JACK Christmas Eve
JACK
Christmas Eve
Kennington Park Road
The days following the dinner at the Blackbird, and more than anything, that catastrophic kiss between me and Francis, have been pure agony.
Pretending there’s nothing going on between us takes a constant effort, and if anything, I end each day even more drained and exhausted than before.
And the worst part is, I don’t think the infuriating doctor is faring any better: even though we both act like everything’s normal, the tension between us could be sliced with a knife.
It’s starting to affect my performance at the academy, and that’s the last thing I need, especially now that they’ve begun assigning roles for the end-of-year show.
As for Francis, the bags under his eyes are so dark I doubt he’s sleeping more than a couple of hours a night, and definitely not just because of his shifts at the hospital, even though there are plenty of those too.
We circle around each other with caution and a kind of polite civility that has never been part of our dynamic. Honestly, I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending this is normal.
I still can’t believe that, after twenty-two years of being single, and still a virgin, I’ve managed to fall for the one person I absolutely can’t have.
And even though I understand his reasons, I also know, without a shadow of a doubt, that if I didn’t feel something real for him, I wouldn’t be experiencing this physical attraction either.
It warms me every time I see him, and instead of fading, it’s only getting worse. Stronger. It’s making me want things... things I’d never even considered before.
Ludo, in his typical fashion, said bluntly that Francis is definitely attracted to me. But I’m not sure whether to believe him.
And if he’s right, how am I supposed to make peace with the fact that Francis pushed me away without even giving me a chance to tell him how I feel?
But more than anything, if I’m really honest with myself, what I can’t shake is the sadness I’ve started noticing in him again. The same sadness I thought I’d helped keep at bay, at least a little.
Because even beneath the sarcasm and that sharp humour that’s so typically Francis, it’s still there, just under the surface.
Sometimes I wonder if he’s still in love with Anne, and if that’s the real reason he keeps me at arm’s length. I’ve never imagined I could compete with her; I know perfectly well what she meant to him.
But I’d hoped - at the very least - he might give me the chance to get to know him properly.
Instead, after we kissed, he put up a wall. And if it weren’t for Adele, I probably would’ve walked away by now.
Still, here I am. Today, after a full week of classes and work, I’m spending Christmas Eve at the Starkey house, keeping the promise I made to Francis to help him bake a cake for the little redhead.
Adele’s birthday is on the twenty-sixth, but, as agreed during the infamous dinner at the Blackbird, we’ll be celebrating tomorrow, during the Christmas party that’s going to be held here at Kennington Park Road.
Everyone’s coming, including Remi’s entire family, who arrived yesterday from Cornwall.
Ian and I, on the other hand, promised we’d go back to our parents’ for Boxing Day. They’ve made their peace with the fact my brother is never around for Christmas, but they didn’t exactly take my absence well this year.
I do feel a bit guilty for ditching them on Christmas Day, but this will be my first Blackbird Christmas party, and awkwardness with the host aside, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.
Besides, I gave my word I’d help throw the best birthday bash ever for our little princess…
This morning, Sebastian came to pick up Adele and take her over to the Elliott Arnettes’ so she could spend some time playing with Leo, while Francis and I started getting the house ready for the party.
After decorating pretty much every available surface, I’m now waiting for the infuriating doctor to finish wrestling with the infamous inflatable Santa and come join me so we can start on the cake.
“I can’t believe you’re actually arguing with an inflatable, Starkey,” I call out, exasperated. “And Santa, no less!”
He shoots me a look.
“Why don’t you come deal with it yourself, you cheeky little fox?”
“Oh no, this one’s all yours. You’re much better at handling the elderly than I am.”
“Excuse me?” he gasps. “Are you calling me old?”
“Hmm… maybe.”
“You’re impossible, McAvoy. And for the record, I’m only a few years older than you.”
“You’re the one who said you were too old for…”
I stop myself just in time, clamping both hands over my mouth before I say something truly stupid. Francis throws me another warning glare.
“Let’s just move on… weren’t we supposed to be baking a cake or something?” he mutters, clearly desperate to change the subject to anything safer than our age gap.
“I’m here waiting for you, as you can see, and I’ve already turned on the oven and laid everything out,” I reply, gesturing dramatically toward the countertop, where flour, icing sugar, butter, eggs, cocoa powder, baking powder, and raspberry syrup are all perfectly lined up.
The infuriating Dr Starkey throws me one last warning glance, presses his lips together and shakes his head.
“Crafty little fox...” I hear him mutter with a chuckle as he goes back to tackling the inflatable monstrosity.
I decide to put on some background music from my phone, something vaguely festive to lift the mood, and right as a sickly-sweet Michael Bublé track begins to play, I look up to find Francis leaning against the kitchen counter… wearing the most ridiculous Christmas apron I’ve ever seen.
My eyes travel slowly from top to bottom, barely managing to suppress a laugh, and once I’m done inspecting the look, I ask, “Ready?”
“I was born ready,” he replies, winking at me in a way that makes my knees go unexpectedly weak.
I explain the quantities and the order of the ingredients to him patiently, and once they’re all weighed and poured into a bowl, I start mixing them by hand. That’s when I realise the dough’s a bit too wet and I need to add some flour.
Francis is practically glued to my side, watching my every move with a kind of focused intensity that would almost be touching, if only his closeness weren’t causing something dangerously close to an erection.
Thankfully, I’m not wearing my usual leggings today, but a pair of soft joggers, which I hope are doing a decent job of concealing the swelling that’s steadily growing in my underwear.
“Um… could you add a bit of flour, please?” I ask, embarrassed by my current situation.
“How much?” he asks, stepping even closer - so close I’m terrified he’ll notice what my joggers are doing a terrible job of hiding.
Francis’s gaze flicks down for the briefest second. He goes still, swallows hard, then startles as if he’s touched something hot. Still holding the bag of flour, his hands twitch and he dumps a whole cloud of it straight into the bowl… and onto my face and into my nose, setting off a sneezing fit.
“What are you doing?” I groan, half-blinded, and in trying to wipe my face, I end up smearing the dough across my eyes as well.
I hear him burst out laughing, as usual, and I scold him with mock outrage, “And you’re laughing? You’re the one who caused this mess!”
“Me?” he shoots back, still laughing his head off. “You’re the one who covered your face in dough, you chaotic little baker!”
I’m fuming now, genuinely fuming, and before I can stop myself, I grab a handful of dough and smear it across his face, slow and deliberate, never once breaking eye contact.
The feel of his skin, still rough with stubble, as always, sends a shiver of excitement straight down my spine.
Francis’s eyes go wide at my bold move, and then, without a second thought, he plunges his hands into the bowl and mutters, “Oh, is that how it is, little fox? You want war, huh? Then war it is.”
Without another word, he smears a handful of dough along my neck, and from there, it turns into an all-out battle, butter, flour, icing sugar, even raspberries go flying.
We burst out laughing, covered head to toe in a mess of ingredients, breathless and sticky and laughing so hard it hurts, until, suddenly, the temperature in the room shifts, and the laughter dies on our lips.
We freeze, standing close, still catching our breath, staring into each other’s eyes.
Then, slowly, we lean in, tangling together in a mess of hands and mouths, finally tasting one another, licking, nibbling, sucking sugar and cocoa from lips, from necks, from cheeks, from anywhere we can reach.
We clutch at each other’s hair, desperate to erase any remaining distance, pulling each other closer like we’re running out of air, and the other is the only source left on Earth.
At one point, Francis slides a hand around my back, arching me slightly to expose my neck, and when he starts nibbling at the softest part of my throat, a low moan slips out of me, making him shudder instantly.
Suddenly, I hear him whisper my name.
“Jack… God, how am I supposed to let you go?”
Then he stops and lifts my head, and just as I brace myself for another apology, he surprises me.
“I tried. For your sake, and for mine. But I don’t think I’m strong enough. If this has to end, you’ll have to be the one to walk away. I know it’s unfair to put that on you, but I’m too weak. I can’t…”
“Well, then I guess we’re doomed,” I reply, holding his gaze without flinching.
“What do you mean?” he asks immediately, sounding worried.
“That I can’t either…” I reply simply, sliding my hands into his sugar-sticky hair and guiding his mouth back to mine.