.

Shoulders hunched, he jogged home, head buzzing, trying to outrun the snow that was trying to infiltrate the neck of his jacket. Despite the niggles about her shuttered expression when he’d talked of Mac, Laurel’s kisses had left him hovering six inches above the pavement and he sang under his breath as he burst into the welcome warmth of Mistletoe Cottage. He locked up and loped upstairs, tossing his coat over the banister, shuffling a couple of dance steps across the landing.

Despite texting her ex tonight, Laurel seemed over her divorce and her ring finger had been empty long enough for there to be no white line.

A few minutes after he’d fallen into bed, he noticed a phone notification about a message from someone called Francesca on the Grady Auto Art Facebook page. In case it meant a sale, he clicked it open.

You don’t know me, the message began, but I think you know Ruben? Grady blinked. Mac’s old friend?

Assuming someone was trying to organise a reunion or something he typed back: My brother had a friend called Ruben but I’m not in touch with him. Have you tried searching for social media profiles?