Laurel wasn’t in the million-pounds-a-canvas bracket but she was accomplished enough that people passed compliments yet, somehow, Grady’s simple sincerity brought a lump to her throat. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured.

‘Twelve hundred pounds,’ he said, reading the small label she’d popped discreetly on the window board.

She fidgeted. ‘It would be more on my Etsy shop but if someone in the village wanted it …’ She didn’t finish the sentence, feeling uncomfortably pretentious that all the windows she’d peeped into this evening sported far more modest price tags.

He turned to her. ‘It’s a snip. A piece of fine art by an artist of repute should be priced higher.’

She flushed, glad he wouldn’t be able to see it in the darkness. ‘It’s a small canvas.’

Daisy gave Laurel a one-armed hug. ‘My clever auntie.’

This prosaic view broke the spell and Grady laughed, tugging Daisy’s wildly blowing hair. ‘OK, kid, think you’ve got to go in. Your clever auntie’s coming back with me.’ Laurel’s face burned again.

Daisy’s glance flicked from one of them to the other and then fell on their clasped hands. ‘Oh, ri-i-i-ght. See you later.’ She grinned before she went indoors.

Laurel had missed her chance of making an excuse to nip in for a spruce up because she had no intention of facing Daisy immediately after that Oh, ri-i-i-ght and the knowing grin. Anyway, Grady was already pulling her along, huddled into his coat and complaining about turning into a block of ice.

They arrived back at Mistletoe Cottage less than half an hour after they’d left. The hall was warm and welcoming – perhaps some residual heat from their earlier kisses? – and Grady turned to her, softly pulling off her hat and running his fingers through her hair before slipping her mittens off and kissing each of her hands, then unwinding her scarf. He tossed everything on the hall table then unzipped her coat, slid it down her arms and hung it up. He threw off his own coat before she could even reach for his zip.

Then, surprising her, he kissed her temple and asked, ‘Glass of wine?’

As she’d kind of thought he might be expecting to simply carry on where they’d had to leave off, she was charmed by his lack of rush. ‘Any white in the fridge?’ she asked, following him as he clicked a switch and the overhead lights came on in the kitchen.

He poured them each a glass and they went into the sitting room, more gently lit by a lamp. They settled themselves on the sofa, legs entwined. ‘You’re here to help with my Art December window, right?’ He smiled, but it was subdued.

Wondering at the tension that had developed but following his cue, she glanced at his firmly curtained window. ‘That’s right. Break out the fairy lights.’