Chapter 26
Day Eight
On this wintery Saturday night, the pretty snowflakes of earlier give way to a chilly rain. It’s miserable out there. But inside, it feels like we’re on safari in Africa with Ollie.
The fire roars in the hearth, a smoky, crackling inferno. I’ve discovered Christian is a veritable pyromaniac. He wields the poker like a wizard’s staff, a feverish gleam in his eyes, constantly stoking the flames, encouraging them into a violent dance.
I watch in silence, quietly concerned. I hope Ollie had the chimney swept at the end of last winter, otherwise we might be in trouble.
Relief courses through me when, after lobbing one last chunk of wood on top, he brushes crumbs of bark off his hands and steps back, admiring his work .
“There,” he says. “Shouldn’t need much more attention now.”
He settles onto the couch with a satisfied smile, sprawling down the length of it.
I move from the armchair nearest the hearth, where I’ve been covertly keeping an eye on his fire-making, while pretending to read.
I picked up a new Christmas rom-com in a little bookstore next to the coffee shop today. It’s nice and light, allowing me to supervise Christian, my phone ready to dial 999 if necessary, without losing the thread of the story.
As I approach, his grey sweatpants-covered legs spread wide for me and he pulls me down to tuck in between them.
I lean back against his broad chest, resting my head against the woolly jumper I tossed at him earlier to ward off the chill while he resurrected the fire. It’s a Christmas jumper I bought for Ollie last year.
Christian tried to fob it off, saying it was too small, but I knew it had enough stretch. He looks so damned adorable in it, his very masculine bearded face and solid build, contrasting with the whimsical ice-skating penguin plastered across his chest. But his frustrated frown and the small huff of displeasure every time he tugs it down tell me he’s not impressed.
Maybe he thought his mission to rev up the fire to maximum heat would provide an excuse to remove it. Not that I’d object. I love Christian in only his t-shirt, those patterns of leaves and vines twining across his hands and circling his forearms, then disappearing to where the secret animals lie hidden.
“Wanna watch Wild For The Win ?” I ask. “We missed Friday night. ”
I don’t really want to watch it, but I still make the offer. After all, Christian has lived it. If he wants to see what happens in these last episodes, I’m not going to deny him.
“Fuck, no.” His answer is immediate. “I vote we give it a break. Until Wednesday. The final. I want to see who wins—even though the fact I have any interest in knowing kind of disturbs me.”
“Want to bet on who?” I offer, knowing it’s a wager I’ll most likely lose.
“Gavin Markham,” he says without hesitation.
“The football player?” He didn’t seem like a contender to me.
“Yeah. You’ve watched Ted Lasso , right?”
“He’s a Roy Kent,” I reply, catching his meaning.
“Exactly. Gavin’s had a rough time. He’s not a bad bloke. Was a good player. Just like Roy, injury dogged him till he had to throw it in. He’s doing some coaching now. I admire the guy. Firstly, the grit to play on for a couple of years, even when his body let him down. And secondly, the humility to get back in there to the game he loves, even if it’s not on the field.”
“Definitely a Roy Kent. Well, if that’s the case, I’m not taking a bet against him. Let’s both hope he makes it through on Wednesday. And that his charity is something decent.”
“Support for underprivileged kids to get into football.”
“I can live with that.”
Christian reaches a long arm to grab the remote. “And I bet you can live with this,” he says, switching onto the movie channel where The Holiday is queued ready to go.
I suspect Christian enjoys my Christmas movie selections as much as I do. I snuggle into him, trying to ignore the part of him that hardens between us, nudging my spine and triggering a flood of heat between my legs.
“Cameron Diaz or Kate Winslett?” I quiz him as the closing credits roll.
I’m still basking against the warm width of his chest. Apart from getting up once for a pee and to restock the big bowl of snacks we’ve been munching on—I broke out the Christmas candy—I haven’t moved. Now I’ve eaten too much to move. In fact, it’s a wonder I’m not throwing up after scoffing all those sweets. Will we even be able to sleep tonight with that huge hit of sugar zinging through our veins?
Both of us pounced on the foil-wrapped ‘coins’ first. Every British kid shares memories of peeling off the stiff gold wrapper and biting into the hard chocolate disc beneath. The chocolate is never the best, not the smooth mouth-filling sweetness you’d expect, but nostalgia coats it with a layer of deliciousness.
I also have no willpower to resist the little chocolate-covered snowmen. The contrasting textures, a cloud of spongy white marshmallow, with a layer of chocolate so thin it crackles under my teeth, are irresistible. Christian hasn’t fought me for them. He spent the whole movie feeding an addiction to the Trebor candy-canes.
“Cameron,” he sighs, his peppermint breath against my ear. It’s tempting to spin around and press my mouth to his, taste his minty lips, and the faint lingering hint of chocolate. “Those big damn eyes, just like yours.” Christian leans down and plants a kiss on my nose. “How about you—Jack Black or Jude Law?” he asks.
“Definitely Jude,” I say, smiling up at him with dreamy eyes. I’m not usually a big Jude Law fan, but in this movie, no girl could help but fall a little in love with him. “It’s the single dad thing. There’s something attractive about a guy who’s a good dad.”
“Yeah,” he huffs, a pensive divot dividing his brow, and his jaw drawing tight. My words now seem insensitive when I recall his revelation of the fraught relationship between him and his own father, but it’s too late to take them back. “I didn’t have that. Not like you,” he says. “You and Ollie are lucky. To have your dad—and your mum—get it right.”
I give a small derisive snort and tip my head away from him. Christian’s view of my parents is no different to anyone else’s. The need to correct him is automatic.
“Mum and Dad are far from perfect,” I blurt. “Really, Sam’s mum and dad should take the credit for raising us, not them. We practically lived at their house.”
My parents weren’t bad parents. Just absent ones. Career focused, sometimes I felt they cared more about other people’s kids than their own. Both are so proud of the difference they’ve made in the schools they’ve led. But I still wonder what it might have been like to come home to our own house after school, instead of to Sam’s.
Her mother, Wendy, cared for Ollie and me from the time we were both small, while Mum and Dad worked their way up to higher positions and more prestigious schools. Once we were school-aged, it was Wendy who dropped us there each morning, picked us up at the end of the day, took Ollie to all his music classes, got us to swimming lessons, even signed the trip permission notes .
It’s why Sam is like a sister to us. It’s at her house I fell under the spell of dogs, with the family’s ever present floppy-eared spaniels. It’s there I learned about rescue when Wendy opened up their home to foster pups. Where I learned to bake cookies and cakes, and decorate Christmas trees.
But it’s also why I was the pathetic kid, trying to get my parents’ attention the only way I knew how, desperate to please, never wanting to put a foot wrong. In many ways, I’m still that kid.
“Really?” Christian is naturally curious. It’s understandable given the glowing impression Mum and Dad made on everyone behind the scenes of Star Power . It’s only in recent years, now they’ve clawed their way to the top of the heap, that they have more time for us, like when Ollie was on the show. Or at big moments in his music career since. They came to my graduation. It’s kind of sad—here they are, available now when we’re grown adults, yet they weren’t when we needed them most. I love my parents. They love me. However, I don’t seek to imitate them.
“Really,” I sigh. “From the time I was a few months old, Sam’s mum cared for me while Mum went back to work. Ollie was the same. At least it was a family situation, a good one. We were happy there.”
“So the ninja nurse is practically your sister. Now I get why she slammed me so damn hard.”
I nod up at him, biting at my lip. We’re on difficult ground here, but now I’ve started, I can’t stop.
“Sam and her parents will always stand up for me. Not like my own.” The bitter words tumble out. I can’t forgive them for the Jack situation. “They’ve done some pretty shitty things lately, to be honest. ”
I don’t plan to belittle my parents, but today, with the hurt of Jack so close to the surface and Christian’s piercing gaze upon me, I give in. Outside their stuffy schools, no longer wearing their serious head teacher faces, they’re a likeable pair. And they like people too. Which is part of the problem. Even now, Mum and Dad still see the good in Jack. It’s as if having scooped him into our family like a second son, they can’t bear to let him go. I bet they sent a wedding present, thinking it’s the polite thing to do.
Christian’s questioning expression, curiosity and confusion mingling in his eyes, and the knowledge he cares, invites my confession.
“Mum and Dad loved Jack. They’re disappointed we broke up. There’s always this unspoken accusation—” I gulp a breath, like I’m bobbing in rough water, about to go under. “Like I did something to cause it—” I struggle to the surface and grab another half breath-half sob. “And it pisses me off.”
Christian narrows his eyes. “It should. That was not your fault, Haley.” It comes out as a low growl. With a few words, I’ve knocked my parents off their lofty pedestal in his eyes, at least.
“I know.” I choke back the emotion. “I know.”
It’s easy to say, hard to believe, even though I know in my heart Jack’s cheating wasn’t my fault. Although my parents’ attitude towards him might be. They don’t know all the details; it was just too damn humiliating. Only Ollie knows the truth of it, and I convinced him to say nothing; that it would only hurt me more. Sometimes his need to protect me is helpful.
“God, I’m tired.” I change the subject, lean my head back against his shoulder, stretching into a yawn. I’m not sure if it’s my theatrics, or Christian’s perceptiveness; he can see I’m not up for any more of this conversation. Either way, it works.
“Bedtime?” he says, drawing his legs from around me. “I’ll put the girls out.”
The quiet way Christian has insinuated his way into my life as an equal partner still baffles me. I’m not used to someone stepping up to take on a share of all the small, mundane tasks. During the sixteen months I was with Jack, and especially the nine we lived together, he never thought to lift a finger with domestic stuff.
He considered himself generous; and money-wise he was, recognising the huge disparity in our incomes by adjusting my share of the rent in proportion. Perhaps he considered all the cooking and cleaning, shopping and taking out the trash, my contribution to the shortfall. If that was the case, I suppose it was fair enough, but we never talked about it. We didn’t have an agreement, simply his assumption. That should have been a red flag.
I wait at my bedroom door until the dogs arrive back with a draught of frigid air and a rattle of claws. Christian locks the back door and pauses in the hallway, my room to the right, his to the left. A fork in the road. Which path will we take?
We stand, his stormy eyes searching mine as if seeking my answer to the unspoken question hanging between us. Last night, although it was on a couch, I had the best night’s sleep in ages. I want Christian to join me in my room, in my bed. Going slow doesn’t mean we can’t sleep together. Just sleep, like last night; clothing and a commitment to not messing up this thing, standing chastely between us and the lust that still fizzes invisibly beneath the surface.
Again, it’s the small things I crave. Not that I can deny the rush of heat between my legs at the possibility of rampant sex with Christian. But it’s the warm comfort of his presence, soothing away all those crappy images of Jack and Paige that haunted my day, that I seek first. I stretch out a hand, and he takes it. I don’t want to let it go, or let him go. Heading to my room alone, I know in the dark, the hurt will stalk me. I don’t want to sleep alone tonight. So I take a chance.
“Will you…sleep with me—just sleep?” I venture. “After today…those pictures.” As if the photographs are there hanging in the hallway, taunting me, I close my eyes.
“Of course,” he says, squeezing my hand and tugging me close. “As long as you promise not to jump me while I’m asleep.”
His low chuckle is seductive, and I look up into blue eyes, sparking with mischief. Like jumping on him is exactly what he’d like me to do.
And I’m sure I’d like to as well. Before Loreena’s big reveal, I spent almost a week with Christian, oblivious to him as more than my brother’s friend, and possibly my friend, too. But I won’t deny that during that week, there were plenty of times when his attractive body so close to me did what it would do to any girl with eyes and a beating heart. Now, knowing Christian has these feelings for me has torn away all caution. My mind and my heart want to trust what he says, and my body sees that as permission to open the floodgates, sending jolts of electricity through my core at the thought of taking this thing further physically.
Heat rises in my face, and my laugh comes out shaky. My over-eagerness last night is still coming back to bite me.
“Would you feel safer with a pillow wall?” I tease, trying to cover my awkwardness at the memory. My eyes dip low, darting away from his gaze.
“Don’t be silly,” he says, his hand tipping my chin up. “Haley, I was only joking. Do you really think I’d pass up the opportunity to spend the night in your bed?” He dots a kiss on my lips and pulls me into a hug. It feels like home, his arms wrapping me like this, so safe. “That’s if there’s room for us as well as them?”
Behind me, the dogs have barged open my door and settled themselves onto one side of the bed.
“I can deal with that.” I turn and head into my bedroom, tugging him along behind me. I stand beside the already messed up bed, where the dogs have twirled the covers into nests.
“Off!” I point a finger at their cosy baskets on the floor in one corner. They avoid my eyes, so I repeat the command. “Off.”
“I feel bad,” Christian says as they grumble to their feet and slither off the bed.
“Don’t. Those dog baskets cost a fortune.”
“I presume I can get rid of this?” He grips the Christmas jumper, bunching fabric in each hand, poised to remove it.
“Sure,” I grin back at him. “I think you’ve done your time.”
He lifts it up over his head with a brisk tug. I’m not prepared for what happens as a result. The smile falls from my face. As the jumper pulls up, the t-shirt underneath moves with it and I’m treated to the sight of bare stomach, taut muscles, and a dusting of dark hair trailing downwards to disappear beneath the waistband of those hip-hugging sweatpants. I should look away, but I’m paralysed.
My breath hitches. What I can see of Christian is beautiful, all lean and hard. But it’s what I can’t see that causes warmth to flood my body, radiating out from the centre. My imagination fills in the details, as I picture my hand following that happy trail of dark hairs downwards, before deviating off to trace the groove of those hips, the skin I know to be so soft.
I attempt to compose my face into what I hope is a passable version of normal, just in time. He tosses the jumper onto the stool by the dresser and the t-shirt settles. But my torture isn’t over.
He points at the t-shirt. “How about this? I run hot.” A swallow works down my throat and he must see my eyes widen. “Sorry,” he says with a bemused expression. “I really do. Especially if there’s two in the bed.”
“Fine by me,” I squeak out. His smile broadens at my obvious discomfort. I should look away. I have to look away. But I don’t.
I’m treated to a repeat performance, the fabric sliding up, the bare skin—oh my god, the bare skin—and then his arms emerge. Now I have a valid reason to stare. This is the first time I’ve fully seen Christian’s tattooed upper arms and shoulders in the light. They’re even more incredible than I remember.
He notices the direction of my gaze.
“Can I—” I stutter, my hand rising of its own accord, begging to not only look, but touch. There’s something about the artwork on his skin that draws me in, inviting exploration with more than my eyes.
“Sure,” he says, as casually as if it’s the sort of request he gets every day. He steps towards me and takes hold of my fingers. Placing them on his biceps, right where the wolf peers out between the trees, my eyes lock onto the creature’s, its gaze mesmerising. I think of Rachel’s words this morning. Now the wolf isn’t just in the house. He’s in my bedroom. I invited him in. And I’m not sorry.
“How come you never show them?” I ask. “Except in that magazine shoot—” I realise my mistake immediately, and heat flares on my cheeks. I’m suddenly overly conscious of my hand on his body, a body I’ve seen an awful lot of, if only in pictures. Then I remember I’ve also seen way too much of it in the flesh, and the memory of him on that first night flashes—Christian in the half-dark, without a stitch of clothing. In the drama with Tully, I’d pushed it aside, but now it comes back in a searing rush. I swallow audibly.
Christian’s brows fly up, and his mouth slants in that way-too-sexy crooked grin. “I didn’t know your reading extended to men’s health magazines.” His voice is low and teasing.
“It doesn’t. I don’t.” The words of explanation tumble out in a splutter. “Pierre does—Rachel’s boyfriend. She brought it over.”
He laughs, a deep rumble. “So, Miss Buttoned-up Rachel has a secret love of ogling pictures of half-clothed men.”
He chuckles to himself and I relax, allowing my hand to wander, tracing the indigo lines of plants and trees, running a thumb over the head of the badger, almost feeling the soft fur although it’s merely etched in ink.
“The reason I never show them,” he says, as I explore the other arm, the fox and the deer peering from their woodland hideaway. “Is because in my world, it feels like nothing is secret. There’s nothing you can hide. They want every damn piece of you; and I decided I wouldn’t give it all.”
“But the magazine…”
“Yeah, it pissed me off. Our publicist, who set it up, told me it would be all dim light and moody tasteful shots. And when it didn’t quite come out that way—” He pauses and his mouth tips up a little. “She assured me people would be looking at my arse, not my arms. She seems to have been right.”
“I wasn’t,” I lie.
“Really?” he laughs. “I don’t know whether to be pleased or disappointed. ”
My face blazes and I tip my head down, concentrating on the tiny mouse hidden beneath a bramble bush. He pulls me into him, and I lay my face across his bare chest. Inhaling the scent of his skin, beautiful musky maleness overlaid with spice and wood smoke, I know I’ll never be able to smell the tang of a fire again without thinking of him.
“Come on, let’s get to bed before those dogs stage another takeover bid,” he murmurs against my hair.
I head to the bathroom, and he follows, the two of us companionably going through our bedtime routine at the twin basins, side by side like a couple who’ve been doing this every night for a long time.
Back in my room, I sit on the bed, stripping off my socks. The little bells are cute, but not helpful for peaceful sleep.
Meanwhile, Christian loses his sweatpants, allowing them to pool on the floor in a grey puddle. At my eye level, I’m confronted with black boxer briefs clinging to wide thighs. My gaze drops below them, noting the dark-haired muscular legs sculpted from the running he says he loves.
I drag my eyes away, slide between my crisp sheets and scoot across to the other side of the bed, where I like to sleep. Christian slips in beside me, his weight tipping me a little towards him as I adjust my pillow.
“Sorry, I didn’t ask which side you wanted.”
“Any side is fine with me.” He tucks one arm beneath me, offering his shoulder for my head. His other arm loops across, settling on my waist. We lay there, our breath in sync, peaceful.
“Ahh, do you sleep with the light on?” he asks after a moment. “Because I suppose I could, if you do…” He’s grinning across at me .
I roll my eyes and leap out to get the light. It’s like the whole world is upended by his presence; even the simplest of routines disrupted. His rumbling laughter is a beacon of sound, guiding me back through the darkness. I navigate around the bed and wriggle across to him. Lying on his shoulder once more, I know sleep will come easily tonight, secure inside the safe harbour of his arms.