Chapter 15 December 15th #4
“Ron’s waiting outside and he’s got somewhere he needs to be after he’s dropped us off.”
“Where are we going?”
“For dinner.” He stands and pulls me up to my feet.
“But Dec, my face is—”
“Beautiful. Do you want to change?”
I sigh and look down my front, wondering if he’s seeing what I’m seeing. “I should think so.”
“I’ll wait”—he gestures over his shoulder, backing away—“out here.” He grimaces and adjusts himself as he turns, and I bite my lip to stop my smile.
Which is crazy. Why would I stop it? So I let my happiness loose.
Why would I ever deprive myself of something that seems to make everything in this godforsaken world easier to bear?
We pass an electrical engineer as we leave, which makes me feel a whole lot better about Mr. Percival and his ice box. Not that he seemed bothered. I’m still waiting for the feeling to come back in my fingers and toes.
Dec halts abruptly on the steps, and I stagger to a stop next to him, following his line of sight.
I smile. Dec hums under his breath, the sound full of puzzlement.
“Why is there a turkey in the snow?” he asks, pointing at the frozen bird plonked outside the doors, some wire netting laying over it, assumedly to protect it from Maureen and any other neighbourhood cats.
“Mr. Percival,” I say. “His freezer will have stopped working with the electricity cut.”
Dec looks at me in alarm. “You said that like it’s perfectly normal for people to leave turkeys in the snow outside their house.”
“It is for Mr. Percival. He’s ninety-nine, Dec. Ninety-nine! Can you imagine being that old?”
He huffs. “No. I feel pretty ancient now.”
I laugh. And stop. “I don’t know how old you are.”
“Thirty-nine. It’s been a long day at work.”
He looks like a healthy thirty-nine-year-old. Mature. Worn in. Perfect. “What were you merging or acquiring today?”
“I’m acquiring you.” He allows a smile to break, letting his eyes fall down my front. “I like this.”
“The coat?”
“No,” he says, the word stretched, as he takes the sides of my long black coat and pulls it open. “This.”
“It’s a black dress.” One I’ve been known to wear to work on occasions.
Nothing special. Hence, I wear it to work.
Truth be told, I have no differentiation in my wardrobe.
No work clothes section, casual section, evening section.
It’s a mash-up of workout clothes and workwear.
The odd pair of jeans. A few jumpers and sweaters.
All of it black.
“I like it,” he declares again, pulling me on and opening the door of the Defender. “In.”
I slide across the seat and smile my hello to the driver in the rearview mirror.
“Langans, thanks, Ron.” Dec shuts the door and goes to his phone, his face down.
The glow of his screen shines up onto his face, making his lashes seem especially long.
I leave him to whatever he’s doing on his mobile, despite being able to watch him all evening, and look out of the window.
A rainbow of colours shoots like darts through the windscreen into the back as Ron turns onto the main road, the Christmas lights making a disco in the car.
Dec’s phone rings, he sighs, and my eyes naturally turn to the screen. “Dad,” I say, assessing his strung form. “Ready to unpack that?”
His head turns slowly toward me. “Nothing to unpack. My mum died, he remarried a woman half his age a year later, had two entitled brats with her, and he can’t seem to figure out why I don’t like him.”
I blink, quite alarmed by how he reeled that off with such little emotion. “I’m sorry. About your mother.”
“Me too. She was a wonderful woman.”
“So why’s your dad calling if you don’t speak?”
“One of the brats got engaged.” The look he turns onto me is quite amusing, especially since it’s coming from Dec, Mr. Indiscernibly Thoughtful. There’s a smidge of irony that I don’t understand but perhaps will one day. There’s mostly incredulity, though.
“Have you told him how you feel?” I ask.
“Should I need to?”
“Yes, if he’s insular.”
“Insular,” he echoes, amused. “That’s a nicer way of putting it. I’ve always called him a self-important wanker.”
“To his face?”
“Once or twice.” He smirks. It’s a terrible attempt to convince me that his father is of no consequence.
“Dec Ellis, do you have daddy issues?” I ask, surprised by my playfulness and thrilled more when he laughs lightly, making those gorgeous eyes of his twinkle under the sporadic glow of London by night through the window.
And yet, whether it delights me or not, it’s another bad execution of indifference.
“Camryn Moore, I definitely do not have daddy issues.”
“Hmmm.”
Dec reaches for my knee and squeezes in playful warning, and I yelp, bucking up in my seat.
“He definitely has daddy issues,” Ron pipes in from up front, his eyebrows disappearing above the reflection of his eyes in mirror they’re so high.
“You’re not included in this conversation, Ron,” Dec mutters.
“Noted.”
“What does your father do?” I ask, hungry for more about Dec.
“Acquisitions and mergers.”
“You work together?”
“Jesus, no.”
I gasp. “You’re rivals?”
“You got it.”
I’m building the picture. Dec’s punishing his father. Punishing the entitled brats. “And you don’t have daddy issues?”
“No.”
“Hmmm.”
He grabs me round my waist and pulls me onto his lap. “You’re asking for it.”
“You make love to me, Casanova.” I touch my nose with his. “You’re not going to be a man I fuck and forget, remember?”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t be a man who you fuck and remember.”
“I like you making love to me.”
“You romantic, you.”
“Shut up.” I roll my mouth onto his, forcing his head to rest back on the seat, kissing him with hungry lips and an exorable tongue. “Sorry, Ron,” I mumble, and he laughs from the front.
“Don’t mind me. This is a refreshing Dec.”
There are few things in the world that could make me stop kissing Dec. Dec himself, obviously. And that statement. He’s rolling his eyes, knowing very well my interest is piqued. I keep my gaze on Dec but speak to Ron. “Refreshing?”
“Don’t read into that statement too deeply,” Dec warns.
“Okay, not too deeply.” I look over my shoulder. “What does that mean, Ron?”
“Nothing at all,” he breathes, more awkward than Dec. “Langhans, you said?”
“Langhans,” Dec confirms, putting me on the seat next to him, his hand back on my knee.
“Tell me what he meant,” I push, lightly.
Dec turns serious eyes onto me. No lightness in sight. “Tell me why you’re getting divorced.”
I retreat, literally and metaphorically, darkness swamping the lightness I was feeling a moment ago. “I’ve hit a nerve, clearly,” I say, turning my attention to London by night, at Christmas whizzing past. “I’m sorry.” There was no need for him to fire that bullet.
“Fuck, I’m sorry.” He reaches for my arm, holding it, but not tugging me closer. “Hey, come here.”
I inhale deeply as I turn. “Can we rewind two minutes?”
He pulls me onto his lap and holds my face.
“Doesn’t mean I can’t be a man who you fuck and remember,” he says quietly, his eyes falling to my mouth in anticipation.
I don’t have a chance to instigate the kiss, as Dec takes care of it, slipping his hand onto my nape and pulling me to his lips.
And now I’d like to skip dinner, go home with him, and let him take me to the stars before I fall asleep in his arms.
I push my chest into his, and he groans, his body stiffening against me. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.
“Me too.”
His phone ringing brings our moment to an untimely halt, and he crinkles his nose. “My sister,” he murmurs, helping me off his lap.
His sister? “The brat?”
“Not the brat.”
So not a half-sister, but an actual sister? “You never mentioned you had a sister.”
“I have a sister,” he says, deadpan, looking down at his screen.
“Are you going to take it?”
“I’ll call her back.” He nods toward the windscreen. “We’re here.”
Ron pulls up outside the restaurant, and Dec hops out, rounding the car and opening the door for me. “Older sister, younger sister?” I ask, my curiosity raging.
“Older.” His hand on the small of my back guides me to the entrance of the restaurant as he looks back at the car and waves his thanks to Ron.
“How much older?”
“Four years.”
“Her name?”
He smiles down at me. “April.”
“Was she born in April?”
“Yes. Our mother was very original.” He heaves the door open and gets us inside, and the heater above the door blasts us with hot air.
I gaze around, seeing paper hats on every head in sight.
Christmas parties. People celebrating at every turn, the pops of crackers piercing the air as people laugh and talk loudly to be heard over the background noise of everyone else talking.
I haven’t been in a restaurant in years, least of all at Christmas.
A mild wave of panic ripples through me, but I stamp it down, looking at Dec. He appears as unenthusiastic as me.
“It’s busy, huh?” I murmur as he slips his hands beneath the shoulders of my coat and eases it off.
He frowns, but as I look closer, I see it’s more of a scowl. “Do you want to go somewhere else?” he asks.
“So you hate Christmas more than you love it?”
“And you just hate it, right?” he fires back coolly, and I roll my eyes, rather than freeze in terror at the potential of unearthing my demons. I know it’s got to happen eventually, but not now. Tonight we’re having dinner like a normal . . . couple? Is that what we are?
“Answering a question with a question isn’t answering a question,” I say, taking in the madness again. “We should stay.” I can do this. I should do this.