Chapter 27
There’s a bike bay tucked away on a small street just off Sloane Street, and I swing in there like I’ve done it a hundred times.
Kill the engine, kick the stand down. The cold slams into me the second I pull off the helmet—like having my face slapped with a frozen fish.
I dig out the beanie from my jacket pocket and shove it on, tugging it low.
Not just for the warmth—though that helps as it’s fucking freezing—but to cover the mop of red hair that makes me instantly recognisable.
The last thing I need is someone clocking me outside Harrods and turning this into a photo op. Not today.
Aviators go on, though the sun’s barely pushing through the grey sky. Head down, hands shoved deep in my pockets for the short walk.
Rounding the corner, even though it’s Saturday, there’s already a small crowd waiting for Harrods’ doors to open at ten.
Rachel stands like a beacon amongst them in a bright red coat, her blonde hair in loose waves.
She scans the street, her eyes lingering on every car that slows down, like she’s expecting me to roll out of it.
I should have warned her I’d be on the bike.
I walk up behind her and place a hand on her shoulder.
“Hey, there.”
She turns, and just like that, she’s smiling, that bloody smile that makes the rest of the world blur. I’d love nothing more than to lean in and kiss her, but that would only draw unwelcome attention.
“Fuck, Teddy.” Her grin flashes. “You look like you’ve escaped from the set of Top Gun. Very conspicuous for someone trying to blend in.”
I pull the sunglasses off and tuck them in my pocket. Maverick lookalike or not, the leather jacket’s staying. It’s too bloody cold.
“Better?”
“Much. Now you’re just an ordinary bloke taking his girlfriend Christmas shopping.” She pauses, studying my face. “You look nervous.”
Of course I’m fucking nervous. Two reasons.
First, I’m wedged in a crowd, with no quick exit, next to a woman who turns heads—tall, blonde, that red coat.
I’m praying they notice her and not me. Second, I’m about to go shopping, and I hate it: overheated air, the same four Christmas songs on a loop, salespeople hovering, queues, pissing about over near-identical choices.
It’s all standing still when what I want is a back door and breathing room. Unless it’s for her.
“Do I?” I jam my hands deeper into my pockets, thumb worrying the edge of my sunglasses.
“Terrified actually. It’s kind of cute.”
Behind us, two doormen appear, and the crowd surges forward towards the revolving doors. We’re swept along with them. Inside, we edge past tourists stopping for photos.
“This way.” Rachel grabs my hand and tugs me away from a determined group swarming the escalators, into an area of gleaming glass counters.
“Beauty Hall first. Fair warning—this could take a while.”
We’re met with a suffocating cloud of competing perfumes. Everything is black lacquer and gold trim—and mirrors. So many mirrors it feels like I’ve walked into a funhouse, seeing my slightly bewildered face reflected from different angles as I trail along behind her.
A sales assistant glides over to us—crisp black uniform, helpful smile and flawless makeup.
“I’m thinking of this for Geordie.” Rachel waves a perfume card in the air, then brings it to her nose. “Unisex.” She offers it to me. “I’m surprised you chose this one next off the list. Every guy I’ve ever known hates shopping. Most refused point blank.”
I breathe in the scent—clean, woody, not terrible.
“Why d’you think I’m here then?”
“Good question.” She’s watching me carefully now. “But you tell me. Why are you here, Teddy?”
The direct question catches me off guard. Around us, the Beauty Hall buzzes with activity—women testing lipsticks, couples debating fragrances. I could give her the easy answer, the charming one.
“Because every other guy probably chose the easier options,” I say instead. “I figured if I’m trying to show you I’m different, I need to actually be different. Even if it means learning the difference between whatever you’re waving at me and the fifty other bottles in that case.”
She nods to the assistant—she’ll take the perfume—then turns back to me. “So you don’t normally go shopping with the women you date?”
“Never. You’re my first.”
Her expression softens. “That’s either the sweetest thing or the slickest line.” She pauses, finger resting against her lips, then smiles. “But I’m going to go with sweet.”
Sweet. I’ll take that. Better than any line I could throw at her.
“Careful, though.” I glance around, making a show of it, then dip in close, my lips grazing her ear. Her hair smells of tropical flowers—lush, warm, like a stolen holiday in the dead of winter. “You’ll ruin my reputation if word gets out I’m sweet.”
Her smile lingers, but there’s something sharper in her eyes, as if she’s weighing me up. “Alright then. Let’s see how long you last.”
An hour later, I’m juggling bags and trying to look knowledgeable about a lipstick set that costs more than dinner for four.
“These colours will look great on Haley, don’t you think?” Rachel holds up the box, watching my face.
What do I know about lipstick except some taste better than others when you’re kissing them off?
“Absolutely. She’s got that olive skin, right? These’ll suit her.”
She stares at me for a moment, then puts the lipstick set on the counter.
“Pierre met Haley dozens of times, yet I bet he’d never have paid enough attention to know that.”
“I’m not like Pierre.”
“No,” she says quietly. “You’re not.”
As she watches the assistant process the purchase, her mouth curves up in a little smile. It transforms her face, and all I can think is how easy it is to put it there.
I can afford to buy her one of every single damn perfume in this place, send her flowers every day, take her to all the fanciest restaurants, but that wouldn’t mean a thing to Rachel. This is what she wants, a guy who’ll give her the most important gift—time and attention. And so that’s what I do.
We move through the store like a well-rehearsed dance, Rachel leading.
Jo Malone candles for Jenna (I vote for the lime and basil after Rachel explains Jenna’s obsession with fresh scents), cashmere sleep mask for Samantha (night shifts, she reminds me), monogrammed towels for her mother that cost more than my weekly grocery shop.
This isn’t simply going through the motions.
Every choice is so thoughtful, like she really wants to delight the person opening that gift.
Even though Rachel can seem offhand when you first meet her, I see how deeply she cares for the people that matter to her.
I’m hoping I can convince her to care for me like that, too. To trust that I’m worthy of it.
In the men’s section, Rachel’s sighing over her father.
“I could buy him socks, but that screams ‘I forgot about you until yesterday,’ doesn’t it?” She picks up a shaving kit, winces at the price. “This looks more like it. Expensive enough to suggest effort.”
“Bit cynical, aren’t you?”
“Realistic. He’ll probably re-gift it to some client, anyway.” She waves her card over the machine with practiced efficiency.
“Your family Christmas doesn’t sound like much fun.” I instantly regret it; she doesn’t need me pointing it out.
“That’s putting it mildly,” she scoffs. There it is; the edge that comes whenever we veer too close to her father. Defensive. “What’s yours like then? All warm and fuzzy round the tree?”
“Actually, yeah. We usually go to Juniper’s these days.
Bit chaotic with her boys and Ellie bouncing off the walls, but…
” I shift the bags, choosing my words carefully.
I know my family is very different to hers, and it feels wrong to lay it on too thick.
Don’t want to rub her nose in it. “Juniper goes mental with the decorations. Mum arrives with enough food to feed half of London. We play board games and sing and eat too much chocolate. It’s pretty good. ”
Rachel’s gone quiet. We’re standing in front of the escalator, shoppers flowing around us.
“Sounds nice,” she says finally.
I could leave it there. Keep it easy; keep it safe. Or I could risk the next thing.
“You could see for yourself. If you wanted. Meet them all. Finish number five on the list.”
She looks at me—really looks. Around us, Christmas music plays softly, mixing with the chatter of families and couples picking out gifts. The offer hangs between us.
“Toy department?” she says instead. “I want to get something for Elodie.”
Not a no. In Rachel-speak, starting with Elodie is as good as a yes. I don’t press; I take the win, bite back a grin, and fall in beside her.
The toy department’s heaving—frazzled parents, children pointing at everything, the air thick with that particular Christmas panic.
Thank god for the chaos. The busiest spot in the store, but every adult’s eyes are pinned to a kid or a price tag, not a drummer in a leather jacket. My shoulders ease.
Rachel’s face lights up when she spots the wall of Jellycat toys. “These are cute.”
“Ellie’s been on at Rowan about them,” I say, tipping my chin at the display. “You’d be the best aunt ever.”
I say it deliberately to remind her how easily Ellie folded her into our family, how natural it felt.
“Look, this one’s like Solly.” She picks up a toy horse, and the corner of her mouth lifts in a soft smile. “God, I miss those rides.”
“Here’s Bodie.” I spot a white horse on the next shelf.
“That’s a unicorn, you numpty. See the horn?”
“I’m sure that little shit secretly has one anyway.” I grin. “Miss her though. Those rides were…”
“The best,” she finishes softly. “Yeah. I keep wishing I could’ve brought Solly home, but I don’t think he’d fit in my postage stamp garden.”