Page 157 of Ewan

Maybe that’s what he had in mind when he said we’d do something different. Me and him shopping?

I have a hard time imagining that.

“Shouldn’t I buy you a Christmas gift as well?” I murmur.

“Of course you should,” he says, amused. “But now I’m buying something for you. Ready?” he asks, moving his eyes around the table.

“Yes. Sure. We can go.”

32

SCARLETT

I’m not buyinghim a Christmas gift.

We’re browsing the stores for some time, searching for stuff for me.

I never thought shopping with someone, especially a man––more so someone like him––could be so much fun.

I try things on, taste delicious chocolate, and take too many selfies wearing colorful hats, gloves, scarves, and boots.

I only had such a good time when I was little and knew nothing about money or how difficult life could be.

I end up with several gifts. An expensive fountain pen for work. A lucky charm bracelet. A fancy winter hat. A planner. And a few other little things. A box of chocolate-covered cherries, and a smartphone photo printer.

He takes quite a few pictures of me with his phone and mine, and then I insist that he take photos of us.

In most photographs, you can’t see his face. He either has his lips buried in my hair, or he’s nuzzling my neck, but even so, Icapture enough of him to feel weak in my knees whenever I peek at them.

“Happy?” he asks as we walk out of the last store we’ve shopped in this evening.

“Yes, it was fun. Where did you learn to shop with someone for stuff like this?”

His eyes move away from mine.

“I used to do it with someone else,” he says before showing me to the posh entrance of a hotel.

My eyes go wide.

“Where are we going now?”

“We’re having dinner,” he says as if our entire shopping trip has been carefully thought out.

We enter the hotel and follow the hostess to the restaurant––a quiet, elegant place with illumination provided by wall sconces and lit candles.

I’m glad I’m finally dressed for the occasion. I wear a simple black dress with a narrow belt and matching heels.

He likes what he sees, his eyes moving slowly over the smooth fabric of my dress.

We place the order, and the food arrives quickly. Roasted cauliflower soup, baked potatoes tossed with olive oil and herbs, grilled halibut, caviar, and bread pudding with whipped cream.

We’ve worked an appetite, so we focus on our food and drinks before slowing down and talking.

“So…” I say as we’re sipping wine, a piano player in the background tenderly moving his deft fingers over the keys. “What made you come to the Christmas party last week?”

He tilts his drink against his lips and takes a sip before setting the glass down with a smile.

“Do you really want to know?”

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