Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
OLVER
Two days later…
It happens every year.
I get caught up in the holiday spirit, excited about hot chocolate in the great outdoors, and forget that I’m a horror show on skates and the Somerset House ice rink is a battleground where I’ve been vanquished time and again.
It sure is festive, though…
The courtyard-turned-ice-rink teems with families, couples, and gangs of ruddy-cheeked kids, all gliding about like they were born with blades strapped to their feet.
Giant Christmas trees ring the space, twinkling lights stretch overhead, and “Winter Wonderland” blares from speakers big enough to power the raves I used to sneak into as a pre-teen.
But this isn’t a rave or a pub or any other place where my serviceable dance moves might spare me shame and ridicule.
No, this is the ice rink, a place where I have always done the opposite of shine.
What is the opposite of shine?
“Dull” doesn’t make much sense…
Wither isn’t quite right either.
Spasm and flop, while accurate, aren’t logical antonyms.
I lean against the barrier, continuing to ponder the issue as a toddler in a puffy pink coat streaks by—backwards—while her father films. The little rascal can’t be more than three.
This is going to be humiliating.
I suppose I could text Emily and arrange to meet for a hot toddy at the pub near my place, instead.
But when I told her where we were headed last night, she seemed so excited about skating.
Turns out her sister is an Olympic figure skater, and some of her best Christmas memories involve strapping on their “granny skates” and taking to the frozen pond by their grandparents’ house in Maine.
The way her eyes lit up as she talked about the thermoses of hot chocolate they’d hang around their necks and the portable karaoke machine they’d drag out onto the ice to sing Christmas carols made me wish I’d been there.
“Maybe American Christmas isn’t total rubbish,” I’d said last night, feeling the opposite of “rubbish” after another fantastic day with my fake girlfriend.
We had a blast at the British Museum, nerding out over the mummies, before lingering at a two-hour lunch while Em snuck in some work on her laptop. We finished with a stroll through the park before heading back to mine for leftover curry and a movie.
We watched Bridget Jones’s Diary in our pajamas, and I’m not ashamed to say I loved every bloody minute of it.
I’d seen it ages ago, of course, but I’d forgotten what a good holiday flick it is.
We laughed, cursed Hugh Grant’s character for being a scoundrel, laughed some more, and then Emily teared up at the end, while Bridget was running through London in her knickers, trying to find Mark Darcy before it was too late.
Fine! Maybe I teared up a little, too.
But then, it’s a special thing…to be loved for exactly who you are.
Especially when you’re a bit of an acquired taste.
I’m good at hiding my stranger tendencies from the world at large, but my crooked sense of humor, impatience for small talk, and random attacks of bluntness and foolishness give me away as an odd duck in the end.
Most of the women I’ve dated would have happily marched me down the aisle—I’m a wealthy member of the peerage, whose ancestors had the sense not to marry a cousin too terribly often—but every last one of them expressed a wish for me to be “more serious” at one point or another.
They preferred the cool, aloof Oliver they’d known before they’d seen behind the mask.
But Emily seems to like impulsive, occasionally goofy “Olly” just fine.
By the end of the evening last night, she was snuggled up against me, her fluffy-sock-covered toes tucked under my thigh to stay warm, while we chatted our way through Elf, laughing at all the same places.
Then, she fell asleep on my shoulder, muttering insane things in her sleep that made me laugh some more, and I sat there for far too long, wondering if love at first sight might be a thing, after all.
Though it isn’t at first sight, obviously.
I’ve already seen her several times, including naked and writhing on my cock.
Which I’m not going to think about. I’m determined to show Emily I can abide by our “faking it” rules. I have to. I was the one who broke the initial trust. I lied about who I was and, in the process, exposed her to a level of internet bullying no human should have to endure.
Not to mention putting her livelihood at risk.
No, if we’re ever going to find our way back to the bedroom, Emily has to be the one to decide it’s time to change the rules.
But I can do my best to prove to her that I’d be a fantastic boyfriend, starting with taking her skating at the most festive rink in London.
No matter how much I’m dreading the bone-splintering impact when my ass hits the ice again and again…
“Oliver, there you are!”
I turn to see Emily bouncing through the crowd milling about the rink, her cheeks pink and a big grin on her face.
She’s wearing that red coat that makes her look like a holiday elf, a thick white scarf, and matching mittens, proving she’s ready to take this skate session seriously.
“How did the meeting go?” I laugh as she launches herself into my arms. “That good, eh?” I grin, taking advantage of the excuse to give her a proper squeeze before setting her back on her feet.
“So good!” she says, her breath rushing out with an excited flap of her hands.
“Come on, you have to give me more than that,” I insist. “I’ve been waiting on pins and needles.” I shoot my watch a mock glare. “You are a full twenty-five minutes late.”
She laughs. “Sorry, things were going so well, I lost track of time. She loved the concept artwork. Absolutely loved it, just like I hoped she would, and started coming up with ideas for the design right away. We’re going to combine flowers and recycled fabric to make the ceiling in the dining area look like it’s made of giant blossoms.” Emily flaps a hand again.
“It’s kind of hard to describe without the sketches, but it’s gorgeous and brilliant, and assuming Fletchers chooses my pitch, Belinda’s on board.
She promised she’d set aside an entire day for installation as soon as the venue’s on lock.
Gah! I’m so happy and relieved!” She presses mittened hands to her flushed cheeks, words slowing as she adds, “And I mean, maybe I’m crazy, but I think we might actually end up being friends. ”
“That’s fantastic, Em,” I say, grinning. “So chuffed for you.”
“I’m chuffed, too.” She giggles as she throws her arms around my neck again. “Sorry, I get huggy when I’m this excited.”
“You’ll hear no complaints from me,” I say, adding in a whisper as I spot a giant lens in my peripheral vision. “But it looks like we have company. Paparazzi at eleven o’clock. Chap in the red hat trying to blend in with the tourists, and failing miserably.”
Emily groans, “Jesus. They really are relentless, aren’t they?”
“Completely,” I agree, brushing my lips across her forehead as I murmur, “But we could use this to our advantage… Shall we give him something boring to photograph?”
Emily lifts her chin, eyes glittering. “I think we should. Something very boring, with no choking or humping in it.”
“But still romantic,” I insist, pulling her closer. “We have to show them we’re an established couple, after all. Shall we Eskimo kiss?”
She grins. “No, that would be weird. And we’re trying not to be weird, remember?”
“Oh, right,” I say, feigning confusion as I ask, “So what’s a non-weird couple thing we could do?”
“Well, I guess we could just kiss.” Her smile fades as she presses up on tiptoe. “A nice, normal kiss…for the camera.”
“For the camera,” I agree, and then my lips are on hers and damn…
Kissing her is even better than I remember.
Kissing Emily in the dark under a softly falling snow was electric.
Kissing her across my penthouse, while I stripped her bare for the first time, was the sexiest thing to happen to my lips in a damned long time.
But kissing her on a sunny winter’s day, under a clear blue sky, with nowhere to hide…
I’m not sure exactly why it hits so hard, but it does. Her lips are still warm and wicked and so skilled at unravelling me it’s a little frightening. But this kiss is also gentle, curious.
The way she cups my face in her mittened hands, the way she whispers that I taste like peppermint and that she “loves a peppermint kiss.” The way she sighs and melts closer when I curl my fingers into a loose fist at the nape of her neck, deep in the soft, luxurious underbelly of her magnificent hair…
It’s sweet.
So sweet that when we finally pull apart, I can’t help staring down at her for a long beat, wondering where she’s been all my life.
And if she’ll still be here next Christmas.
It’s a completely inappropriate thought, but still…
“Should we try again?” I whisper. “Just to make sure he got the money shot?”
She exhales a shaky breath. “I mean, maybe. We wouldn’t want to waste a perfectly good—” Her words end in a startled squawk as a pigeon zooms past, inches from our foreheads, making a beeline toward the popcorn a child just spilled on the ground.
“Good grief, that was close,” she says, frantically patting the top of her head. “He didn’t bless me, did he?”
Laughing, I ask, “Bless you? Shit on your head, you mean?”
“Yes,” she says, huffing as she shoves at my chest with a grin. “My grandmother calls it getting ‘blessed by the birds.’ She swears being pooed on is actually very good luck.”
I fake a disappointed sigh. “Oh, well, in that case, you’ll be sad to learn that your hair is currently pigeon-poop-free. Which is sad for us both. Looks like the odds of you surviving an hour as my skate partner without sustaining multiple injuries just went down by quite a bit.”
She takes my hand in hers with a laugh. “Oh, come on, you’ll do fine. We’ll take it nice and slow until you find your skate legs. Besides, how bad can you possibly be?”
Twenty minutes later, I’ve answered that question definitively.