Chapter 12 #3
‘Yeah, well, they seem to really care.’ I probably shouldn’t, but the movement of his head has shifted my fingers and they automatically play with the hair at the nape of his neck, and he makes an involuntary noise that suggests it’s a good place for them to be.
‘They’re genuinely worried about you – and me.
And now I’ve told them I’m an interior designer, do you have any idea how spectacular they’re expecting the castle to be?
We’re going to have to give them a good Christmas.
And cut back on the work talk. They want a family Christmas, not a bloody excuse to talk about work in different surroundings.
Let’s put it out there in advance that we’re putting an embargo on work talk. ’
‘That’s not fair. It’s not all work – sometimes I go as far as loosening my tie on Christmas Day.’
I laugh even though I don’t think he’s joking and then let my hands drift down until they can straighten up his bowtie while Mariah warbles in the background, and his eyes slip closed, and his body relaxes against mine.
‘If I even smell a tie anywhere near your neck this Christmas, so help me, I won’t be responsible for my actions. ’
His fingers curl tighter into my hips. ‘Ah, Lu, you’re the b—’
I’m not sure if he was about to call me the best or the boss, but it’s interrupted by Michelle’s squeal. ‘Mistletoe moment!’
I know she means us before we’ve even stopped to look upwards. Tucked away near a corner is a bunch of ribbon-tied mistletoe hanging from the ceiling, and Ollie and I have inadvertently swayed underneath it.
His wide eyes meet mine with a worried look, and he leans down far enough that I hear him swear under his breath. ‘Believe it or not, I didn’t do that on purpose.’
‘It’s okay,’ I murmur. Can I honestly say that if I’d known it was there, I wouldn’t have done it on purpose?
‘We can get out of this.’
My fingers curl into his arms as I surreptitiously glance around. It’s like we’ve entered a cult occurrence, and everyone has stopped what they’re doing to look at us and clap in time to a non-existent beat, drowning out even Mariah’s most festive of warbles.
‘It’s tradition!’ Dand calls warningly, in a manner so grave that a curse will surely be brought upon us if we don’t comply. ‘It’s bad luck not to!’
‘They do this,’ Ollie whispers. ‘Any couple under the mistletoe has to kiss and have a Polaroid photo taken, there’s a whole corkboard of them in the staff kitchen.’
Maybe it’s another thing he should have warned me about so we could’ve both been on the lookout for rogue parasitic plants drawing-pinned to the ceiling, and I’m hyperaware that this conversation has gone on for too long, and a real husband and wife would’ve kissed by now, and honestly, a kiss from Ollie is not the worst thing I can imagine.
‘We don’t need any extra bad luck,’ I whisper. ‘It’s fine, Ol. Go ahead.’
‘You sure?’
I nod, and we’re standing close enough that I feel how deep the breath he takes is.
His arms slip back around my waist and mine slide up to his biceps, curling into the silky material of his suit jacket as I push myself up on tiptoes even in these heels, and his head dips until I can feel his breath, the heat of his barely-there stubble against my skin, the press of his nose as he tilts his head to one side.
When his lips touch mine, it’s the gentlest, softest peck, almost like he’s asking permission to kiss me before a real kiss, although it never goes any further.
His mouth is sizzlingly hot and when he goes to pull away, my hands tighten on his arms because I’m not ready to let him go, and he presses his lips to mine once more.
I can’t remember the last time I took a breath, and his fingers are curling into my hips almost hard enough to hurt, but I can’t think about anything other than how good it feels, and how this is nowhere near enough of a kiss.
We’ve lingered too long not to attract suspicion.
I heard the shutter of a Polaroid camera ages ago, and it takes someone saying, ‘Ahh, young love!’ for me to force myself to drop down off my tiptoes and pull away, solely for the sake of the pretence, because things will fall apart somewhat rapidly if anyone realises this is our first kiss.
He pushes out the rest of the shuddery breath he took in what seems like hours ago, and his shoulders sag like he feels as unsteady as I do.
Around us, everyone has returned to what they were doing and the song has changed to ‘Sleigh Ride’, and it takes him a valiant effort to pull back.
‘Sorry,’ he murmurs, his cheeks flushed. ‘Dancing to Christmas songs is a bad idea, clearly.’
And I thought it would be the heels that were my undoing tonight.
* * *
‘Can you see how many people are looking at us and thinking I’m the luckiest man here?
’ Ollie and I are standing safely to one side of the dancing area, having come over to the drinks table for something to do other than think about what just happened, but quickly realised that neither of us actually wanted another drink, and as usual, he knows exactly what to say to make me melt.
‘If you were really my wife, I’d be the luckiest man in the known universe. I feel taller with you beside me.’
‘You’re already six-foot-three! If you weren’t driving, I’d think you were drunk for a line like that.’
‘You know what I mean. You make me feel like I can conquer the world. Any nerves I had about what we’re doing are gone. Of course we can pull this off – I’ve got you.’
He’s standing behind me, one hand on my hip and the other arm around my chest, and I’m clinging onto him, partially because I don’t want to get caught in another cabin crew situation with no back-up, and partially because I still feel unsteady after that kiss, and I like being near him.
He makes me feel like the world is full of endless possibilities, and I could achieve any of them with the support of someone who believes in me like he does.
‘I’m sorry about the mistletoe. Rory must’ve jinxed us.’
‘Thank God he did. I…’ I splutter to a halt when I realise that thought was supposed to remain inside my head.
Ollie lets out a half-choked noise like he might’ve swallowed a reindeer.
There is no way to recover from this. There is no way to pretend I didn’t say that, and I scramble for a way to make it sound like anything other than what it was.
‘From a “selling the part” perspective. If anyone suspected us, they’d soon stop because it’s not like you’d kiss someone who wasn’t your wife under the mistletoe, right? ’
‘Right.’ He sounds like the reindeer is still stuck in his throat.
His arm tightens around me, and his mouth drops to my ear again.
‘Right,’ he repeats, and this time his lips brush deliberately across the shell of my ear, and I cling onto his arm even tighter because my knees are this close to giving out, and it takes every ounce of willpower to keep myself rooted to the spot, looking resolutely out at the room in front of me.
If I turn even slightly, I’m going to catch sight of him and then I’m not going to be responsible for my actions, which will probably involve jumping on him and kissing the ever-loving daylights out of him because that mistletoe peck was nowhere near enough.
He must sense it too because he stands back upright and puts the tiniest bit of space between our bodies without taking his hands away, and I force myself to exhale and think about something other than that kiss.
It was nothing more than a friendly peck, and yet it felt like the world shattered and glued itself back together again in one moment, and…
For God’s sake, Lula. Santa’s underwear.
Mrs Claus’s bloomers. Which elf cleans out the reindeer stables.
Think about anything other than what just happened.
Thankfully, another man and his wife have spotted us and are making a beeline in our direction.
‘Ho ho, Oliver really does have a wife then. I’ve been taking bets on whether he’d made you up.’