Page 35 of The Light Within

“I’ll spit in his face. It worked for me once before, remember?”

“Apparently so. But refrain from reminding me I’m dating a feral animal.”

Cinn pulled back, his eyebrows furrowed. “Oh? I didn’t know we were dating. Don’t remember being taken on any dates.”

“What about all those times you’ve cooked food for me and I’ve showered you in compliments?”

“Sounds pretty much like working in a restaurant.”

“You feed all your customers by hand?”

Cinn shot Julien a wicked smile. “Only if I know where their tongues have been.”

They walked in companionable silence. When they were sitting in Maz, Cinn turned to him, bottom lip caught between his teeth. He seemed even more awkward than he usually was about asking something.

“Hey, you know tomorrow? Christmas Eve?”

“Hmm? I’ve heard of no such thing.”

Cinn scratched the back of his neck, gaze flicking between Julien and the windscreen. “Well, my mum and I used to have this tradition. We’d use the leftover wrapping paper, and make Christmas hats with them. You know, the crown ones.” He mimed a zig-zag pattern in the air. “It’snot like we didn’t have crackers,” he added quickly. “But the wrapping paper hats were cool. I thought we could do it this year.”

Hats out of wrapping paper?!Did Cinn’s obsession with Christmas have no limits? What was next, making snowmen out of mashed potatoes?

Julien opened his mouth, preparing several retorts like,“You really expect me to wear a Christmas hat?”and,“You want to ruin perfectly good wrapping paper?”but swiftly pressed his lips together.

How could he possibly dampen that adorable sparkle of childish excitement, clear as day, on Cinn’s face? The puppy-dog eyes that seemed prepared for him to say no, while desperately longing for him to say yes?

Julien had hated every holiday season since his mother died. Cinn likely had equally terrible memories of Christmases past—who knew what they were like with his mother, and Julien couldn’t imagine them being a joyful affair in foster care, either.

So if Cinn wanted to make up for all those shitty, lost years? He’d let him.

In fact, if he’d allow him to, Julien would give Cinn the best Christmas ever, every year from now on.

If he wanted that disturbingly dry fruit pudding, he’d get it. If he wanted a tree, Julien would find the biggest one that would fit in his living room. If he wanted their own sickeningly cute Christmas traditions, he’d have them, ten times over. Julien would even go as far as allowing him to put a spot of tinsel over the mantelpiece. As long as it was silver. Definitely not red, or green.

Realising he’d left Cinn hanging in silence, he lurched forward, grabbing the nape of Cinn’s neck with one hand and holding his face with the other.

“We’ll make a hundred crowns,” Julien said, pressing his lips to Cinn’s. “A thousand.” He pulled Cinn against his chest, ignoring the bite of the gear box digging into his flesh.

Cinn rumbled a laugh against his chest. “I mean, I was thinking more like ten max, but whatever.”

eight

Cinn

Flying was never going to be Cinn’s favourite thing, but his journey to London was comparatively non traumatic.

Whatwastraumatic was waiting for the bus to Darcy’s family’s holiday rental in a torrential downpour. The freezing rain pounded relentlessly, soaking through Cinn’s hoodie within seconds. Each gust of wind sent stabs of icy needles into his small patches of exposed skin. The final straw was the red bus that sped past, drenching them with a wave of grimy water as it splashed through a puddle.

So he didn’t get blamed if the four of them caught pneumonia, Cinn relented and allowed Julien to call a black cab. The drive was gloriously warm and dry all the way to Belgravia, a snobbish, posh area of London Cinn had never set foot in before. The pristine streets were lined with grand, white-stucco townhouses, and luxury cars were parked in front of undoubtedly overpriced boutiques and art galleries, which caught Julien’s attention.

Everyone arrived damp, but it was only Julien who arrived hungry, as he refused to eat the aeroplane food, despite it being the fanciest Beef Wellington Cinn had ever seen. It was way past midnight, but Alexander and Fiona Beaumont greeted them with an infectious festive cheer in their Scottish accents, far stronger than Darcy’s. The couple pulled them all in for unsolicited hugs one by one.

The townhouse the Beaumonts had rented was even more fancy on the inside. The living room, with its velvet drapes and meticulously arranged antique furniture, had the feel of a museum exhibit.

Cinn perched awkwardly on the edge of a plush, overstuffed sofa. Darcy’s mother immediately started bombarding him with questions that deepened his exhaustion, though he couldn’t be rude, not when her smile was so genuine and bright.

Darcy winked at him. “Cinn is tired, Mum. How’s Dad, anyway?” she said, dropping to a low voice, adding an extra layer of meaning to the question. Cinn subtly glanced towards the other half of the room, where Darcy’s dad appeared to be reeling off questions about Elliot’s motorcycle.

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