Chapter 9 #2
“Oh, the horror,” he deadpans, but his smile reaches his eyes, making them shine. His hand is still warm against my back, and neither of us makes any move to step apart as we meander through the market. “Though for the record, I stand by what I said in that note.”
“Duly noted,” I say lightly, even though something in my chest squeezes. “But I'm still collecting data, Hotshot. And so far, the evidence is stacking up against your assumptions.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Is that right?”
“Very much so.” I bump my shoulder against his. “You can protest all you want, but actions speak louder than words.”
Something vulnerable flickers across his features. “You're trouble, you know that?”
“The best kind, though, I promise,” I tease with a bright smile.
We stop at a stall selling handmade wooden toys. The vendor has arranged them in a winter scene—miniature sleighs, tiny carved animals, and right in the centre, a beautiful rocking horse. It's intricate, clearly handcrafted, with a flowing mane and tail that someone spent hours carving.
Cole picks it up without hesitation, turning it over in his hands with an expression I can't quite read. His fingers trace the carved mane with unexpected gentleness.
“Hollie would love this,” he says quietly, almost to himself.
I watch him as he examines it—the way his thumb traces over the carved mane, how he carefully checks the craftsmanship, and tests the rockers to make sure they're smooth. There's something heart-wrenching about watching this gruff, guarded man turn soft at the thought of his daughter's joy.
“You should get it,” I encourage him.
He looks at me as though he doesn’t know how to react to another person’s input when it comes to his daughter, and suddenly I feel I may have overstepped.
“You said Hollie's really loving Christmas this year,” I add gently. “A beautiful gift like this might make it one to remember.”
His expression softens, and he turns back to the vendor with a decisive nod. “We'll take it.”
We.
The word wraps around my heart and squeezes. He said we, like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like I'm part of this moment, part of this decision for his daughter.
Stop it, Aurora!
I repeat the mantra in my head as I chide myself, watching Cole fish out his wallet.
I'm here to figure out what I want from life, just like I promised Mom I would. To have the adventure of a lifetime in the city that presents the only relationship that could possibly feed my soul.
Not to get swept up in thoughts I have no business having about a man who’s as emotionally available as the carved rocking horse in his hands. A man with moss-green eyes and a daughter who needs him and walls he's only just starting to let down.
A man who just said we as though I belong here.
No. Stop it!
Focus, idiot. Get. A. Grip!
The vendor wraps the rocking horse carefully while Cole pays, and I force myself to look away, to focus on literally anything else. The garlands hanging from the stall. The other customers browsing. The way the snow is falling heavier now.
Anything but the way my heart is doing somersaults over a man I met yesterday.
Yesterday!
When the vendor hands him the wrapped package, Cole tucks it under one arm and offers me his other.
“Cold?” he asks, though his eyes suggest he knows the answer doesn't really matter, and once again, my stupidly traitorous heart gallops.
I should say no. I should create some distance.
But I slip my arm through his without hesitation.
So much for getting a grip, Aurora Williams, idiot extraordinaire.
We continue walking through the market, and I try to focus on the scenery instead of the warmth of his arm under mine. The snow is falling steadier now, turning Covent Garden into something out of a snow globe.
“So what do you do when you're not saving damsels in distress and reluctantly attending Christmas markets?” I ask as we pass a stall selling handmade chocolates shaped like Christmas trees. “Please don't tell me it's all spreadsheets and conference calls.”
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Mostly spreadsheets and conference calls, actually.”
“That's tragic,” I say with mock solemnity. “There has to be something else. Hobbies? Guilty pleasures? Secret talents I should know about?”
“I build things,” he admits, running a hand through his hair in a gesture that seems almost shy. “With my hands. Woodworking, mostly. Furniture, toys for Hollie. Nothing fancy, but it's...meditative.”
I stop walking and turn to stare at him with delight. “Wait, you build furniture? Like, actually make it?”
“Is that so surprising?” He raises an eyebrow, but I can see he's fighting a smile.
“Honestly? Yes.” I grin up at him. “I had you pegged as someone who exclusively reads financial journals and watches documentaries about tax law.”
“I do that too,” he deadpans. “But a man needs balance.”
“Woodworking as balance,” I repeat, charmed by this glimpse beneath his serious exterior.
My mind immediately goes to the rocking horse he just bought and to how carefully he examined the craftsmanship.
“That's why you looked at that rocking horse the way you did.
You were evaluating the joinery, weren't you?”
He looks almost caught out, a hint of colour creeping up his cheeks beneath his dark facial hair. “The dovetails were exceptional. Hand-cut, not machine-made.”
“Of course you noticed that,” I say, squeezing his arm. “What kind of things do you make?”
He considers me for a moment, then admits, “Started with a bookshelf for Hollie's room. Then a toy chest. Last month, I finished a dining table. It took me three months, but the grain matched perfectly.” There's quiet pride in his voice.
“It's satisfying, you know? Taking raw wood and turning it into something that'll last. Something solid and real that you can actually use.”
The vulnerability in those words makes my chest tight. Something solid and real. I wonder if that appeals to him because so much of his life feels uncertain—the way his wife left, the way he has to be everything for Hollie, the way he builds walls to keep from getting hurt again.
“It doesn't sound silly at all,” I say gently. “I think it's wonderful that the grumpy CFO has a secret soft spot for creating beautiful things with his hands.”
“It's not secret if I’ve just told you about it,” he points out.
“Fair.” I look up at him, something warm settling in my chest. The image of him at his workbench, careful and focused, building something for his daughter fills me with a tenderness I wasn't expecting. “Thank you for telling me.”
He holds my gaze for a long moment, and when he speaks, his words drip with a sincerity that makes my heart hurt. “Thank you for asking, Rory.”
We walk in comfortable silence for a beat, the sounds of the market washing over us—laughter, music, the call of vendors advertising their wares. A bell choir starts playing “Deck the Halls” somewhere nearby.
“What about your friends?” I ask. “The ones you meet at the bar religiously?”
His expression softens further. “Reed and Jace. We've known each other since forever. They're...” He pauses, searching for words. “They're family, I suppose. The kind who give you endless shit but would drop everything if you needed them to.”
“Sounds like good people.”
“The best,” he agrees. “Though they've been insufferable lately about my workaholic tendencies. Apparently, taking an afternoon off is headline news in our group chat.”
I laugh at that. “I'm corrupting you.”
“Thoroughly,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like a complaint. “And what about you? What do you do for downtime when you’re not reading romance novels in public places and nearly getting hit by cyclists?”
“Mostly just those two things, honestly,” I joke, then add more seriously, “I love exploring.
Finding hidden bookshops, trying new restaurants, walking through neighbourhoods I've never been to. Museums. Parks. Holing up at Saint Dunstan in the East when I feel the need to reconnect with myself. Anywhere I can feel the city breathing, you know?”
“You make London sound like a living thing,” he observes.
“She is,” I say simply. “At least to me. Every street has a story, every corner holds possibility. That's why I fell so hard for this place—she never stops surprising me.”
He's quiet for a moment, and when I glance up at him, there's something in his expression I can't quite read. “You're very strange, you know that?”
“I'll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.” The way he's looking at me, soft and warm and a little bit wondering, makes my heart skip. “Not everyone can make a jaded single dad believe in surprise and possibility.”
“See?” I grin up at him. “Maybe you're not as jaded as you think.”
His laugh is quiet but genuine, and there it goes again—that flutter in my chest I have absolutely no business feeling.
We pass a few more stalls—one selling mulled cider that smells like autumn and Christmas had a baby, another with the most elaborate gingerbread houses I've ever seen, complete with tiny icing windows and candy cane fences.
Mom would love those!
And then I spot it.
A shop with a window display absolutely bursting with the most gloriously hideous Christmas sweaters I've ever seen.
I stop dead in my tracks, my arm slipping from Cole's as I turn to face the window with growing delight.
This.
This is precisely the kind of absurd, joyful distraction I need.
“Oh no,” Cole mutters, following my gaze with the expression of a man watching a disaster unfold. “No, no, no. Absolutely not.”
“Absolutely yes.” I'm already tugging him toward the entrance by his coat sleeve, grinning at his theatrical reluctance. “You can't have Christmas without an ugly Christmas sweater, Hotshot.”
“They're jumpers in England, Sweetheart,” he corrects, though there's a hint of amusement in his tone. “And I can and will go without one.”
“Where's your Christmas spirit?”
“Back at the office, along with my sense of adventure and my sanity, obviously.” But he's letting me pull him inside anyway, and the look he gives me—exasperated and fond and a little bit helpless—makes my heart squeeze.
And just like that, I forget all about keeping my distance.