Chapter 29 #2
I swallow. “Even from when I was a kid?”
“Even then.”
The blood drains from my face.
“What is it, Rache? You’re not about to tell me you did time, are you?”
“No.” I wet my lip. “Just one silly thing. A friend did something stupid in high school. Slipped a lipstick into her pocket at the chemist—one of those impulse grabs by the till. Security stopped both of us as we walked out. I hadn’t taken a thing, but they didn’t care.
Her parents paid; no charges were laid. Still, the local ‘gossip’ rag ran a ‘shoplifting shame’ piece with our names.
Dad threatened to sue their arses, made them collect every copy off the doorsteps. I think they got them all.”
He reaches across the counter, warm fingers finding mine. “A teenager snaffling lipstick? Please. Half of London’s probably guilty of worse. No one cares about something that small.”
I try to smile, but my jaw stays tight. Inside, dread prickles sharp—because in my world, even the smallest crack can become a fault line.
“You don’t understand,” I say quietly. “That kind of thing can tip the balance. If it comes out, it might be the difference between me making partner or being quietly dropped.”
“Jesus, Rachel, if I’d even thought… I’d never—”
I squeeze his hand before he can finish. “No, it’s silly. Such a long shot. Nothing will come of it. You’ll see.”
I force a lighter breath, sip, let the garlic and nutmeg wrap me, then lift my glass. “Kitchen rule—no tabloid talk. How about a Christmas story instead, drummer boy?”
“Want to hear how I turned the hospital ward into Narnia last year?” He stirs a saucepan, eyes crinkling with a mischievous gleam.
“You really took a snow machine up to the ward?” I laugh against the rim of the glass. “That definitely trumps the giant snowman we plonked in the middle of the rugby pitch with a whisky bottle for its nose.”
We trade memories while he works with a drummer’s precision.
The knife flies as he chops an onion furiously—there are tears, but he doesn’t lose any fingers.
He hums to himself as he checks the water level in a large pan, a pudding basin rattling inside.
His brows knit in concentration as he weighs and measures ingredients for brandy sauce.
Finally, I’m escorted through to the dining room, where a long oak farmhouse table is set for dinner.
“I won’t claim to have decorated and laid the table,” he confesses. “Made Briar take care of it. Thought it was the least she could do after the fiasco the other night. I think she nailed the brief.”
He pulls out a chair for me. “A bit of you.” He trails his hand along the table runner, a faded tartan blanket, sprinkled with tiny silver stars.
“And a bit of me.” An old cymbal forms the centrepiece: sprigs of pine and holly twined round a pair of crossed drumsticks, and stout russet candles throwing a copper glow like Teddy’s hair.
A bluetooth speaker on the sideboard plays mellow Christmas jazz, and I lean back in the chair, fizzing with the quiet joy that everything seems exactly how it should be.
Dinner passes in a blur of clinking cutlery and stories that leave my cheeks hurting from smiling. By the time Teddy sweeps the empty pudding plates away, I’m pleasantly tipsy.
“Couch time?” he asks, whipping the tartan blanket off the table.
Five minutes later, we’re burrowed into an oversized leather sofa, wine refreshed, gas fire on low. Legs rest side by side on the coffee table, a bowl of Christmas sweets between us.
Teddy thumbs the remote, movie choices whirring past, while I rustle a chocolate free of its gleaming red foil.
“Stop. That one,” I say. Kevin McAllister’s grin fills the screen.
“Yesss. Home Alone. My favourite,” he says.
“Thank god. I thought you were going to try and convince me Die Hard is a Christmas movie.”
I tuck the blanket around us both as the opening credits roll.
By the time the movie finishes, my hand has snaked its way underneath Teddy’s T-shirt. It lies across his stomach, and I absentmindedly trace the warm skin and the fuzz of hair that disappears below his waistband. He groans, gently removing my hand. My fingers tingle where his skin should be.
He leans forward, pops the last sweet in his mouth and starts to tidy the glasses.
“Teddy, that can wait.” I tug him back down to me. “I’ve been wanting to do this for the past hour.” My lips seek his, the taste of Teddy and sugar.
“Christ, so have I.” His hands fall to the hem of my jumper. My body is wired, totally on edge, anticipating his touch.
He slips one hand underneath. I shiver, but it’s not from the cold.
“We shouldn’t really,” I murmur against the curve of his neck. “Should we?”
“No,” he says with a frustrated sigh. “Ask me again when I’ve finished the list.”
“About this list.” I lay my palm over his bulging jeans. “It seems to me that finishing it is becoming rather urgent.” I smirk up at him, squeezing gently. He hardens further beneath my touch.
“If you keep that up, I’m going to come in my pants like a teenager.”
“Can’t have that then, can we? So what do you suggest to expedite the list?” I joke, but the truth is I’m terrified the list will end and real life will cut us dead.
“Wednesday night. It’s the launch of ‘December Promise’. At the Portobello. You wanted me to take you to an industry event. This is perfect. Not quite red carpet, but there’ll be lots of press there. You think you can handle that?”
“Let them take all the pictures they want. As long as I’m with you, I don’t give a shit.
” I lift my chin, pretending I mean it, because tonight I don’t want to hand him any of my worries.
The warning from Dad flickers across my mind—his phone call this morning about career suicide—but I shove it back where it belongs. Not tonight.
“Can I see you again before then?” he asks, hope flickering in his eyes.
“Work is hell.” My voice goes softer. “I’ve left the inbox to stew all weekend—hardly partner behaviour. No regrets, though; this weekend was worth it. But Monday will be brutal. And I promised Sam girl-time on Tuesday.”
He nods, not sulking, just steady. “I know how much that partnership means. I’d never ask you to put me ahead of it.”
“Thank you.” I squeeze his hand, forcing a smile. If only it stays that simple.
“Wednesday it is,” he replies, that easy full-beam grin back in place. “All the sweeter for the wait.”
He brushes a kiss across my knuckles, and the moment he lets go, a knot tightens in my stomach. Wednesday suddenly feels impossibly far away.