Chapter 10 #2
And yet here I am, wearing a ridiculous jumper with bells on it, cancelling meetings, spending my afternoon in Christmas markets—doing all the things book boyfriends do without even trying.
She opens her mouth, then closes it, then tries again. “That's— You can't just—”
“Can't just what?” I'm enjoying this entirely too much, watching her flounder. “Tell the truth?”
Despite how flustered I've made her, she holds my stare for a long beat, and I realise those big blue eyes may just be the death of me.
“The jumper looks good on you,” she finally manages, clearly trying to regain some composure. “Very...Christmas-y.
“Christmas-y,” I repeat, dropping my voice lower. “Is that the technical term?”
“It's—” She has to clear her throat. “It's working better than it should.”
“The jumper or me?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with meaning. I'm not entirely joking, and she knows it.
“Both,” she whispers.
Something hot and electric shoots through my chest—surprise, pleasure, want—and I raise my hand slowly, watching her eyes widen as my fingers brush against her jaw. Her skin is soft, warm, and I cup her face gently, my thumb tracing along her cheekbone.
Her breath stutters, and I hold her gaze, letting my touch say what I can't quite put into words yet. That she's undoing me. That she's making me want to be better, braver. That maybe that note I left this morning was the biggest mistake I've made in a long time.
That maybe I'm not as incapable of this as I thought.
Her lips part slightly, and I watch her pupils dilate as my thumb grazes the corner of her mouth. The same mouth I've been wanting to kiss again all damn day.
“Cole...” she breathes, and there's a question in it. A hope that terrifies me and thrills me in equal measure.
I lean in slightly, close enough that I can feel her breath against my lips, close enough that I could close this distance if I just—
“Finding everything all right, loves?” the shop owner calls out from the front.
The spell breaks. I step back, my hand falling away from her face, though my fingers are still tingling from the contact. We both take a shaky breath, the moment suspended between us like a promise.
“We'll take them,” I call back, my eyes never leaving Rory's flushed face.
“What happened to it being obscene?” she asks.
“It is obscene.” I glance down at the gingerbread man, then back up at her. “But you like it. And I'm finding I quite enjoy giving you things you like.”
Her eyes widen slightly, and I realise I genuinely mean what I've just admitted.
“That's... That's not fair,” she says softly.
“What isn't?”
“Saying things like that while wearing a jumper with bells on it. It's confusing my brain.”
I laugh, low and warm, and the sound surprises even me. “Come on. Let's buy these monstrosities before I come to my senses.”
We change back into our regular clothes, and when I step out of the changing room, she's already there, folding the ugly jumper carefully.
Our eyes meet and hold.
There's something pensive in her expression, and I realise she's still thinking about what I said. About enjoying giving her things she likes. About what that means or what I might mean by it.
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a nervous gesture that makes her seem vulnerable in a way that does something to my chest. Not the tumultuous heat from moments ago, but something warmer. Steadier.
Possibly even more dangerous, too.
“Cole…” she trails off, seeming to reconsider whatever she was going to say.
“Yeah?” I prompt quietly before my feet step closer almost of their own volition.
Shaking her head, her mouth kicks up in a small smile. “Nothing. Just...thank you. For today. For this.” She gestures vaguely at the jumper, though I have a feeling she means more than that.
I nod, not trusting myself to say anything else that might reveal how much this afternoon has shifted something within me. How she's shifted something within me.
There's an awareness between us now, almost like an invisible thread connecting this moment to all the ones leading up to this.
In the fitting room. Her arm in mine on the Tube.
Snowflakes crowning her head outside Pret.
Her laughter in the bar last night—the catalyst for everything that came since.
I can’t see it or touch it. It’s not urgent or demanding, but that invisible string is just...there.
Tangible. Undeniable.
A pull I'm not sure I want to resist anymore.
I inhale sharply at the realisation before breaking the moment by grabbing another jumper from a nearby rack—this one a truly spectacular disaster featuring a three-dimensional Christmas tree with actual ornaments sewn on.
“For Hollie,” I explain, holding it up.
Rory's face lights up with a broad smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “She's going to love it.”
“She will.” I look at the jumper, then at Rory with a wry grin. “Mum won’t know what’s come over me.”
Rory giggles as we make our way to the counter, and I hand over my card before she can protest, adding all three jumpers to the purchase.
“My treat,” I announce firmly when she opens her mouth to object. “My contribution to Operation Liberation.”
Her laughter feels like music to my ears.
“This afternoon has been...” I pause, searching for the right word. Transformative. Terrifying. Perfect.
“The most spontaneous thing you've done in years?” she supplies helpfully, a teasing glint lighting her eyes.
“Something like that.” I take the bag from the delighted shop owner with a nod of thanks, then turn to Rory, my lips quirked into a reluctant smile.
Her nose scrunches adorably as she represses a smile. “Your grin alone is high praise indeed.”
“Don't let it go to your head,” I warn, though there's no heat behind it.
“Too late.” She grins up at me, completely unrepentant.
We leave the shop, bags in hand, and rejoin the flow of the market. The snow is still falling, and the lights seem even more magical now as evening settles over the city. The sky has turned that particular shade of winter blue-grey that makes London feel like something out of a storybook.
I should let her go. Thank her for a lovely afternoon, head back to the office, and return to my normal, structured life. That would be the sensible thing to do.
The Nicolas Adams thing to do.
But then I glance at her—snowflakes catching in her blonde hair, that soft smile still playing at her lips, the shopping bag with our ridiculous jumpers swinging from her hand—and I think about earlier.
About how I ran into her completely by accident outside my Pret. Of all the coffee shops in London, all the lunch spots in the city, she walked into my path.
What are the odds?
Reed would say there are no coincidences. Jace would wriggle his eyebrows and tell me I’m whipped. My mother would smile that knowing smile and call it fate.
And maybe they'd be right. Well, not Jace—that wanker—but maybe Mum and Reed.
Maybe the universe gave me a second chance after I fucked up the first one. Maybe I'm not supposed to walk away again.
Maybe I'm supposed to give in to this pull between us and see where it leads.
I look at Rory—I really look at her.
The way her nose scrunches when she laughs at something a passing child says. How her eyes light up at every twinkling strand of fairy lights like she's seeing magic for the first time. The gentle curve of her smile that makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
The way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she's nervous, and talks with her hands. How she bites her bottom lip when she's thinking. The flush that spreads across her cheeks in the cold, making her look soft and alive and so fucking beautiful it actually hurts.
She makes me feel things. Real things. Things I thought I'd shut off for good after Charity walked out, after I'd built these walls so high that nothing could get through.
But she got through.
With her blue eyes and terrible book boyfriends and endearingly irritating enthusiasm for disgusting mulled wine and ugly Christmas jumpers, she has somehow slipped past every defence I’ve spent years amassing.
As I watch Rory laugh uproariously at a bunch of teens pelting one another with snowballs, I make a decision.
“So what else is on your London Christmas bucket list?”
She swings about to face me, her features glowing in the fairy lights strung overhead.
“Well, I really want to go ice skating at Somerset House. And see the Christmas lights on Oxford Street. Maybe catch a pantomime if I can get tickets.” She's ticking them off on her fingers, animated and excited, and I want to give her every single thing on that list.
“Somerset House is right around the corner from here,” I say slowly.
“I know. I really want to fit it in before I'm too busy.”
“Well…” I murmur, and there's something almost vulnerable in my voice that I don't entirely recognise, “I could take you.”
She stops walking and turns to face me fully. Around us, the market continues its cheerful chaos, but we're somehow in our own bubble. “Now?”
“Unless you have other plans.”
“I want to.”
Even I'm surprised at the veracity of my words as I look at her with an intensity I can't quite mask, entranced by the Christmas lights reflected in her eyes.
“I've really enjoyed our day, Rory. I don't want it to end yet.” I pause, then add with a lopsided smirk, trying to lighten the weight of what I'm really saying.
“Besides, we can add it to the growing list of spontaneous things I've done this month courtesy of Operation Liberation.”
Her expression softens, understanding flickering in those pretty eyes. The admission feels dangerous. Exposing. But her face lights up in a way that makes it worth it.
So fucking worth it.
“Okay then, Hotshot. Let's go skating.”