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The Present: The must-read Christmas romance of the year!
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Год издания:
2019
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The Present: The must-read Christmas romance of the year!
Charlotte Phillips
This book can also be read with The Present by DS Devlin. Two books, one unforgettable Christmas…12 magical gifts, one love that lasts a lifetime…On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me … one romantic Christmas you won’t forget.When helping to clear out her beloved grandmother’s home, Lucy Jackson discovers twelve beautiful Christmas decorations hidden in the loft. As she discovers their heartbreaking story, a touching romance develops with the handsome gardener next door.Readers love Charlotte Phillips’ The Present:‘A gem of a Christmas read…fabulous’ Rachel’s Random Reads‘A charming, unashamedly romantic tale…perfect for an afternoon in front of the fire with the christmas tree lights on’ Jane Hunt Author Book Reviews
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017
Copyright © Charlotte Phillips 2017
Cover images © Shutterstock.com (https://www.shutterstock.com)
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017
Charlotte Phillips asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008272760
Ebook Edition © December 2017 ISBN: 9780008272753
Version: 2017-11-13
Table of Contents
Cover (#u5f542d50-f5a8-531c-aaf8-3b50d7863fc4)
Title Page (#u5ca755a7-1723-58b8-bc3f-96b1cd9bad53)
Copyright (#u3ecb4a6f-ab2a-5d12-a040-6c1fbf335257)
Dedication (#u07bb55af-6ee9-580c-b0c0-a1db7ca9de43)
Chapter 1 (#ua6f32ec4-f366-551f-b09c-13a4383f6436)
Chapter 2 (#u4778a003-9fef-5baf-b312-05945b8e6741)
Chapter 3 (#u499182f0-8634-57bc-90b1-afcade6f488a)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
For Sam, Lib & Gem, with lots of love.
Chapter 1 (#u9a30f89f-7f1f-548e-9d95-0b0e30fb78fa)
Clearing out Gran’s attic had seemed pretty straightforward right up until the point at which Lucy Jackson fell through the floor.
Okay, so there was the amount of stuff. Turned out there was a simple reason why Gran had kept such a tidy home that had nothing to do with housekeeping skills of a bygone age. It was because there was seventy-odd years’ worth of clutter filling the bloody roof. Stack after stack of boxes, an old clothing rail hung with dust covers, black bin liners bulging with who-knew-what, odd bits of furniture. From Lucy’s vantage point, currently waist deep in a hole in the attic floor, she could see a pile of photographs spilling from a nearby box, the topmost one of a smiling toddler in the arms of a skinny young woman in shorts and a halterneck top. They shared the same honey-coloured curly hair. Typical. There must be a few hundred pictures in this loft, and she had that one in her sightline, like what she really needed right now was a reminder of her mother, currently AWOL somewhere in the Mediterranean while Gran was struggling in hospital. Despite the jaw-dropping size of the tat pile, which spoke of a serious hoarder, it had, right up until ten minutes ago, been just a simple matter of transferring it all from the top of the house to the bottom.
If it hadn’t been for the box.
Even in the dim light from the one dusty bulb, it had looked expensive. A wooden box with a curved lid, the kind of box that might organise a jewellery collection, the kind of box that Gran would surely have given pride of place in her bedroom instead of shoving it away up here out of sight. It had been sitting all by itself in the furthest cobweb-filled corner, in a place where the sturdy attic floorboards ended and where the thin board between the wooden joists looked as if it might not hold the weight of a thirty-year-old who was half a stone short of reaching her target weight but who had abandoned dieting because Christmas, with all its cheese and crackers, was only a few weeks away. She had taken a tentative step towards the box, and added her weight slowly. She had stretched her arm out, and her fingertips tantalisingly brushed the lid, drawing soft lines in the dust that coated its polished surface. There had been a small creak, but nothing serious, it was obviously going to hold, so she relaxed and lunged forward.
The room disappeared from view in a cloud of dust and plaster as she plummeted through the attic floor with a yell and a splintering crash.
As the dust cleared, she could see the box, still sitting smugly just out of reach in the dusty corner. While she was now stuck waist deep in the floor. Unless she could muster up some kind of help she would most likely still be here come teatime. Gran had been in hospital for a week, and Rod wouldn’t miss her for hours yet, not until he arrived home from work on the dot of seven and wondered where – her mind automatically scrolled through their weekly meal plan – the chicken stir-fry was.
What the hell was she doing thinking about food? She must be in shock. Mentally slapping herself, she suddenly remembered Gran’s handyman, last seen half an hour ago through the window as she climbed past it on her way up the loft ladder, outside shoring up the garden fence. Not her first choice of rescuer. With a build like Tom Hardy and a trail of adoring girlfriends in his wake, Jack Marchant was perfect for admiring from afar while smugly knowing you’d bet on the safe and dependable option who would never break your heart. Gran was forever gossiping about Jack’s latest conquests. Having bet on the safe option however, didn’t make it palatable to look a total numpty in front of the hot option, and so she did a quick mental run-through of all her other choices, of which there really were none. The joist she was leaning on gave a warning creak, and, discarding her pride, she gathered all her strength together, took a deep, dusty breath, and yelled at the top of her voice.
‘HELP!’
She waited and listened. Absolutely nothing. Nothing but another creaky, splintering sound as she shifted her weight a little against the joist. The unpleasant fact crossed her mind that she could probably shout as long and as hard as she wanted to, but she might still be stuck fast for hours. She opened her mouth to yell again, this time adding in some real top-of-the-lungs volume, just as Jack Marchant’s head and shoulders appeared through the loft hatch. He had tousled dark hair, strong cheekbones, and eyes that crinkled a little at the corners, as if there was the slightest amusing thing about her current situation. It was too late to stop the yell, and he screwed his face up as it echoed through the attic. Even her own ears rang with the force of it.
‘I’m not sure they heard that in Central London,’ he said, pulling himself up easily and sitting on the edge of the hatch.
She made an apologetic face.
‘Sorry. I went for full volume because I thought I’d be stuck here for ever.’ Her face felt hot underneath its coating of plaster dust. He looked as if he’d walked off a film set, with his tool belt and his work-shirted broad shoulders, and she suddenly felt very stupid, buried in the floor. ‘I didn’t expect anyone to turn up in the first two minutes. What are you, a superhero?’
He winked at her.
‘I could be.’
For goodness’ sake.
‘I also do gardens and building care. I just save the world in my spare time.’
She stared at him, and he grinned back at her.
‘I came in from the garden to fix that dodgy window in the kitchen, so I could hear you crashing through the floor.’
Charlotte Phillips
This book can also be read with The Present by DS Devlin. Two books, one unforgettable Christmas…12 magical gifts, one love that lasts a lifetime…On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me … one romantic Christmas you won’t forget.When helping to clear out her beloved grandmother’s home, Lucy Jackson discovers twelve beautiful Christmas decorations hidden in the loft. As she discovers their heartbreaking story, a touching romance develops with the handsome gardener next door.Readers love Charlotte Phillips’ The Present:‘A gem of a Christmas read…fabulous’ Rachel’s Random Reads‘A charming, unashamedly romantic tale…perfect for an afternoon in front of the fire with the christmas tree lights on’ Jane Hunt Author Book Reviews
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017
Copyright © Charlotte Phillips 2017
Cover images © Shutterstock.com (https://www.shutterstock.com)
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017
Charlotte Phillips asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008272760
Ebook Edition © December 2017 ISBN: 9780008272753
Version: 2017-11-13
Table of Contents
Cover (#u5f542d50-f5a8-531c-aaf8-3b50d7863fc4)
Title Page (#u5ca755a7-1723-58b8-bc3f-96b1cd9bad53)
Copyright (#u3ecb4a6f-ab2a-5d12-a040-6c1fbf335257)
Dedication (#u07bb55af-6ee9-580c-b0c0-a1db7ca9de43)
Chapter 1 (#ua6f32ec4-f366-551f-b09c-13a4383f6436)
Chapter 2 (#u4778a003-9fef-5baf-b312-05945b8e6741)
Chapter 3 (#u499182f0-8634-57bc-90b1-afcade6f488a)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
For Sam, Lib & Gem, with lots of love.
Chapter 1 (#u9a30f89f-7f1f-548e-9d95-0b0e30fb78fa)
Clearing out Gran’s attic had seemed pretty straightforward right up until the point at which Lucy Jackson fell through the floor.
Okay, so there was the amount of stuff. Turned out there was a simple reason why Gran had kept such a tidy home that had nothing to do with housekeeping skills of a bygone age. It was because there was seventy-odd years’ worth of clutter filling the bloody roof. Stack after stack of boxes, an old clothing rail hung with dust covers, black bin liners bulging with who-knew-what, odd bits of furniture. From Lucy’s vantage point, currently waist deep in a hole in the attic floor, she could see a pile of photographs spilling from a nearby box, the topmost one of a smiling toddler in the arms of a skinny young woman in shorts and a halterneck top. They shared the same honey-coloured curly hair. Typical. There must be a few hundred pictures in this loft, and she had that one in her sightline, like what she really needed right now was a reminder of her mother, currently AWOL somewhere in the Mediterranean while Gran was struggling in hospital. Despite the jaw-dropping size of the tat pile, which spoke of a serious hoarder, it had, right up until ten minutes ago, been just a simple matter of transferring it all from the top of the house to the bottom.
If it hadn’t been for the box.
Even in the dim light from the one dusty bulb, it had looked expensive. A wooden box with a curved lid, the kind of box that might organise a jewellery collection, the kind of box that Gran would surely have given pride of place in her bedroom instead of shoving it away up here out of sight. It had been sitting all by itself in the furthest cobweb-filled corner, in a place where the sturdy attic floorboards ended and where the thin board between the wooden joists looked as if it might not hold the weight of a thirty-year-old who was half a stone short of reaching her target weight but who had abandoned dieting because Christmas, with all its cheese and crackers, was only a few weeks away. She had taken a tentative step towards the box, and added her weight slowly. She had stretched her arm out, and her fingertips tantalisingly brushed the lid, drawing soft lines in the dust that coated its polished surface. There had been a small creak, but nothing serious, it was obviously going to hold, so she relaxed and lunged forward.
The room disappeared from view in a cloud of dust and plaster as she plummeted through the attic floor with a yell and a splintering crash.
As the dust cleared, she could see the box, still sitting smugly just out of reach in the dusty corner. While she was now stuck waist deep in the floor. Unless she could muster up some kind of help she would most likely still be here come teatime. Gran had been in hospital for a week, and Rod wouldn’t miss her for hours yet, not until he arrived home from work on the dot of seven and wondered where – her mind automatically scrolled through their weekly meal plan – the chicken stir-fry was.
What the hell was she doing thinking about food? She must be in shock. Mentally slapping herself, she suddenly remembered Gran’s handyman, last seen half an hour ago through the window as she climbed past it on her way up the loft ladder, outside shoring up the garden fence. Not her first choice of rescuer. With a build like Tom Hardy and a trail of adoring girlfriends in his wake, Jack Marchant was perfect for admiring from afar while smugly knowing you’d bet on the safe and dependable option who would never break your heart. Gran was forever gossiping about Jack’s latest conquests. Having bet on the safe option however, didn’t make it palatable to look a total numpty in front of the hot option, and so she did a quick mental run-through of all her other choices, of which there really were none. The joist she was leaning on gave a warning creak, and, discarding her pride, she gathered all her strength together, took a deep, dusty breath, and yelled at the top of her voice.
‘HELP!’
She waited and listened. Absolutely nothing. Nothing but another creaky, splintering sound as she shifted her weight a little against the joist. The unpleasant fact crossed her mind that she could probably shout as long and as hard as she wanted to, but she might still be stuck fast for hours. She opened her mouth to yell again, this time adding in some real top-of-the-lungs volume, just as Jack Marchant’s head and shoulders appeared through the loft hatch. He had tousled dark hair, strong cheekbones, and eyes that crinkled a little at the corners, as if there was the slightest amusing thing about her current situation. It was too late to stop the yell, and he screwed his face up as it echoed through the attic. Even her own ears rang with the force of it.
‘I’m not sure they heard that in Central London,’ he said, pulling himself up easily and sitting on the edge of the hatch.
She made an apologetic face.
‘Sorry. I went for full volume because I thought I’d be stuck here for ever.’ Her face felt hot underneath its coating of plaster dust. He looked as if he’d walked off a film set, with his tool belt and his work-shirted broad shoulders, and she suddenly felt very stupid, buried in the floor. ‘I didn’t expect anyone to turn up in the first two minutes. What are you, a superhero?’
He winked at her.
‘I could be.’
For goodness’ sake.
‘I also do gardens and building care. I just save the world in my spare time.’
She stared at him, and he grinned back at her.
‘I came in from the garden to fix that dodgy window in the kitchen, so I could hear you crashing through the floor.’
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