A Villain for Christmas (The Holyoake Christmas Series, Book 2)

I Got You a Drawer

The main feature of interest in the cottage was that, despite it being rather small, it had two tiny rooms turned into libraries, crammed into it; as well as a small book nook under the stairs. It made sense, this branch of the Holyoake family had always been belletristically inclined. After the death of the older Holyoakes, it had been in the possession of Will Holyoake; and had been let out. Billie often pondered whether the bookish paradise inside had been since lost. All literary puns intended.

They climbed out of the cab, and Fergusson pulled a bunch of keys out of his pocket. Billie swallowed a knot in her throat.

"Should I just wait for you–"

She didn't finish, since the man was already marching to the front door, along a cleared narrow pathway.

"Most furniture is already in," Fergusson threw to her over his shoulder. "We put it around. Federico said you'd deal with the books yourself, though."

"Pardon?" Billie cried out and dashed after him. "I'm sorry, what books?!"

Fergusson gave her a frowned, questioning stare.

"The ones from the storage."

"He didn't mention any books!" she exclaimed.

Fergusson once again expressed nothing on his face and flipped the light twitch on. Billie couldn't hold back a gasp.

Towers and towers of boxes, each with bright yellow 'handle with care' and 'heavy' stickers, filled the hall, like the best kind of stalagmites.

Fergusson took out his mobile.

"He left a media centre proposal here," he said, scrolling. "Should be in the kitchen, on the table."

Billie wasn't listening. She'd just caught a glimpse of a room at the end of the corridor - and it was one of the libraries! And it was unchanged! She could see empty book shelves, and a secretary desk - and even, the apotheosis of a bookworm's dreams, a metamorphic library steps chair!

Fergusson reappeared from the kitchen.

"It isn't due till the end of March," he said, handing her a thick stack of papers. "I don't get it, but Jackie thought you might want to have a physical copy."

"I do!" Billie exclaimed. "I always prefer paper to digital files."

"Figures," he said in the most neutral tone. "Would you like to stay to look around?"

"What?! No! Why?" Billie squawked. "It's not like I'm going to– We didn't actually discuss the cottage! I mean, I didn't even know about the books! These are the Holyoake books, right? I reckon, Nana Holyoake's library is already full. And there are so many! What is he even going to do with them?! He's dyslexic! Oh, I hope he's not selling them! And have they been in the storage this whole time?"

Billie fought an acute urge to rush to the nearest stack of boxes and to hug it protectively. Oh you poor lambkins! She realised that Fergusson wasn't paying any attention to her hollering and was reading something on his screen.

"We can go now," Billie said in a defeated tone.

Another of his brusque nods was the only answer she received, and she dragged herself after him.

***

After her mad outburst on Sunday, her relatives had been avoiding her; which served Billie just right.

In her room, she sat on her bed, with the proposal in her hands, an old tattered quilt thrown over her shoulders. She'd habitually checked her phone; but, of course, there was no text.

No matter how many times she'd told herself to stop being Dorothy Parker's New York lady and assume that 'the most horrible things happened to her of anybody in the entire world,' she just couldn't shake off the feeling that she'd thoroughly botched up her relationship with Dair.

How does one ask their two-time-bed-one-time-sleeping-bag-mate whether they'd been demoted from a 'ragazza' to a business associate?

Billie was clearly in disarray. She'd just created an eight-part nonce word! Shame, shame on Billie Harewicke, a fake language martinet!

She reminded herself that she simply didn't know anything about the modern protocol for romance; and perhaps three days without a response text were completely normal - even if it was a response to someone telling the person that they'd changed their mind, and that they wanted to run away to Rome with them, all their responsibilities, excuses, and reasonable doubts be damned!

Billie groaned and flopped on the bed sideways. 

He's just busy, she told herself. He's not good at texting because of his dyslexia, and he's going to call when he gets a chance, she added in a comforting inner voice. He'd said he wanted to monogamously date her; he was an old-fashioned person. He'd given her flowers - sort of - and invited her to a dinner with his family - in a way. He wouldn't just ignore and forget her. Right?

Loud insistent scraping noises informed her that a cat was demanding entrance to Billie's room. The clamour that followed announced the presence of at least five felines. Billie gritted her teeth and resisted for as long as she could - and then she climbed off the bed and jerked her door open.

"What is it?" she asked angrily - and froze with her mouth half-open.

Four uninvited guests had burst in; but one didn't rush. Holding its tail like a battle banner, one of her Aunts' gingers walked in, full of dignity and poise - carrying a long grey scarf in its mouth.

Federico Cerretelli's scarf.

"Well, yes, I am cold!" she'd cried out then. "I'm stuck outside here, for whatever reason, instead of being in a cab on my way to–" 

And then he'd pulled the scarf from around his neck, threw it over her head, and tugged at the ends, drawing her towards him. The citrus fragrance had tickled her nose.

Billie lunged at the cat.

"Give it to me, you monster!"

Said monster made a half-hearted attempt to dodge her, gave up its prey surprisingly easily, and joined its kin in scratching a side of Billie's raggedy armchair.

Billie pressed the cashmere to her cheek.

He'd kissed her in the Nidhogg gardens by then; and then he'd joked that she didn't take his breath away, and asked if he could kiss her again.

She could have been kissing him in Rome right now!

Clot. That's what you are, Sybil Althea Iris Harewicke. You're a clot.

And a chicken.

That was the proverbial root of all evils in her life, wasn't it? What had he said then, in his car parked in front of Nana Holyoake's cottage? 'If you aren't going to give it your best, let someone else try.'

Billie sharply inhaled, grabbed her phone, and decisively dialled.

"Pronto?" a male voice answered.

Billie had enough courage left for only one word. "Hello?"

"Dimmi! Chi parla?"

That - definitely wasn't Dair's voice.