Tina looked over the table. Oh, the man's laying it on thick. The chicken cashew curry smelled wonderful - but what was this additional aroma in the air?

"I think we could watch a film tonight," he said. Popcorn! That's what it is! "One of the few unhealthy things I can make."

"I can make popcorn too," she said with a laugh. "You put it in the microwave and press the button that says 'popcorn.'"

"Well, I think our first 'movie night' is worth a tad more effort," he murmured.

Oh wow. He surely seems to think so! Tina looked at a large bowl of what appeared to be homemade salted caramel popcorn.

"What are we watching?" she asked, sitting down to dinner.

"Anything you fancy." That's surely generous. "Something heart-warming, 'tis the season, after all," he drew out. "Something... romantic?" He raised his eyebrow.

Tina's internal 'chicken alarm' started blaring. She stuffed a forkful of curry in her mouth and chewed.

"To think of it," she said after swallowing. "I know just the perfect film."

***

"I'll give you that," he said, throwing a handful of popcorn in his mouth, "You have surprised me."

She shrugged and pushed her hand in the bowl on the sofa between them.

"I watch it every Christmas," she said, without tearing her eyes off his Mac.

"You watch The Third Man every Christmas?" he repeated in disbelief.

"Yeah, and I had a tape of the music from the film, my Nana gave it to me." Tina chewed another ball of sugary deliciousness. "You know, Anton Karas, on a zither. I've always loved the Short Reprise, and that little trill at the end."

Tina imitated the sound, and grabbed more popcorn. Holyoake was surprisingly quiet, and she looked away from Martins who'd just come to visit Anna. Hm, what's this expression exactly? Sort of like that widened-eyed look he gave her when he'd slipped on her shower water.

"What?" she asked, one of her cheeks full of popcorn.

He chuckled. "Nothing. Watch your Christmas-inappropriate film, Clementine."

Tina shrugged again and went back to the film. It was one of her favourite parts: Anna was being detained by the police.

***

"Would you like me to find you an agent?" he asked, and Tina jerked and bumped her elbow on the inside of the dishwasher.

"Blimey, it's like you're waiting for just the right moment to make me hurt myself," she grumbled and straightened up. "You were saying?"

He handed her another dirty plate.

"I can get you in touch with an agent. They can have a look at your manuscript. No guarantee, of course."

No bloody guarantee?! Seriously?!

She continued staring at him - as she suspected, with an exasperated expression on her face - and he lifted his hands in surrender.

"Again, I make no promises," he said.

"Well, we wouldn't want any of those, would we?" she drew out venomously. "Let's try to avoid tying you down with any sort of a... commitment, shall we?" She patted his upper arm with a fake concern on her face. "That just wouldn't do."

He guffawed.

"And no, thank you," she added and picked up another plate. "I'll be alright."

"It's really no trouble," he said.

"Oh, but it is. And do you know why you're offering?" she asked and pointed at his face with a dirty teaspoon. "It's not because you think I'm good. You simply can't know it. You're just feeling guilty for getting stuck in my house and ruining my holidays."

"Have I ruined your holidays?" he asked.

Anyone else would be insecure in his place. The bastard was enjoying the bantering. Toff git.

"Well, the menu isn't that bad," she quipped.

"That's what I thought. Also, you're overestimating the complexity of my thought processes," he said and left for the lounge, probably to bring their mugs and the popcorn bowl. "I still think you should accept my offer," he said, coming back. "You can't imagine how hard it is to get your foot in. Even if your book is good."

'Even' if her book is good?! 'Even?!' She's Evelyn bloody Cox! Her books are sodding amazing! Oh you, tosser! Self-assured, puffed-up, judgemental tosser!

"See?" she hollered and shook her index finger in front of his nose. "See?! You don't actually think I'm any good. I'm your charity case!" She stomped her foot. "You're thinking, 'Poor Clemmie, first August Anderson arsed up her chances to get published, and now her mediocre murder mystery is gathering dust in her desk. I'm John bloody Holyoake, I'll swing in, like Errol bloody Flynn on a vine," she sneered, and he started guffawing. "'I'll save her and make her a generous offer," she continued mimicking his deep voice, "but obviously without promising anything, because God forbid she starts hoping for anything!'"

She shoved the kitchen towel into his hands.

"Don't forget to program the Sage for tomorrow," she barked and marched out of the kitchen.

"Clementine!" he called after her, and she could hear laughter in his voice.

"And go to bed right away!" she continued shouting, stomping up the stairs. "I need my sleep!"

That gave him a pause. Good.

"Am I coming to your bed?" he shouted to her.

"I'm not sleeping on the stupid sofa anymore!" Tina jerked the closet door open and grabbed a fresh towel. "Your towel is in the bathroom, and don't forget to turn off the lights everywhere!"

***

She could hear the door open slowly. She remained still, on her side, her back to his half of the bed. It's not 'his' half of the bed, Tina! It's just a 'not Tina's favourite half.'

He slid under the duvet, and turned off the light on his bedside table. She could feel the mattress bounce softly when he stretched, with a low noise in his throat.

"Clementine," he whispered.

"What?"

Why are you answering, you daft cow? You're supposed to be pretending to be asleep.

"Good night," he said softly.

Oh.

"Good night."

"Did I call you Clemmie at some point?" he asked.

"Go to sleep, John."

"To think of it, I actually might," he said with a warm chuckle.

They lay in silence for a few seconds.

"You called me Clemmie in your sleep," she whispered and looked at him over her shoulder.

His eyes were closed, and she quickly turned away.

"I think it suits you," he murmured, and Tina bit into her bottom lip. "Good night, Clemmie," he added and sighed contently.

"Good night, John," she whispered and closed her eyes.

***

Day 7

Her bed was empty. OK, this is unusual. No jolting out of her sleep, no opening her eyes and staring at Holyoake's wide chest. Tina sat up and looked around. Maybe he'd woken up earlier and went to cook breakfast. That would be nice, she thought and rubbed her eyes. And then she heard loud voices coming from the ground floor. Tina slid off the bed and ran down the stairs.

"Ta," Holyoake thanked someone invisible and closed the front door.

"What's up?" she asked.

He turned to her, and she saw a small gift basket in his hands.

"This came for you. The doorbell woke me up," he said.

At that moment the Sage in the kitchen made its usual loud feral noise, starting to grind the beans.

"Is August Anderson working double shift this year?" Holyoake asked sardonically.

"That's a Cartwright & Butler Hamper," Tina pointed out. "August would never buy anything that... unhealthy. It must be from Lyn. Or from one of my Aunts."

Or Liv, or someone else in the Rivendell Publishing, but we aren't telling him this, right?

She took the basket out of his hands and carried it to the kitchen. He followed. She pulled the card out and opened it.

Dear Ms. Popplewell,

I hope your holiday season is full of joy, peace, and happiness. I'm sending you my book, since you've expressed interest in my research.

I know this Winter has been difficult for those of us living alone, and perhaps you would like to have a walk together one of these days. My number is +xx xxx xxxxxx.

Regards,

Dr. Edwin Montjoy, PhD, BFSS (British Fungi Science Society), President

"There's a book here, on–" Holyoake paused and read slowly, "the fungi of the County of Fleckney. Do you have a particular interest in mushrooms, Clementine?" he asked and flipped the book to look at the back cover. "Oh, wait, it's that mushroom bloke, Edwin something. Di's mentioned him. Kept gushing about how gorgeous he was, despite her being recently into women."

Tina plucked the book out of his hands.

"Wait! Are these from the mushroom bloke?" he asked in disbelief pointing at the basket.

"Why do you look so shocked?" she said haughtily. "Why wouldn't a man want to send me a Christmas present?"

Tina looked at the picture of Dr. Edwin Montjoy on the back cover of the book. That's what Tina's talking about! Tall, lithe, and blond. Just as Tina Popplewell fancies them. The man was, put simply, gorgeous. The first time she'd run into him at the parish council meeting, she'd frozen with her mouth open. He was sort of 'the young Charles Dance meets Harry Hadden-Paton in Downton Abbey.' The man looked like a classic stage actor with just a tinge of an awkward bubbling professor's charm.

"He lives in the village, and we've spoken a couple times," Tina said distractedly.

"About the 'marvellous fungi' of our county?" Holyoake quoted the title of the book. "They've clearly missed a chance here. 'Fantastic fungi' would sell better."

"Maybe it's not about selling his book for him," Tina said in an acidic tone and flipped through the pages. "Maybe, he's simply passionate about the subject."

"Oh look, he says you also 'expressed interest in his research,'" Holyoake drew out sarcastically.

Tina gasped and grabbed the card out of his hand.

"That's private!" Her cheeks were starting to burn. "And yes, I have. If you want to know, I'm properly interested in–" Breath-takingly attractive blond men. "–mushrooms."

"Name one kind of mushrooms," Holyoake said.

"Oh look, shortbreads," Tina blurted out and pulled a box out of the basket. "We can have them with coffee."

Holyoake narrowed his eyes at her. She alluringly shook the box in front of him.

"You're going to ring up the mushroom bloke, aren't you?" he said slowly.

"Well, I have to thank him for the gift and the book," Tina said defensively and poured her coffee. "It would be un-neighbourly not to."

Holyoake hummed low in his throat and sipped his coffee, his intent gaze on her. Blimey, it's like that time when she'd fancied Danny Flinch in the seventh grade, and Lyn had found out and had given her shite over it.

Hang on the minute! She wasn't in seventh grade - and just like Lyn - Holyoake had no say in who Tina fancied!

She gave him a defiant look, picked up the card, and walked out of the kitchen with her head held high. She had a phone call to make and a mycologist to charm.