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‘Bonne chance,’ she whispered to her creations as she slid them into the oven – because the final secret ingredient was always good luck, as her mum had once taught her. ‘I wish she was here,’ she said quietly, as she shut the oven door.

‘You wish who was here?’ Shay asked, apparently not as lost in his own world as she’d thought.

He’d been about to perch on the edge of a stool, but the oven door closing must have disturbed him. He kept pacing.

‘Mum. She loved to bake – though her speciality were those little French sponge cakes called madeleines. And she would have loved seeing the bookshop full of happy customers, finding their next bookish adventures.’

‘I still think we should break her out,’ he said conspiratorially, finding a slip of paper to use as a bookmark before placing his novel down.

She liked how he hadn’t folded the corner of the page, nor rested the book in an open position that could damage the spine. And he’d checked the surface was clean before laying it down. For a non-reader, he had impeccable book manners.

‘I’m free to bring her here, silly. I guess I’m scared she might not remember it now that I’m changing things. Or she’ll think I’m messing it up.’

‘You’re not messing it up. Books, festive music, the promise of her daughter’s award-winning baking. What’s not to love? Even if she doesn’t quite recognize it, I feel she’d sense the happiness. She seems like a joyful soul.’

Noémi smiled as she remembered her mum repeating Shay’s name like a chant and beaming. ‘I think you and your elf tights cheer her up.’

He looked down at his legs, which were clad in a pair of black sports leggings now he’d taken his ski suit off. ‘Well, I’d positively bore her today.’

Noémi had to pinch her lips to stop herself from blurting out that there was nothing boring about those tight, shiny leggings – even if she hadn’t had herself pegged as a men in tights kind of girl.

She busied herself with making a peppermint ganache from dark chocolate and thickly indulgent whipping cream to distract her thoughts from thigh muscles.

‘It’s inspired by peppermint bark,’ she found herself explaining, while she heated the cream. ‘Usually, the ganache would go on top of the cookies, with a swirl of melted white chocolate and a generous sprinkle of crushed candy canes. But I won’t have time for the cookies to cool, so I’ll serve them warm and fudgy, with a dipping sauce on the side.’

‘Peppermint bark,’ he said, looking almost wistful.

‘Not that’d you’d eat such a thing,’ she joked. ‘I was talking about Christmas flavours with … erm, a friend recently.’ She blew at her fringe, her face suddenly feeling hot. She couldn’t wait to pore over her collection of the New York Times’s favourite recipes soon enough, but this idea had been brewing since her chat with a certain Fantasy Man.

‘A friend.’ He nodded slowly. ‘Not this mystery, possibly fictional boyfriend you tried to convince me of?’

‘Nope. No time for boyfriends.’ She flapped a hand and went back to her stirring.

‘Not with your busy, adventurous lifestyle,’ he said sagely. ‘Good to know.’

She was relieved when he picked up his book again.

‘I feel like I’ve landed in the snowy depths of Christmas paradise as I read this,’ he said, holding the book aloft. ‘Like I’m in the story, experiencing all of it. It’s strangely addictive.’

‘Armchair travel,’ Noémi said simply. ‘Even if you haven’t sat down yet. And there’s a reason you’re getting hooked.’

‘Oh?’ he quirked an eyebrow.

‘Dopamine. Your brain releases the chemical as a reward for you paying attention to the story – because humans need stories to survive.’

Now both of his eyebrows were twisting.

‘The passing down of stories was how cave people knew about dangerous bears. Stories are as important as food. They’re how we process difficult things. How we learn without getting our arms chopped off. Stories keep us safe.’

‘I guess it’s safer to meet huskies in a book.’ He laughed, waving his festive novel.

‘And reading feels good for the same reason eating food feels good. We need both to stay alive – so mother nature actively encourages it.’ She winked at him – because he wasn’t the only one who could dish out the cheek.

‘Eating feels good,’ he said slowly, as though mulling it over.

‘Wait. You don’t agree?’ She tilted her head. ‘Because if that’s the case, I prescribe you something better than protein shakes and gruesome avocado cookies.’ She poured her warmed cream over the broken pieces of chocolate, watching one melt the other.

He took a deep breath, his nose twitching at the heady scent on the air. ‘So, if you eat and read at the same time, would you get double the natural dopamine? Because if that’s so, you’re one hundred per cent onto something with your cookies and books.’