Christmas at the Chateau: (A Novella). Lorraine Wilson

so she provided me with a few new sketches and ideas for the book that were still percolating when Leo came around later, Maxi in tow.

      “I’ve brought pizza,” he announces. “There’s plenty for three people if you’re hungry, Joanna.”

      I can’t help smiling widely at him, my lovely Leo. Always so thoughtful and considerate when it comes to other people. Not to mention gentle with animals. He does have a more forceful, strong side that I hope I’ll be seeing more of later on. If we’re not still arguing, that is.

      “Are we good?” I ask later, once we’ve eaten everything and he’s pretended not to see me giving Maxi a cheesy crust. Joanna has gone to bed, Pickwick in her arms, her little hot water bottle and friend.

      I never begrudge her taking Pickwick. After all, I have Leo and the chihuahuas to give me cuddles and Pickwick seems to like the one-on-one attention.

      Leo pulls me onto his lap.

      “Good?” Leo asks, puzzled. “Yes, we are good … but I can be bad if you like?”

      The Christmas tree is looking pretty special if I say so myself, glittering lights catching perfectly positioned red and gold decorations.

      Joanna had petitioned for white and blue decorations but I vetoed her. It would have looked stylish but I wanted warm tones in the room so that when the fire blazed and flickered it would reflect on the tree decorations and make everything glow gold. I’ve lit some candles in lanterns too and switched off the main lights so the atmosphere has an almost magical quality to it.

      I realise he has missed my meaning. Leo’s English is excellent – the result of time spent in America and London – but I forget he’s not always going to pick up on all my colloquialisms. I am making an effort to learn French but it’s much easier for us to communicate in English unless I’m ordering food in a restaurant, asking where the toilets are or apologising that my French isn’t very good. I am ironically good at apologising for my bad French.

      I try, honestly I do, but anyone I speak French to instantly replies to me in English. If I speak French to Leo he just smiles because I apparently have a very sexy English accent … and that makes it hard for him to concentrate.

      “I mean, are we okay?” I shift closer to him on the sofa, one of my hands resting against his warm chest.

      Given Leo’s hand is running up and down my denim-clad thigh I assume we probably are, but I like to have it clarified. It’s an anxiety thing.

      “Okay?” He frowns.

      “You know, because we were fighting.”

      Leo’s brow crinkles even more and his hand stops moving. “Fighting? When? When have we ever been fighting?”

      Oh. Okay.

      “I thought, this morning …”

      “We were just talking … A minor difference of opinion that is all. I was joking about my reputation. If I cared about that I wouldn’t be with you.”

      I narrow my eyes and he grins to show he’s only teasing.

      “Also, you’re right, it is up to you and the clothing is warm so it is suitable.”

      Bless him.

      But his teasing deserves a tease in return.

      “Good, because I’ve bought us all matching hoodies, Maxi included.” I keep my face as expressionless as possible.

      Leo blanches and then his dark eyes narrow as he realises I’m teasing him.

      I shriek with laughter as he pushes me down on the sofa and tickles me.

      “I take it back. You are not good at all. You are very, very bad.” Leo’s expression turns from teasing to intense and passionate and a shiver of sexual electricity travels through my body like a wave.