Chapter Four
Wren
“We three kings of Orient are, one in a taxi, one in a car…”
I glare at the two boys who are mangling the carol and try not to laugh as they both burst into giggles.
I knew they were going to sing it wrong on purpose, and I’d considered banning them from the service, but didn’t have the heart.
Ultimately, there’s no harm done, and they soon settle down to sing the rest of the carol the right way.
It’s a beautiful evening. The whole village has come out for the Christmas Eve festivities, and everyone’s having a great time.
The children are performing in the square, with passing shoppers joining in with the well-known carols.
Fairy lights laced through the trees sparkle in the early evening air, and the smell of sausage sizzles and freshly cooked mince pies wafts through the streets.
One of my colleagues is in charge of the children, but I promised my class I’d be there, and as the carol service draws to a close, some of them crowd around me with Christmas cards and badly wrapped presents.
I crouch so I’m on their level and thank them, admiring the scrawled handwriting on the cards and the pictures of mermaids and Transformers they’ve colored themselves.
“Have a lovely Christmas,” I call, giving the last one a hug before she runs away back to her family. Smiling, I push up to my feet, struggling not to drop the pile of presents and cards.
“Here, let me help.”
“Oh, thank you.” I let the volunteer take a few from my arms before they fall, then look up, stare, and inhale sharply.
Marcus Ashford looks at all the presents he’s holding. “I feel like Santa. Ho, ho, ho.”
“I… when… what are you doing here?” His presence in my village feels completely incongruous, like meeting the King of England in your local coffee shop.
That said, he doesn’t look out of place.
He’s not wearing a tux or a designer suit.
Like most of the dads and other men out shopping, he’s dressed in a T-shirt, dark jeans, and Converse sneakers.
Even so, there’s something about him that screams money.
The T-shirt isn’t well worn and faded. It looks new—dark gray, tight on his biceps, and clinging to his muscular torso.
The jeans are designer, not bought from the local high-street store.
And the watch he’s wearing, while not a Patek Philippe, has so many dials on it that I wonder if it actually tells the time.
His hair looks damp at the temples, and his jaw is smooth, with no hint of a five-o’clock shadow. He’s recently had a shower, I think. Maybe he’s just come from the gym or something.
“Late-night shopping,” he says. “I still haven’t got all my Christmas presents.”
I narrow my eyes at him. There’s no way this man goes out shopping at a village market for his gifts. I’m sure he’ll have his PA buy and wrap them for him.
“No,” I say, “really.”
“I’ve come to see you.”
I blink. “Why?”
He tips his head to the side. “I thought we could go for a drink.”
My mouth opens, but no words come out. “Why?” I blurt out again.
He goes to say something, but he’s interrupted by another couple of my school children, a pair of fraternal twins, who’ve come running up with presents their parents have bought from the stalls—a small, hand-decorated Christmas cake, and a box of truffles topped with pieces of candied kiwi fruit.
“Thank you,” I say enthusiastically, bending to give them a hug. “They’re lovely.”
“I banged my knee,” the boy announces, showing me the damaged limb. His eyes are red-rimmed. “I fell off the wall.”
“Hmm.” I investigate the injury, which is covered with a sticking plaster that’s already peeling off. “That is quite a wound. You are being very brave.”
“Mum says it’ll probably leave a scar,” the girl says, and he sniffs.
“Scars are cool,” Marcus states. “You’ll look like a warrior.”
“That’s right,” I tell the boy. “Like Aragorn or Boromir. Only real heroes have scars.”
“You can be éomer,” the girl announces to her brother. “And I’ll be éowyn. I saw some swords in the two-dollar shop.”
The boy cheers, and the pair runs off to dress themselves as Rohirrim.
“The Lord of the Rings?” Marcus asks as I straighten. “That has to be your influence.”
“I read to the kids from it occasionally.”
“That’s very you. Most teachers would read The Wonky Donkey or something.”
That makes me laugh. “How on earth do you know about The Wonky Donkey?”
“I was young once,” he reminds me.
“You’re still young,” I tease. “Just a baby.”
He glares at me, and I giggle.
One of my cards drops to the ground. “Hold on,” I say, and I put the pile of cards and presents on a nearby bench, then fish a foldable shopping bag from my purse. After unfurling it, I put all my gifts into it, and Marcus adds the ones he was carrying to the collection.
“Are you dashing off now?” he asks. “You must be busy.”
I hesitate. As it happens, I don’t have anything to do. I’ve wrapped all my presents. Made the trifle I’m taking over to Mum’s tomorrow. Mended the hem of the dress I plan to wear. I was going to treat myself to a large pack of mince pies and a bottle of Baileys, go home, and watch Love Actually.
But Mars Ashford is standing before me, mouthwateringly gorgeous and smelling amazing, better even than the mince pies. I haven’t been out with a man for ages, especially with such a gorgeous guy, and even though I remind myself hastily this isn’t a date, I discover I can’t say no.
“I have a few minutes to spare,” I reply airily.
His lips curve up. “What would you prefer? A coffee or something stronger?”
“Did you Uber here?” I don’t want to suggest we go for a drink if he can only have a Coke because he’s driving.
His smile widens. “I came by car, yes. But it’s okay, I have a driver.”
My eyes widen. Of course, he’s probably got a chauffeur. “Show off,” I murmur, and he smirks.
“Come on,” he gestures with his head. “Let me buy you a glass of wine.”
We walk through the bustling village, heading for the bar at the end of the high street.
I glance at him surreptitiously as we walk.
It’s nice walking with a man who’s taller than me.
Wow, his biceps are huge. I remember how big his jacket felt around me.
He obviously works out. I bet there’s a six pack under his T-shirt.
I must not think about what lies under Marcus Ashford’s clothes. That way lies madness.
We don’t say much; I’m too nervous, and Marcus seems preoccupied.
Why is he here? Is it something to do with Caesar?
Suddenly, I wonder whether Caesar has made up his mind about being a sperm donor.
Maybe he’s decided the answer’s no, and he’s asked Marcus to deliver the bad news because he doesn’t want to face me.
But I can’t imagine he’d send his brother when he could call me, or even send a text. And none of those options sound like Caesar anyway. I’m pretty sure he’ll tell me face to face; he’s that kind of guy.
We get to the bar, and Marcus gestures for me to precede him. The tables on the street are full, and inside it’s warm and bustling. We approach the bar, and he says, “Champagne? Or I see they’re offering mulled wine?”
“A glass of Sauvignon will be fine,” I say hastily, embarrassed at the thought of the locals’ eyes falling out if they saw a bottle of champagne being opened.
“Can I see your wine list, please?” Marcus says to the bartender.
He slides one over, and Marcus browses it briefly.
“Let’s have a bottle of the Dog Point Section 94,” Marcus says, handing the menu back.
“I prefer it to the Cloudy Bay.” The Cloudy Bay is the most expensive wine on the list. The Dog Point is only a few dollars cheaper.
“Sure thing.” The bartender goes off to retrieve a bottle.
“A whole bottle?” I raise my eyebrows.
“Dutch courage,” Marcus says mysteriously. “How has your day been?”
“Fine, thank you. Busy-ish. Getting ready for tomorrow.”
“Where are you spending the day? With your family?”
“My mum, yes, and my sister and her young son.”
“Did your mother ever remarry?”
He’s obviously remembered that my father left when I was young. “Yes, for a while, but she’s divorced now. And my sister is divorced, too.” I roll my eyes. “My family isn’t a great advert for the longevity of marriage.”
“So far,” he says. His eyes catch the sparkle from the fairy lights, and I feel an answering frisson down my spine.
He looks away as the bartender comes back with the bottle and two wine glasses. The bartender unscrews the top and pours a little into one of the glasses. Marcus sips it and nods his approval, and the bartender fills both glasses to about a third, leaving us with the bottle.
“Have you eaten?” Marcus asks.
“Yes, thank you,” I say. I’ve only had a sausage sizzle about an hour ago, but I’m too nervous to eat a meal. “Let me pay for these.”
He huffs, gives me an I-can’t-believe-you-just-said-that look, and taps his phone to the card reader. Then he turns and scans the room. Someone has just vacated one of the high tables by the window overlooking the street, and he leads the way there.
We pull up two bar stools and sit on opposite sides of the table, and I place my shopping bag on the stool next to me.
I sip my wine. It’s slightly smoky and nutty, and tastes of citrus fruit rather than the usual tropical fruit. “Mm, lovely,” I say, having another sip. My hand is trembling. There’s something about this guy that makes my heart race.
He also has a mouthful and nods his approval. His gaze is fixed on me. While Caesar’s eyes are chocolate brown, in the evening sunshine Marcus’s are the color of warmed brandy. Not a cheap liquor-store brandy, but a fine, expensive French Cognac, with a distinctive golden glow.
“Your eyes have always looked greeny-blue,” he says. “I used to think they were the same color as the sea. But they’re actually dark blue, like the evening sky.”