Page 44 of Christmas Is All Around
“I am going to refrain from pointing out the absurdity ofyouof all people objecting to my preference for hosting events focused on afamous artistrather thanChristmas, Truly.”
“Touché.”
Their food arrived then—a meat pie and a side of chips for her, a salad (also with a side of chips, she noted approvingly) for him. She glanced at his plate as she raised her fork, and then paused, quickly mentally scanning through the other meals they’d eaten together.
“Are you a vegetarian?” she asked curiously, taking a bite of her pie.
He nodded, spearing a bit of halloumi and avocado on his fork. “Since I was at uni. Read a long-form article on factory farming and never ate another sausage again.”
She reached for a chip and sighed at the sight of the woefully small ramekin of ketchup she’d been given. Without missing a beat, he pushed his own ketchup ramekin toward her, reaching for mayonnaise instead.
“Only heathens put mayo on fries,” she said darkly.
“Tell that to the Dutch,” he said, looking unbothered. “I spent some time in Amsterdam a few years back, when my firm was working with a Dutch client, and I cannot express to you how much mayonnaise I consumed.”
“You shouldn’t sound so proud of that fact,” she advised him, and a grin crept across his face. “Have you thought about what you’re going to do, when you go back to work?” she added, since he’d broached the topic first.
He took another bite of salad, shaking his head. “Not too much. I think they’d hire me back at my old firm, if I let them know I was interested—we parted on good terms, they offered to just let me take unpaid leave, but…” He trailed off, his expression darkening.
“But?” she prompted; at some point, she’d stopped worrying that if she reminded him of her presence, he’d clam up. Had started to believe that he was sharing these thingsbecauseshe was there, not in spite of it.
“I don’t know if I can… do it. Anymore.” His voice was quieter now, and he looked down at his plate, the corners of his mouth turning down. “I didn’t realize how much pressure my dad was shouldering, worrying about the house while also working mad hours at a really intense job, and I just… don’t know if I can do both. Once I realized that the house was really losing money, I started trying to go down there at weekends, or call my mum every evening to discuss things—I was having to leave work early so I could meet with my parents’ solicitor, the accountant, and eventually it just got to be too much.” There was a faint note of guilt lacing the words, and he was still staring down at his plate.
“Graham.” Charlotte paused until he looked back up at her. “I think…” And here she hesitated, because she didn’t knowwhatshe thought. She thought too many things at once. She thought too much—far too much—about him.
But despite that, she said something that was utterly, entirely true: “I think that what you’re doing right now is enough.” And then, against her better judgment—against every practical voice in her head, telling her why this was a bad idea—she reached across the table and rested her hand on his.
He turned his hand palm up and interlaced their fingers, then held her gaze, his eyes dark behind his glasses. The room around them—cozy and warm and softly lit, full of the pleasant murmur of conversation—faded. She couldn’t look away—couldn’t focus on anything other than his eyes, the strong lines of his face, the warmth of his hand against hers, the spot where his thumb rubbed a slow circle against her skin.
And the electric current that seemed to sizzle in the air between them, growing stronger with each second of silence.
“Do you know,” he said softly, at last, “how often, lately, I’ve thought about kissing you?”
She swallowed, then said, just as softly, “How convenient, then. That we only have one room.”
They didn’t finish their dinner.
They were on the stairs, then walking down the hallway, and then her key was in her hand, fumbling with the lock—and still, still, it wasn’t fast enough. He was, suddenly, quite close behind her, the heat of his body against her back, his breath on her neck as he murmured, “Have you never opened a door before?”
She laughed, a little breathless, as she tried again, and then—miracle—the key turned, the door swung open. “In America, we have keys that were designed this century,” she said, turning to him as she entered the room, but she couldn’t say anything more, because in a single, neat movement, he was shutting the door, turning her, pinning her against it.
He braced one arm above her on the door, looking down at her, his eyes dark. She reached up for his glasses, but he used his free hand to catch her wrist, stilling her hand. “Don’t,” he said softly, keeping her wrist trapped tight in his grip. “I want to see your face clearly.” The heat of his body was a whisper away from her front. She tilted her chin up.
“Were you only interested in looking?” Her mouth curved into a smile—an invitation.
He took it.
He kissed her, she thought, like he knew her. There was no hesitation—none of the awkwardness that often characterized first kisses. There was simply his mouth on hers, his chest firm against her breasts. He dropped her wrist so that he could reach out to cup her chin, tilt her face to a slightly different angle, and she slid her fingers into the short hair at the base of his neck. She smiled against his mouth, and their teeth clicked.
“What,” he murmured, pulling back enough to speak, pressing his forehead to hers.
“Nothing,” she said, a bit breathless already. “Just…” She tightened her grip in his hair. “I stand corrected. Weareromance novel–ing this shit.”
“Lane?”
“Mmm?”
“Stop talking.”
