Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
SEBASTIAN
The responsibility of a centuries-old manor house is a million miles away from the rugby field, but it keeps me busy.
Today’s main task—accepting delivery of the twenty-foot Norway spruce for our outdoor Christmas display. Walmsley village square isn’t big enough for some of the festive events, so the manor always plays host to the week-long ice rink.
It’s another one of Charlotte’s favourites, since she was old enough to walk. I’ll never forget three-year old Charlie’s little face lighting up at the sight of the gardens transformed into an icy Winter Wonderland, the joy as she wobbled across the ice for the first time, her tiny hands curled around my fingers. It’s an expression I’ll forever try to replicate, or for as long as she allows me to.
Five workers crane-lift the tree into position next to the area mapped out for the ice rink and the field cordoned off for all the food trucks. It’s a seamless, coordinated effort until one of the workers wolf-whistles, then another, and I follow their distraction across the front courtyard to?—
Sasha.
Of course.
I’d know that ass anywhere.
She’s bent over, digging around in the boot of her car parked on the farthest part of the gravel driveway. Her leopard print fleece has ridden up a bit, and her black leggings cling perfectly to the generous globes of her ass, like a second skin. The material is slightly see-through though, and if I can make out the distinctive outline of a hot pink thong from my viewpoint in the entranceway, those crane workers can too.
Fuck.
An inexplicable burst of possessiveness swirls through me. If she was truly mine, in every sense of the word, I’d march on over there and give that ass a smack and a greedy squeeze, and I’m a little taken aback by the way my palm tingles in anticipation.
Christ.
That’s not… No.
Not happening.
“Alright, guys,” I call out, a bit snappier than intended. “Enough.”
Suitably chastised, the men get back to work, though they carry on laughing, like they’re all in on the joke. Some men really are assholes sometimes. I’ll be having words later.
By the time I glance Sasha’s way again, she’s heading in my direction carrying a plastic box filled with vintage glass baubles the size of my head.
“Sebastian,” she says, in lieu of hello, and walks straight into the house, mouth quirked with a smug, knowing smile.
Nope.
Can’t have that.
I toss the workers a suspicious ‘I’m watching you’ glance before following Sasha inside to the bare ten-foot tree tucked beside the staircase. There’s also a table stacked with lights and decorations, and a ladder propped ready to climb, and something about that has me prickling with irritation.
“You’re not going up that ladder again, are you?”
Sasha throws me a look. “Well, it’s not there to look pretty.”
“Do you not remember what happened last time?”
“No, remind me.”
The corner of her mouth twitches. She’s messing with me now. I shouldn’t rise to it but she’s so damn…
Frustration curls my hands into fists.
“I walked in here to find you stretching up on tiptoe. On a ladder. You would’ve fallen off if not for me. Oh no, wait. You did.”
I still remember the second she lost balance, how I raced forward to catch her, the swell of her hips in my hands, and the citrusy scent as her hair tumbled around us.
At the time I’d been so surprised by the spark of arousal in a moment that should not have been arousing at all, I’d shouted at her to be more careful before setting her abruptly on her feet and storming off. I refused to talk to her for the rest of the day, and didn’t even acknowledge her quiet thank you or the homemade cupcakes she’d offered in thanks the next day.
Fuck, it’s no wonder she gave me all those death stares, now that I think about it. What an asshole.
“Ah,” she says, even though she knew full well what I meant. “Good thing you were there then.”
I let out a slow, steadying breath. “Sasha.”
“It’s fine.” She laughs and gives my chest a pat. “If it’ll make you feel better, I won’t go on tiptoe. It was probably the tiptoeing that did it.”
I’m going to wring. Her. Neck.
“Be careful. That’s all I ask.”
Sasha digs around in the box of decorations, pulling out a sprig of red poinsettias. “I’m always careful.”
“We just established that’s not true.”
“Hmm. If you say so.”
“I do. You were here when I said it.”
“Sure, sure. I thought you said you were gonna leave me alone while I decorated. Something about being a ghost? You’re not being very ghost-like right now. More like a poltergeist. They’re the ones that annoy people, aren’t they?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but excuse a guy for caring.”
She softens at that, but looks like she doesn’t want to, like she’s annoyed by her own reaction. “No, it’s sweet. Thank you.”
“Also, we’re supposed to be dating. It’d look weird if I didn’t at least acknowledge your presence.”
“Hmm. That’s fair. But you’ve done that now so you can go. Bye.”
“I mean it, Sasha. I don’t want to come in here to find you with a broken neck.”
“I’m pretty sure I would hate that too, you know, ’cause I’d be dead.”
Right now I don’t know whether I want to kiss this woman or turn her ass red.
Seeing as neither is an option right now—or ever—I stare at her a moment longer, slowly shake my head, then turn around to leave to the tune of Sasha’s giggle behind me.
Gran watches us from the kitchen doorway sipping a mug of tea.
“What are you smiling at?” I ask her.
“Oh nothing. Nothing at all.”
The second week of November marks the official start of Christmas in Walmsley when the local mayor switches on the Christmas tree lights for the first time.
Alpine huts selling food, crafts, and mulled wine border the square, and the shop windows twinkle with lights and snowflake decals. It’s not cold enough for snow yet, but our breath clouds the air.
Gran sits in a wheelchair in front of me, lap covered with a Burberry check blanket, hands curled around a cup of steaming mulled wine.
“Was this wheelchair really necessary, Sebastian?” she asks for the third time, though it sounds more like a whine.
“Yes. You know your hip hurts if you stand too long. Also, don’t forget you said you were dying.”
“Oh. Yes. You’re right. At least park me somewhere I can see what’s going on. I don’t really want to stare at Stanley’s buttocks the whole night. No offence of course,” she adds when the man in question turns curiously at the sound of his name. “They’re perfectly respectable buttocks, but they’re right in my eyeline. If I’m going to die at any moment, I don’t want that to be the last thing I see. Again, dear. No offence.”
I roll my lips together trying not to smile, but it’s hard when Stanley tries looking at his ass over his shoulder, bewildered. I send him a silent apology, kick the brakes on the chair and wheel my grandmother deeper into the crowd, parking her right by the Christmas tree glowing with thousands of white lights and topped with a bright gold star.
“Yes, that’s much better,” she says, shifting to get comfortable, wearing a satisfied smile. “Now I can see everyone.”
“Are you warm enough?”
“Yes, stop fussing and go find someone your own age to hang out with. Honestly, dearest, I’m embarrassed for you.”
“Wow. That’s nice.”
“Speaking of… a little birdie told me you were spotted having a drink with Sasha at the pub last week, which I was very pleased to hear. Confused too, since you said you weren’t looking for anyone.”
“Well, things change,” I tell her. “Also, you said it was your dearest wish, and you know I’d do anything for you.”
Gran beams at that, and pats the back of my hand. “You’re a good boy, Sebastian. Perhaps you could go find Sasha now. She must be around here somewhere.”
Oh, she’s here. I knew it from the second we arrived. My height helps, but Sasha is the easiest to spot in a crowd with all that glorious red hair. I always seem to zero in on her without trying.
Right now she’s over by one of the Alpine huts talking to Charlotte, both of them eating crepes like slices of pizza.
“You know what, Gran? I’m gonna do just that. You sure you don’t need anything though?”
“If I do someone else can get it.” She leans around me and tries shoving me out of the way. “Cooee! Sally! I’m over here.”
With Gran happily in the heart of all the village action, I head towards Sasha and my daughter. I don’t know whether I’m thinking too much or not thinking at all, but I duck to kiss Sasha’s cheek and reach for her free hand, overwhelmingly glad she’s not wearing any gloves.
I’m not sure why.
There’s a question in Sasha’s eyes when she peers up at me, and squeezing her hand is the only answer.
Is this okay?
It takes her a few seconds before she squeezes back.
“Wait.” Charlotte swipes at the chocolate sauce smudged on her chin, her gaze darting between us. “Are you two together?”
“Well…” Sasha begins at the same time I say, “Yes.”
“Oh.”
At Charlotte’s surprise, Sasha tosses me a startled look, like she hadn’t considered how my daughter would play into this. I don’t want to admit that, well, neither did I, which is a definite first for me.
Charlotte is my whole world. Since the moment Carla told me she was pregnant, everything I’ve done has been for my daughter. She was my reason for living during those long, depressing years of rehabilitation after my injury, and the main reason why I don’t even date in the first place. I know how it feels to be second-best in a parents’ eyes, and I never want her to feel that way, even though she’s told me on more than one occasion she wouldn’t mind.
Despite that, I still should’ve prepared her for this somehow.
Maybe if things were real I would have.
“We’re not together together,” I reassure her. “We’re, you know, going on a couple of dates and seeing how things go.”
There.
That definitely covers all bases when we inevitably end things in six weeks or so.
“Is that… is that okay?” Sasha wonders.
“It’s cool.” Charlotte shrugs and carries on eating her crepe. “I don’t mind. You have to tell me these things though, Dad. You always said we have to be honest with each other.”
Shit.
I did say that.
“You’re right. I’m sorry, Charlie. From this point forward, I promise to keep you informed.”
“That’s okay. Can I go hang with my friends for a bit?”
“Yeah, of course.”
In silence we watch her leave, and it’s only once she’s out of sight that Sasha detangles our joined hands.
“Oh my god,” she whisper-shouts. “I feel terrible. Maybe this is a bad idea.”
“Well, it’s a bit late for that now.”
“No. We can go back to ignoring each other and you can tell Charlotte we decided not to take things further. She’d understand that.”
“Okay, but what about my gran? She’s already convinced and she’s really happy about it. I’d like to keep it that way. That’s the whole point.”
“I don’t want to hurt your daughter, Sebastian. I like her very much. She’s such a sweet kid. She doesn’t deserve to be lied to. What’s gonna happen when this ends?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t think that far.”
“I don’t have many friends in this village and now the only people I like are gonna hate me.”
The note of despair in her voice makes my chest ache, and the need to comfort her is a potent surprise. For now, I clasp her shoulder and give what I hope is a reassuring squeeze. “I won’t let that happen.”
I only realise how much I mean that the second the words meet the air.
A few days later, I make the ten-minute drive to the Walmsley Manor Inn that sits on the outskirts of our estate.
The building was originally three farm-workers cottages with a stable block, and twenty years ago Gran had the bright idea of converting it into a bed and breakfast, reinventing it as a traditional country inn. It’s an ideal base for touring the Cotswolds and perfect for country walks, and the tourist trade helps with the upkeep and running of the manor estate.
I park my Land Rover outside the main gate, dig my wellington boots out of the boot, and wrench them on over my jeans before heading off to find our site manager Keith, a portly balding man in his sixties who always smells like beer and tobacco.
We talk and walk the grounds that run alongside the River Eye, checking on the leftover flood damage from earlier this summer, then debate the cost-effectiveness of some better preventative measures to put in place for the year ahead. Sometimes I yearn for my good old rugby scrummaging days, but this is my life now, so I’ll let my annoyance over these tedious responsibilities slide.
“So, what’s this I hear about you dating that Sasha Smith?” Keith asks on our stroll back to my car.
Sasha was right. This place is full of busybodies.
“I don’t understand the question.”
“Rose Smith’s granddaughter, the old girl who used to own the Christmas shop. You’ve been spotted with her a few times now. Looked pretty cosy at the Christmas tree lighting ceremony, according to my Sally.”
It felt pretty cosy too, once we got over that initial awkwardness and started chatting. Not that I’ll ever admit that out loud. It’s not real, though I suppose a real friendship could come out of all this. Anything’s better than the death glares.
“We might be spending some time together.”
“You courting her then?”
“Courting? What is this, 1832?”
“Because if you are, there’s something I need to show you.”
His tone has me drawing to a halt. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“First you have to promise me you won’t tell Sasha what I did.”
“Did you murder someone, Keith?”
“Bloody hell, of course not!”
“Then I promise I won’t say a word. Tell me what’s going on.”
“As I said, it’s best I show you.”
In one of the weirdest turn of events I’ve ever experienced, I follow Keith curiously all the way to one of the shed-like outhouses at the back of the inn. He unlocks one of the padlocked doors, the building packed with boxes of decorations and DIY supplies, and leads me to something tall and covered with blue tarpaulin at the back. If I have to guess based on the height and shape, it looks like a statue of something.
What the hell?
Keith lifts the edge of the covering, then pauses to wince and say, “I forgot I stole it.”
“Wait. What—” I rip the tarpaulin away and my mouth drops. “Is this what I think it is?”
“See, here’s the thing…” Keith’s entire face wrinkles as he tries to work out how to explain. “It’s a bit of a funny story actually.”
“I’m all ears,” I say, pulse racing.
Except I’m not. Not really.
All I can think about is how Sasha will absolutely lose her mind, and the anticipation of that—of seeing her face lit with shock and joy—fires inside me, energising me in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.