Page 9 of Must Love Christmas

Garen’s eyes widened. “Oh no!” Then he shook his head. “I’ve no idea what that is.”

“It’s rare. Basically your immune system gets confused by an infection—pneumonia, in my case—then attacks your nerves and leaves you temporarily paralyzed.”

“How awful.” Garen brushed his fingers over Simon’s forearm. The gesture felt more sympathetic than flirtatious, but its brevity left Simon wanting more. “You must have been so scared.”

“My parents were terrified—at least, I assume they were, as they’ve rarely talked about it. Most of what I know comes from my aunties and uncles. Me, I don’t remember much. I remember learning how to walk again, and I remember the first day I went up the stairs by meself—erm, myself.” Simon noticed that he was being far more talkative than usual, and that his Scouse was breaking through. He scratched his knee self-consciously, though it didn’t itch. “And I remember being at nursery when I was four, still a bit clumsy—getting my legs back under me, Ma used to say. The other kids laughed.”

Garen made a sympathetic noise but didn’t interrupt, so Simon kept going:

“Anyway, my earliest memory is of being in hospital, with flowers and cards and balloons everywhere—and me whole family standing next to the bed, all smiling down. Just like your family at the airport.”

“Wow.” Garen nudged Simon’s thigh. “That’s pretty cool, that our earliest memories are of being surrounded by love.”

Simon had never thought of it that way before. His parents had been so reluctant to discuss his illness—like it was some shameful secret—that it had often felt like a dream. But nothing could erase that one perfect image from his mind. “They say it’s worse to have GBS when you’re an adult. It takes months to recover instead of weeks.”

“Ooft. I’m glad it’s rare. I cannae imagine what that would do to my curling career.” Garen leaned over and tapped the rugged wooden coffee table, presumably for luck. Simon wondered about the significance of the bear statue sitting there, but he wanted to keep following this conversation’s thread.

“How did you get into that sport in the first place?”

“Unlike a lot of curlers, I’m not from a curling family. I didn’t even start until I met Luca at university.” Garen took a sip of wine. “It was the first thing in my life that made me feel truly competent.”

Simon could definitely relate—his childhood illness had left him with the physical coordination to excel at only one sport.

“I was never athletic growing up,” Garen continued, “so I expected to fail at curling, too. But once I sorted out my balance and leg strength, I was really good. Turns out I’m naturally flexible in ways most men have to work at.” He lowered his gaze and flashed an almost shy smile. “But not just physically. I could see potential shots that others couldn’t. Part of it was just being new to the sport and ignorant of conventional strategy, but it was also my out-of-the-box brain finally coming in handy.”

Simon murmured a brief acknowledgment, sensing his new acquaintance’s verbal momentum.

Sure enough, Garen kept going. “You know how in a lot of sports they tell you, ‘You’re not here to make friends’? But wherever I am, I am always there to make friends. And in curling, that’s expected. The spirit of curling means respecting your rivals, treating them the way you would treat a mate, even if deep down you don’t like them. But I like pretty much everyone.” He took a breath. “Sorry, I swear I’m trying not to blether too much. What about you? Are you the sporting type?”

“I am.” Simon decided to have a bit of fun. “Guess which sport.”

“Ooh, a challenge.” Garen scanned Simon’s frame, tapping the side of his glass as he considered. “You’re too slim for rugby and maybe even for football. I would say cricket, but something tells me you prefer to play alone rather than on a team.”

Simon nodded, impressed with Garen’s perceptiveness.

Garen’s gaze skimmed down his arms. “Your hands aren’t callused, so it’s not tennis.” He snapped his fingers. “You’re a golfer!”

Simon laughed. “Not a chance.”

“Really? Cos I can absolutely picture you in a pink polo shirt and plaid trousers.”

“Thanks, I guess?” Simon gave in. “Actually, I run marathons.”

“That’s amazing. I’ve not got the mental discipline for anything longer than a 5K. So are you in training for a race now, or is the season over?”

“I’ve signed up for a marathon in Spain at the end of November. It’ll be me tenth. But between this job promotion and moving up from Liverpool, I’m nearly a week behind schedule.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll catch up,” Garen said. “There are loads of good gyms nearby, and of course there’s the park, where sometimes it stops raining for several minutes in a row.”

Simon laughed again, feeling his resistance melt like candle wax, drop by drop with each warm glance from this man. The last glass of wine had definitely been a mistake.

I should go.

But he didn’t. Instead he emptied his glass and asked, “So how flexible are you?”

Garen’s jaw fell slack in a surprised smile. “Well…you want to see a trick?”

“Only if it’s better than the one with the straw.”

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