Chapter 18
GET UP, GET UP, IT’S CHRISTMAS!
Rose is jumping on my bed when I open my eyes. She throws herself on top of me, hugging me tightly.
Merry Christmas Flora!
Merry Christmas Rose, I say, hugging her back. Where’s Alba? I feel a flood of anxiety mentioning my cousin’s name, my thoughts snapping back to our fight last night.
She’s getting the coffee going. Come on, she says, singing, There are presents downstairs!
We open our stockings first. These two have really gone overboard. Someone—Alba, obviously—has put a silicone forehead mask in mine. It’s for that frown line you asked Santa about, she says, her tone a little frosty.
Things are still tense between us, but I try to ignore it. Well, I say, pointing with my eyes at her stocking, wanting her to pull out the knee brace I put in there for the same joke. Santa heard about that knee pain, too, I guess.
After breakfast, I decide to go to the cemetery. Partially to give the almost-newlyweds some space, partially for my own space from Alba, and partially to give myself some time to think.
I don’t want to go back to New York. I found the size of the city overwhelming when I was in school, but the program was so great I didn’t mind at the time. I love the travel and the constant movement on the boat, but career-wise it feels stifling.
In every possible way, it feels stifling.
What would you do if you stayed here? The thought emerges out of nowhere. I try to picture it. It comes to me instantly: I’d open a bakery, probably at the bed and breakfast. I could make wedding cakes in the summer and fall…
I pull up to the cemetery right as this thought finishes. I shake my head to try and clear it. I have never pictured myself moving back to Christmas Island. But then again, I’ve never really pictured my future at all—I was too busy running from my past to think about it.
I’ve brought along two pieces of the cinnamon and cranberry coffee cake Mom always made during the holidays, intending to eat a slice here to feel close to her.
But when I reach the headstone, something about it doesn’t sit right.
She doesn’t feel here to me. A soft breeze rustles through my hair, and I think of Mom on the wind.
In my gut, I know where she is. Where she’d want me to be today.
I text Alistair.
Florence: Merry Christmas, friend! What are you doing over there?
What we were doing two nights ago definitely ventures out of friend territory, but—
Alistair: Merry Christmas, Just Florence. I’m drinking the world’s biggest cup of coffee. You?
I debate for a second about whether or not to ask, but I decide not.
Florence: It sounds like you need coffee cake. I have just the thing! Be right there :)
I HAVE TO ADMIT SOMETHING to you, I say, a bit sheepishly.
Alistair is ushering me inside the house.
I thought I’d be shaky and anxious again being here, but instead I feel an immediate sense of rightness, like all my muscles are relaxing into the familiarity of this place.
This is where you’re supposed to be, a voice in my head says. But I don’t dwell on it.
Go on then. He’s wearing dark grey sweatpants and a navy-and-red plaid shirt. It looks soft, and I have to physically restrain myself from reaching out to touch it.
I really wanted to be here today, at the lake house.
His lips twitch. Okay. Then I must admit something to you.
Go on then, I say, repeating his words back to him and trying hard not to imitate his Scottish accent.
I really wanted coffee cake. He smiles this cheeky, delighted smile and leans down to kiss me. My laugh melts into a sigh. I pull him closer, feeling greedy for more of him. He tastes like coffee.
I thought you were a tea drinker? I say accusingly, looking for his mug, but my tone is playful as I pull away from him.
Why can’t it be both? He laughs. I didn’t realize it had to be one or the other.
I smile at him and nod. Both then. I lift the tinfoil-wrapped dessert in my hands and ask, Cake?
He gets us two plates and I turn the oven on, explaining that it’s better warm.
I’m bustling through the kitchen, looking for a pair of oven mitts, when I look up to find Alistair watching me.
What? I ask, wondering if I’ve overstepped. For a second, I feel an ache in the pit of my stomach. I’ve invited myself over and maybe he doesn’t want me here and—
Nothing, he shakes his head. It’s nice to see you making yourself at home here. His voice is teasing but I wince.
Sorry, is all I can manage to say. A look of surprise passes over his face and he comes over to me.
No, Florence, I didn’t mean it like that. It is nice to see you here. His tone is genuine, gentle even.
But a little weird? I glance up at him almost guiltily.
He shakes his head again. I don’t find it that weird, to be honest. The tension leaves my body and I’m hit a second time with that sense of rightness at being here. At being with him, too, that little voice in my head says.
The oven dings and I pull out the coffee cake, putting each slice onto a plate. Alistair thanks me when I hand it to him. We move to sit by the couch next to the fireplace. I’m watching him eat, I can’t help it, and he catches me staring at him.
How is it? I ask, bracing myself and motioning to the coffee cake. This is a particularly nostalgic treat for me and for some reason, his opinion matters. I want him to like it.
Oh, he says as he swallows his next bite, and for a second I prepare to hear him critique it.
I know that comes from Justin, who always started with the ways to improve.
It’s easily the best cake I’ve ever had.
He says this like it’s nothing, popping a cranberry from the top of the cake into his mouth.
He studies me and I’m not sure what he’s reading on my face.
I chew on my lip before I answer, staring towards the fireplace. Are you only saying that to be nice?
He drawls out his response. Would I lie to you, ‘Just Florence?’
It occurs to me that, no, he wouldn’t. If I’m being honest with myself, I think Justin did the opposite—he found flaws where there were none, in some attempt to keep me under his thumb.
It’s like Alistair senses this thought radiating from me. He’s looking at his cake when he says, So, tell me about the guy on the boat.
There’s no guy on the boat.
The look he gives me is so deadpan that I giggle a little bit. He just waits patiently, continuing to eat his coffee cake, until I answer.
There was a guy on the boat. Justin. We worked together on the cruise ships, he’s the head chef and is a pretty talented one at that, I wince before adding, He was a little critical of my baking.
I say baking the way Justin always said it, like it was something that was beneath him. Alistair notices the tone and frowns.
What’s wrong with baking?
Nothing, I mean, I think a lot of people believe anyone can be a baker, but not everyone can be a chef.
His eyes scan my face and I feel myself go a little red. It’s like I can see how much more he’s picking up on in this conversation, filing all this information away.
Doesn’t he know, Fast Florence, that dessert is everyone’s favourite? His tone is playful once more, but there’s an undercurrent here that says, This guy didn’t know what he had. His face goes serious again.
So, is it done?
It’s done, I say, and I hear the conviction in my own voice. I feel only a sweeping relief saying the words out loud.
Good, he says, standing and taking our plates over to the kitchen before coming back to the couch. In a single, fluid movement he sits down and scoops me into his lap.
He kisses me in a way that feels unleashed. It warms something in my chest to know that he wanted to be sure there was nobody else. I don’t even have to ask—I know Alistair wouldn’t be sitting here with me if there was anyone else for him.
I want to touch him everywhere. It’s like my hands can’t get him close enough. His skin is hot from sitting so close to the fire and I want to lick the freckles along his shoulders that I mapped out the day of the polar bear dip. I tug at his shirt, tempted to try and rip it off.
He runs his hands through my hair and groans into my mouth, This hair Florence.
His voice is rough. It makes me feel a little wild.
The way he draws out the word wild sends a sharp pang of need throughout my body.
I think of all the times he’s touched my hair, like he couldn’t help himself.
He drags a thumb along my neck, right under my ear.
Never stop doing that, I beg, and he laughs onto my lips. I can’t remember the last time I felt wanting like this, besides the other night when I would have crawled just to kiss him. I know I could ask Alistair for anything right now, and he would give it to me without a second thought.
But I’m so consumed with my base needs, I don’t think I could get the words out to ask him.
So instead, I rearrange my limbs, our mouths never breaking apart, and position my hips in just the right spot to create a little friction. It’s like I can feel the electric current between us.
Florence, he hisses, a warning in his voice that sends a rush of power through me.
If this is the only way I can get the upper hand with you, Alistair… I say, putting my lips to his ear and moving my hips again. The sound he makes short-circuits my brain. I try to finish my sentence. Then I’m taking it.
He scoffs, kissing lazily down my neck and says slowly, I never needed the upper hand. I just fucking love the look on your face when you’re furiously trying to think of something to say back to me, before returning his mouth to mine.
All those times I was so irritated with him, he was only trying to get under my skin knowing, somehow, that it would lead us here. That thought rolls around in my brain while he slides his tongue along my bottom lip.
He pulls away, both of us breathing heavily. We stare at each other and I’m sure my eyes are ravenous. Why the hell is he stopping?
It’s Christmas day, he says, his voice low and husky. He moves a strand of hair behind my shoulder. He’s sporting one of those classic Alistair frowns and his breaths are ragged. Isn’t this a bit blasphemous?
I giggle, and can’t stop myself when a pretend pout forms on my lips, as I cross my arms in mock petulance. But Santa never brought me that present I asked for.
He laughs a real, full laugh, throwing his head back.
It reminds me of the day at the parade, seeing him laughing with the kids.
I feel a smug sort of pride but it’s only for a second, before he pulls my right palm to his lips, kissing it gently and intertwining our hands.
He lifts me up off the couch and pulls me in the direction of his bedroom.
Well then, Red Sizzler, we’ll have to do something about that.