Chapter 28
Day Nine
“God it’s so beautiful it could be Velaris.” My words are a fog in the icy air.
“The City of Starlight.” Christian’s voice is muffled behind the scarf he’s wound high to cover his mouth.
“See, I knew you’d like those books,” I tease. I love that he loved them.
It’s nine pm, as the staff member at the entry to Kew Gardens scans the tickets on my phone. The last timed entry slot has the advantage of fewer people. On a Sunday night, many of those with kids will have hurried them off home to bed before school tomorrow. So while it’s busy, it’s not too overwhelming for the dogs. As we rarely venture further than the little park one block over from the house, this is a big outing for them. But they seem happy to be here—excited even—linked to us with harnesses and leads. They step along jauntily, looking so sweet in their Christmas jackets. I’ve got Mularkey, while Tully is with Christian. She’s developed a major crush on him. I totally get it.
Fewer people hopefully also mean less opportunity for someone to brush up against us and recognise the man who has me tucked in tight to his side. So far, so good.
And I’m enjoying the warmth of his body pressed to mine, because at this later time, it’s also way colder. We might get proper snow again tonight. Twice in a week at this time of year is unheard of. But we came prepared. We’re dressed like twin Michelin men, bulky jackets, hats, scarves, gloves. Christian’s Wild For The Win wardrobe has come in handy. Suited for winter in Scotland, it’s more than adequate here, as well as ensuring hardly any of him is visible.
However, I’m not sure about the addition of his sunglasses. I know his very recognisable, piercing blue eyes framed by long lashes, and the dark slanting brows could still give him away. So covering them is a good idea. Although a guy in dark glasses on a winter night isn’t exactly inconspicuous. Strangely, no one seems to give him a second glance, so I shrug off my doubts and allow myself to fall into fairyland.
My arm linked with his, we weave our way along the paths. Somehow, tonight the decorations seem even more magical than previous years. Have the designers outdone themselves? Or is it the man beside me, his presence illuminating my life, like the bursts of light transforming the gardens, picking out the beauty that was already there in new ways ?
Overhead, towering trees with wintery branches stripped naked of their leafy summer beauty, are clothed in winding strands of lights. They shimmer like galaxies against the black velvet night.
Waterfalls of light cascade over intricate archways, beckoning us to explore what lies beyond. We find tunnels of shrubbery swathed in kaleidoscopes of colour that shift and blend. Emerging from them, we stand in outdoor rooms where intricate patterns of golden light adorn walls of waxy green leaves.
Outside, shimmering fairy lights guide us along new pathways, leading us deeper into an enchanted realm. Gigantic sculptures tower over us, rainbows of pulsing light flowing across their features.
We speak little. There’s not really any way to describe this experience. It’s one of those things to be lived. When each new delightful surprise appears, we simply turn to each other, without saying anything, and I know we’re thinking the same thing: this is amazing. The trail might only be one mile long, but by the time we reach the end, it feels like we’ve been on a magical journey of a thousand.
And along the way, there’s been this luminous glowing ball growing inside me. It pulses, its light and warmth slowly expanding with each thud of my heart, with each step I take in time with his, in every squeeze of his hand and the way his arm tightens across my shoulder, pulling me in close as we pause to gaze in awe at each new marvel, under the spell of this place. I recognise what blooms within, even though I haven’t felt its nearness for so long. Happiness. Christmas makes me happy. But this year there’s something else. Someone else. Christian makes me happy.
We emerge into an open space, where stalls are set up around the edge, and bright music spills forward .
“You want some?” Christian tips his chin towards a food vendor. People are queuing for hot roast chestnuts. The sweet nutty scent, with hints of caramel, fills the air around the cart. There’s a subtle smoky undertone, and the rattle of brittle shells as the vendor stirs with deft movements. My stomach growls, our quick dinner of mac and cheese long forgotten.
“Oh yes. Chestnuts are a must. And there’s mulled wine, over there.” Another stall opposite is doing a brisk trade, the spicy smell from steaming paper cups wafting towards us. I can’t resist. “Let’s go for both. I’ll get the wine.”
When Mularkey and I return, the cups of wine warming my hands even through my gloves, we find a small girl eyeing Christian and Tully. Her blonde brows beneath a striped beanie are knotted in a frown as she looks him up and down suspiciously. She purses her rosebud lips, and the words spill out.
“Are you blind?”
Christian and I exchange puzzled glances over her head. And then I get it.
“Dark glasses, dog in harness.” I slide the whispered words out of the corner of my mouth while biting back laughter at the thought of Tully being a guide dog. She’d be better than Mularkey; with her short attention span, it would get wild if she was in charge. But I wouldn’t want my safety to depend on Tully, either. That obsessive need of hers to follow any interesting smell would most likely have you grass skiing before ending up buried in a hedge.
A grin splits Christian’s face, and he stoops down to the child. Raising his glasses, revealing twinkling blue eyes, he offers a wink. “No. But it’s a pretty good disguise, isn’t it?”
She gives him a solemn nod, satisfied. “Can I pat your dog? ”
“Sure.” She reaches for Tully’s head, undeterred by the dog’s wide toothy grin.
A woman, bag of chestnuts in hand, comes to stand alongside the little girl, and carefully checks over this stranger talking to her mini-me. Christian smiles up at her and it’s then I see her mouth fall open.
“You’re…”
He immediately swings into action. With the dark glasses shoved back on his face, Christian is on his feet. “Sorry sweetie. Gotta go.”
And he’s off, heading for the gate, Tully sensing the urgency towing him through the crowd. No one would take him for a blind person with the speed he navigates the streams of people leaving the gardens.
“Wasn’t that Christian Steele?” The bewildered woman stares at his disappearing back.
“No. Just my brother.” I shake my head, trying to assemble my face to match the lie. I’m becoming surprisingly good at lying. “He gets that all the time. The likeness is uncanny, isn’t it?”
“Oh.” Confusion still whirls across her face, but as she takes the child’s hand, it seems she’s accepted my words.
“Nice meeting you,” I say, attempting a relaxed, cheerful tone. “But we really do have to go. Our ride will be waiting.” Mularkey and I sprint down the path, trying to catch him up without spilling the wine, leaving woman and child staring after us.
“Shit, that was close.” He’s breathing heavily when I finally make it to his side.
I’m puffing too, after zigzagging in and out of the trails of people like a pro footballer on attack.
“Sure was. I told you the glasses were a bad idea. ”
I shove a cup of wine at him, and he takes it gratefully. We amble to the end of the queue for taxis and stand politely. A few sips of the hot wine, the sweetness and spice a pleasant contrast to the slight tang of underlying tannin, and my pulse has almost returned to normal.
I glance back towards the gardens, and there she is. The same woman, daughter in hand, walking our way. It doesn’t appear intentional, like she’s following us. However, the last thing we need is to be trapped in this line, unable to escape her scrutiny and more questions.
I elbow Christian. “Don’t make it obvious,” I hiss against his ear. “But look, she’s just over there.” She stands to our right by the gate, scanning up and down, as if trying to spot someone. I don’t think it’s us she’s hoping to find, but I’d rather be safe than sorry. “We should go.”
How we might escape, I don’t know. We’re still five from the front of the taxi line, and to jump ahead, breaking the very British rules around queuing, would draw unwanted attention.
“Fuck.” Christian’s low growl, as he gives a quick tip of his head to the left, immediately sets my teeth on edge. “Photographer.”
The man is conspicuous by the huge camera over one shoulder. He pauses by the entranceway and swings it upwards to one eye, steadying the unwieldy length of the lens with a practised hand. His hefty gear marks him out as a professional. No one else would bother with anything besides a phone.
An ominous whirr cuts the air as he shoots in rapid-fire, taking picture after picture of people leaving the gardens. They’ll be great photos, the stream of smiling faces, all still under the spell of the enchanted world inside. It’s unlikely he’ll turn his attention to the line at the taxi stand—unless someone points out there’s a celebrity lurking in between the rest.
Christian’s not going to take that chance. He grabs at my cup and before I can protest I’m not finished, stuffs it and his own into a nearby bin. He grabs my hand and tugs me and the dogs to the front of the queue.
We fall into the next cab as it edges forward. Ignoring the indignant cries from some of those waiting in line, we organise ourselves and the dogs in the generous back seat. Others in the queue make the same assumption as the child. Allowing for Christian’s ‘disability’, they admonish the ones complaining about us. I slam the door on the fuss.
Luckily, the driver doesn’t object to canine passengers. Maybe he, too, is reluctant to test the possibility that Christian really is blind. This time, the dark glasses might have saved us. We ride in silence for the whole twenty minutes, but my blood hums with a mix of fear and exhilaration from the close call. Christian maintains the charade, only ripping off the sunglasses as we sprint up the steps, still high on the danger, and stumble into the house.
“That could have ended really badly, couldn’t it?” I say. We stand in the entrance hall, the reality of the risk Christian took so I could have this night beginning to sink in.
“Ahh, the things I do for you, Haley Templeton.”
He shakes his head and tries to look severe, but fails.
“Including impersonating the blind,” I quip.
We both dissolve into relieved laughter. The dogs wag happily as if they’re laughing too, nudging at our knees. We pull off our gloves, tucking them into coat pockets and, taking charge of one dog each, set to work unbuckling their harnesses and leads. Once free, they dance away from us down the hallway and I hear them land with dual thumps on my bed.
“Well, at least they had a good night.” He coils the two leads into a tidy circle and scoops up the harnesses.
“Admit it Christian,” I tease. “You’re actually starting to like Christmas. In fact, I think you enjoyed every minute of this evening. Including the thrill of the chase.”
“The thrill of avoiding the chase,” he corrects, his back to me as he kneels to stash the dogs’ stuff on the bottom shelf of the hall table. When he stands, his eyes meet mine, dark and unfathomable. “Yeah, it was a bit of a thrill,” he admits. “But not as thrilling as being here with you.” Anticipation seems to battle with apprehension in that blue velvet gaze. The husk in his voice ignites every nerve in my body. And I’m a goner.
Christian strips off his hat, his dark wayward hair all tousled underneath, his eyes not once leaving mine, as he unwinds his scarf slowly. I’m not sure how he manages to make taking off bulky winter clothing look sexy, but he does. The moment his face is fully revealed, my eyes are drawn to his mouth. As if aware of my obsession with his lips, they slide into a slanted, panty-melting smile. My god, I think he’s discarded going slow along with his hat and scarf. I’m ready to do the same.
Last night we shared a bed while tiptoeing around the possibility of going further. I may have slept in his arms, and woke with his obvious desire prodding at my back, but somehow he kept our touch chaste and controlled. While every part of me was begging him to forget who I am, forget who he is, to ignore what I’ve been through this past year, to not wrap me up in cotton wool and simply take me and make my body hum, still I held back the words. I usually don’t ask for what I want. Now I’m about to.
“Christian…” I barely recognise my voice. “How about we forget going slow?”
He doesn’t speak, but any trace of uncertainty in his eyes is gone, replaced by blatant longing. His hand reaches for my scarf, carefully unravelling it just like I’m unravelling under his touch, his fingers deliciously cool on the bare skin beneath. Tugging off my hat, he lets it drop to the floor. He smooths my hair, so gentle, and my breath catches. His hand shifts to tuck back some loose strands behind one ear.
I shiver as his fingers graze my neck, dropping my head to one side, leaning into his touch with a sigh. He catches my chin in his hand and guides my face to his, while one thumb drifts up to trace my mouth. I close my eyes and part my lips. My tongue licks at them, and he lets out a low moan. He presses his lips to mine, and we both shudder out a groan.
His kiss is slow and deliberate, savouring me like the first bite of a maple bacon donut. It’s tender, yet demanding of more. His tongue thrusts between my lips, tasting me while I delight in the sweet spiciness of his mouth. One of my hands threads through his hair, the other pressed to his neck, cupping his head to me hungrily.
There may be layers of clothing between us, but I’m as turned on as if we were skin to skin. I claw uselessly at the zipper on his coat as his hands fumble with the buttons on mine. Giggles overtake me and he shakes out a laugh as we both realise how ridiculous this is, trying to get all hot and heavy while still bundled up for the outdoors. I’m bubbling with laughter against his chest, his throaty chuckle warm on my neck, when he murmurs against my ear .
“My room, two minutes?”
I lean back to meet his gaze. He arches one dark brow, and I nod.
“Sounds a plan.”
Moments later, sitting on my bed, coat tossed aside and unlacing my boots, I’m wondering exactly what the plan is. God, how much do I take off? Only the bulky stuff? More? Casually stroll in there half naked? Somehow it doesn’t feel right baring too much. I’m under no illusion as to the end point here, but I don’t want to look over eager, the sad dumped girl desperate for a man.
Instead, I opt to leave most of my clothes on, a present for him to unwrap. I know underneath my slouchy sweater and jeans, there’s pretty red lingerie waiting for him to discover. I’ve been reaching for my nicest sets these last few days, perhaps subconsciously preparing for this possibility.
Part of me wonders what the hell I’m doing. Is my selfish need to feel wanted taking charge? I worry I’m taking advantage of his feelings for me. But then I can’t deny it: I have feelings for Christian too. They’ve snuck up on me, day by day, moment by moment. I can’t ignore them any longer.
I hear him clear his throat. He leans against the doorframe, trying to look casual, but I see the nervous dart of his eyes. My eyes rove over the t-shirt, bulky chest muscles straining at it, and I swallow with anticipation of getting my hands on him. I remember how I woke up this morning. I know what it feels like to rest my head against the bare skin beneath that shirt, to press my lips lightly against it while holding back the urge to taste my way down the length of him. An urge I no longer need to fight .
His jeans hang low on narrow hips, and I cringe, remembering my clumsy attempts to remove them, overwhelmed by that first surge of desire the other night.
“Changed your mind?” His normally confident voice wavers a little. “It’s OK if you have…”
I shake my head, and he steps forward and reaches for me, relief flooding his face. Pulling me onto my feet, he cages me inside those broad inked arms. He presses his forehead to mine, our eyes locked, his with pupils huge and darkly smouldering.
His mouth seeks mine, and I offer it willingly. His kiss burns. Large hands rove down my spine, leaving trails of electricity in their wake. He cups my bum, pressing my hips into him, and I sigh and grind myself against the hard press of his groin.
A questioning whine interrupts the moment. We turn our heads in unison to see two pairs of dog eyes fixed on us, curious.
“Maybe not in front of the children?” His low raspy laughter rumbles against my chest, and we stumble from the room, shutting my door firmly behind us.