Christmas at the Little Clock House on the Green: An enchanting and warm-hearted romance full of Christmas cheer. Eve Devon

       Chapter 1

       The Grandfather of all Clock-Ups

       Kate

      Kate Somersby upended the contents of her handbag over her desk and watched the hundred or so fluorescent pink post-its flutter to the surface like confetti.

      Any moment now she was going to get to grips with the bullet journaling system her cousin, Juliet, raved about.

      Yep … any moment now, she thought, staring down at all the vitally-important, equal-priority To Do notes that had come to her in the early hours of the morning.

      In the meantime, she reasoned, her portable, flexible filing system was practically the same thing only without all the pretty panda stickers.

      Shoving the roll of stickers and the actual bullet journal Juliet had gifted her into the top desk drawer, Kate pulled out her chair and plonked herself down.

      It completely boggled her mind to think that a few months ago she’d been working abroad, pretending she was okay with living out of a suitcase, and now she was back in her home village of Whispers Wood, the proud owner of The Clock House and on schedule to get it open for business before Christmas. Of course, it immediately un-boggled when she thought about the insane number of hours everyone was putting in to keep them on course and ensure it was going to happen.

      Hopefully by the end of the week, Juliet would have her hair-dressing stations in place for Hair @ The Clock House.

      Daniel, Kate’s boyfriend, had nearly finished setting up Hive @ The Clock House, the co-working space he was going to manage, and all the treatment beds, pedi-chairs and nail station tables were arriving today for Beauty @ The Clock House, the day spa that had been her and her twin, Bea’s, dream for so long.

       What do you think, Bea? Is this how you pictured all of this when we used to dream about opening our day spa in this building?

      A swirl of excitement ran head-first into the wall of sorrow that was acknowledgement of Bea’s death and bounced backwards in confusion. She felt the conflict inside her like a cramp and tried to breathe through it.

      And then on a shaky breath she imagined Bea snorting with laughter, and offering a ‘Hey – I’m still trying to get over the fact that you think you’ll get to grips with bullet-journaling,’ and the cramp eased.

      Bea would have loved everything