Chapter 28 #2
Carrie let out a soft, resigned sigh against my neck, though I could see the ghost of a smile on her lips. "It seems our private Christmas is over, princess. Duty calls.”
"Carrie," I rasped, stopping her from standing. I tugged her back toward me, seeking a kiss I desperately fucking needed. She didn’t fight; she sank into me, and I held her tightly, the weight of the silver heavy against my chest. This woman was more than I ever could have fucking dreamed of.
And somehow, impossibly, she actually wanted me.
The tiny kitchen was filled with the scent of sizzling bacon, sweet batter, and the kind of warmth that had nothing to do with the stove.
Dad was in his fucking element, flipping lopsided pancakes with a flourish that occasionally sent a drop of batter onto the tiles, while Mum insisted on standing, leaning against the counter with a stubborn smile as she watched the chaos.
The four of us were crammed together in a space meant for two, but for the first time, it didn't feel fucking suffocating.
Carrie stood slightly back, leaning against the doorframe with a mug of coffee in hand.
She was watching Dad and me bicker over the exact level of "doneness" for the bacon, and when I looked over, I saw her actually smiling—not a smirk or a polite curve of the lips, but a genuine, radiant expression that made her look years younger. I was fucking breathless.
Breakfast was a messy, happy affair eaten on our laps on the new sofas. The coffee was strong, the pancakes were slightly burnt at the edges, and the atmosphere was lighter than it had been in a decade.
Once the plates were cleared, the main event began.
Carrie sat beside me, her hand resting on my knee as she watched my parents and me exchange gifts.
It was humble—thick wool socks for Dad, a new sketchpad for me, a soft scarf for Mum.
They were small things, chosen with careful thought to the pennies, and I could see Carrie taking it all in with a look of quiet, profound observation.
I knew she knew what it was like and her being here was the best fucking gift I could ask for.
Then, the room went quiet.
"Caroline," Mum said, her voice a little shaky as she reached under the tree.
She pulled out a small, neatly wrapped box and tentatively passed it over.
"We know you and Alex haven't been together all that long. And we know you have everything you could possibly want. But you’ve done more for us in a week than we could have ever imagined.
This is just... a little something to show our appreciation. "
Carrie actually blinked in surprise, her hand hovering over the box for a split second before she took it. For a woman who handled million-pound contracts without breaking a sweat, she looked momentarily fucking paralysed.
"Karen, you didn't need to—" Carrie started, her voice uncharacteristically soft.
"Please," Dad added, nodding firmly. "Open it."
Carrie carefully peeled away the paper, her movements even more delicate than they were with my book.
Inside the box lay a small, hand-painted ceramic ornament of a robin—a local artisan piece from the Christmas market Mum used to visit.
It was simple, fragile, and undeniably home. I felt a lump in my fucking throat.
Carrie’s thumb brushed over the painted feathers. She didn't say anything for a long moment, and I could feel the tension in her leg against mine. When she finally looked up at my parents, her eyes were bright.
"It’s beautiful," she said, her voice thick with a sincerity that made my heart swell. "I’ll find a very special place for it. Thank you both."
I squeezed her knee, and she captured my hand, her fingers interlacing with mine so tightly it was almost fucking painful.
She’d given them a new life, but they’d given her something she clearly hadn't felt in a long time: a seat at a table where she was wanted for who she was, not what she could provide.
The atmosphere in the lounge was thick with laughter. Dad was already making his rounds with a tray of Bucks Fizz, ignoring the fact that it was barely fucking noon.
"I'm telling you, Carrie," I joked, eyeing the neon-orange liquid, "don't trust the vintage. He probably got a crate of this off some dodgy guy at the warehouse. It’s either a festive treat or paint stripper; there is no in-between."
Dad let out a mock-offended gasp, but before he could defend his 'supplier,' a sharp, high-tech fucking trill cut through the room. Carrie’s phone was vibrating on the coffee table.
I watched her eyes drop to the screen, and for a split second, the warmth in her face vanished.
Her posture went rigid, that professional steel snapping back into place instantly.
"I am so sorry," she said, her voice smooth but clipped. "I really should take this."
She offered a quick, tight smile to my parents before heading upstairs. I watched her go, a small knot of unease tightening in my chest. She didn't just walk away; she fucking retreated.
We carried on—Dad insisted on a toast to "new friends and warm houses"—and for twenty minutes, the house was filled with the sound of wrapping paper being crinkled and Mum’s quiet humming.
When Carrie finally reappeared, the "Dr. Carter" mask was firmly back on, though there was a slight tension around her eyes that wasn't there before.
She sat back down beside me, her thigh brushing mine, and leaned in to press a lingering kiss to my cheek. "What did I miss?" she asked, her voice light, though she didn't quite meet my eyes.
"Just Dad trying to convince us that orange juice counts as one of our five-a-day if there's enough cheap sparkling wine in it," I said softly, turning to her. "Are you okay?"
Carrie nodded, reaching out to tuck a stray hair behind my ear. Her fingers were slightly cold. "Fine, darling. It was just my parents. They FaceTime'd with one of my brothers and his family to say Merry Christmas. You know how chaotic those calls can be."
"Oh, nice," I said, nodding happily. I didn't want to be the one to dampen the mood by prying, especially since she seemed so intent on being present. Something was fucking going on with her. "Glad you got to see them."
I settled back against her as Dad finally won the battle with the remote, triumphantly landing on the Gavin she was a part of it.
"You're staring, princess," Carrie murmured, her voice low enough that only I could hear it over the sound of the TV.
She didn't look away from my dad, but she pulled my hand to her lips, kissing my knuckles. The heat of the whiskey was in her eyes, mixed with something else—something softer and far more fucking terrifying.
"I was just thinking," I whispered, leaning my head on her shoulder. "About how lucky I am."