Chapter Fifteen
The village pub is packed, but they manage to find a corner table near the open fire.
The smell of cinnamon from mulling spice mingles with beer, pine, and burning wood, and the light inside flickers low against the darkness drawing in outside.
Tinsel is strung along the wooden bar, and a specials board advertises all kinds of festive dishes, including turkey with all the trimmings.
It seems as if everyone in the village must be in here right now, but the bar staff doesn’t look overly stressed, stopping to chat and laugh with almost every person who orders a drink.
Hattie and Dylan come back from the bar with mulled cider for all of them, passing the glasses around the small table while they all lurk by the chairs, all too polite to take one of the few and leave the others standing.
Mel sees a few people glance in Dylan’s direction—potentially just because he is a tall, dark, handsome stranger, but she wonders how much he gets recognized out and about.
“Guys, they have a band!” Hattie exclaims delightedly.
And they do, indeed, have a live band, opposite the fire, flicking through music sheets in front of them as they get ready to perform.
Mel is half expecting them to strike up with bagpipes, given the general vibe of the village, but a man raises a fiddle to his chin, and the woman next to him begins singing into the mic, a Gallic tune Mel doesn’t recognize, her voice somehow both haunting and upbeat.
It reminds her slightly of the Celtic salsa music playing in Edinburgh the first night she and Finn met.
When his eyes meet hers, she knows he’s thinking the same thing.
But she makes herself hold that gaze, makes herself turn her lips up in wry recognition.
Because if he’s remembering that, then he’s not thinking of whichever girl he’s taken up with now, back to his “pre-Mel days,” as Priya liked to call them.
Hattie plonks herself down on one of the four available chairs. “I’m not as British as the rest of you, apparently. We can rotate seats.”
Dylan takes the seat next to Hattie, Mark insists that Kristen sits. Before Mel totally realizes what’s happening, Finn has slid onto one of the seats and is pulling her down onto his lap.
“Here,” he says. “You can sit with me.”
She feels herself tense, even as Hattie rolls her eyes, while his scent envelops her.
She feels sure this is a continuation of whatever game he started in the pottery shop—who is more attracted to who.
Or who is not over who? She’s not really sure, but she knows she wants to win.
So she relaxes into him, tilts her chin up, and offers him a smile.
She sees the way his gaze drops to her mouth and, this close to him, the action makes her heart thud.
His arm comes around her stomach, holding her to him, and even though they are both in jumpers, she feels the heat of his skin against hers.
The backs of her thighs warm and she is worried he will feel it, just how much being pressed against him is affecting her.
In retaliation she moves her ass farther into his lap, stopping just shy of grinding against him, and hears his breath hiss between his teeth. Good.
“So, Finn,” Mark says, one arm on the back of Kristen’s chair, “about this conveyancing internship—”
“Oh, Mark, do shut up.” It seems to take everyone a moment to realize this has come from Kristen, who takes a big gulp of her mulled cider, then pushes the half-empty glass away determinedly. They all stare at her. She purses her lips. “Well, not everyone wants to be a boring lawyer, do they?”
There’s a moment of quiet as they all process that, Mark frowning down at her, Hattie and Finn exchanging a look while Dylan makes a show of looking around the pub. Then Mel laughs, and Kristen gives her a small little smile.
“Hear, hear,” Hattie says, raising her glass. And, just like that, the tension is gone.
“This is great, isn’t it,” Mark says, looking around the pub appreciatively.
Next to them, the logs in the fire crackle, and as Finn reaches around Mel to pick up his cider, bringing his chest closer to her back, she feels her skin spark.
She keeps her gaze firmly fixed on Mark, tries to ignore what her body is doing.
It’s just a reaction to being touched, after months of not being close to anyone—that’s all. She can handle it.
“I can totally imagine us settling down somewhere like this,” Mark continues, laying a hand on Kristen’s shoulder.
Kristen shakes her head. “No way. You’d get too bored.”
“Yeah.” Mark sighs. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Surrey man all the way, hey?” Hattie asks, teasing. Mel knows Kristen and Mark moved to Surrey just after they got married—partly to be nearer to Susan, for help when Freya came along.
Mark chooses to ignore this. “Just look at us,” he says instead, gesturing around at all of them, then the general surroundings. “We’ve become those people—a bunch of boring old couples out on the town.”
Kristen rolls her eyes. “Oh, thanks so much, baby. Love you too.”
He strokes her arm. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”
Hattie scoffs. “Speak for yourself. I am neither boring nor old—and I’m pretty sure I’ll never be either.”
Mel is finding it hard to concentrate, to remember what lines she should have.
She can feel Finn’s heartbeat against her back, can feel his fingers, trailing their way lightly up the outside of her thigh.
Barely a whisper of a touch—casual, rather than seductive—but that doesn’t stop her blood heating as it hums through her veins, her pulse dropping unhelpfully to between her thighs.
She stands abruptly and his hands move from her instantly, making no attempt to keep her there. She doesn’t look down at him as she says to the table at large, “I’ll get us another round.”
“I’ll help,” Kristen says, getting to her feet, too, and following her to the bar.
Mel orders a wine for herself and Kristen joins in with requests from the table. Mel lets out a long slow breath. But it doesn’t do anything to shake the feeling of Finn’s fingers on her thighs—it’s like the ghosts of them are still there, taunting her. Maybe that means he wins, after all.
“I’m worried about Freya,” Kristen blurts out.
Mel glances over to where Kristen is biting her lip, looking a little flushed—like the one mulled cider might already have gone to her head.
“I’m sure she’s fine with Susan,” Mel says.
Kristen shakes her head, red hair bouncing. “I don’t mean tonight. I mean in general. She’s bored.”
“Oh. Well, I suppose it can be hard to keep them entertained over the holidays.” She’s heard people say that before, though she feels like a fraud for repeating it—she has no idea, does she?
“No. Well, yes—but it’s not that.” Kristen blows out a breath. “She’s lonely. I think she’s lonely.” Kristen fixes Mel with a very direct stare. “You were an only child. Were you bored and lonely?”
“Ah…” This feels like rocky territory—she’s not sure there’s a right answer to give here.
Kristen squeezes her eyes shut, and Mel moves forward, laying a hand on her arm. Around them, the music swells, and someone on Mel’s side jostles through, so Mel isn’t quite sure she hears Kristen right when she whispers, “I’m pregnant, Mel.”
“You…” Mel stares at her. “Ah…Congratulations?” Though Mel can tell by the way Kristen has said it that it’s not something she is currently celebrating.
“Mark doesn’t know.”
“Oh.”
She blows out a long, slow breath. “It’s so exhausting, Mel. What if I can’t do it again? What if it takes even more of myself? Is that selfish? It is, isn’t it? Freya is so lonely—a sibling will be good for her. Were you lonely, as an only child?”
Okay, this is way too much for Mel to handle, and she is grateful when the bartender reappears with their drinks.
She notices Kristen is having a lime and soda—has she not been drinking the whole holiday?
Mel has been paying no attention to that, though she does remember Kristen declining wine last night, now that she thinks about it.
Kristen is still looking at her, waiting for an answer.
Was she lonely as an only child? Sometimes, she supposes.
“I think we all get lonely sometimes,” she hedges.
Because she knows, from what Finn has told her, that even if you have siblings you can’t always talk to them about everything.
“And there are much worse things than being an only child,” she says firmly. “I had a brilliant childhood.”
Should she be saying this? Kristen needs to talk to Mark about this, doesn’t she—not Mel.
Kristen nods, swallowing. “You’re right.
God, you’re right. I think I’m just…” She gestures vaguely in the air.
“My life is just too insular. I know it is. I’ve been out of work for years now and it’s like I’ve forgotten how to function.
I used to love what I did.” What did she do, Mel wonders.
Now doesn’t really seem like the time to ask.
“I love Mark,” Kristen continues. “I don’t regret anything about him or our family. But that doesn’t mean it’s not hard, sometimes. He grew up in a household where his mum did everything and, though he doesn’t mean to, he’s inherited those expectations.”
Mel thinks of what Susan said in the supermarket. No matter how hard we try, I don’t think any parent can ever fully bring a child up without scathing them, just a little.
“Scathing” is a bit of a harsh word, but Mel gets the sentiment—after all, isn’t everyone a product of the choices their parents make, like it or not?
“Maybe you should talk to him,” Mel hedges.
“I do.” Kristen bites her lip. “Well, I try to. I just never quite get the words out right.”
“Do you want to go back to work?”
“I do.” Kristen says it with something like fierce determination. In the background, the music plays, the singer belting out lyrics from a near-forgotten language. “I want to do something with my life—like you.”