Page 23 of Holiday Romance
“You really want to do this?” I ask.
“It’s not bad for a plan B.”
It’s not bad for any plan.
“We could get cheese,” I tell him, almost breathless at the thought.
“I’d say that’s a definite possibility.”
“And stollen from Dinkel’s bakery. And more cheese. We can go ice skating!”
“Youcan go ice skating,” he corrects. “Iwill stand for approximately thirty seconds before falling on my ass and then abandon you for hot chocolate.”
I try not to look too happy, aware that this is very much not his first choice, and yet incredibly okay with the turn of events. And maybe I was wrong. Maybe he’s not so heartbroken about the storm, because he’s looking pretty pleased with our new plan as well.
“Alright then,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Now, how the hell do we get out of here?”
CHAPTER FIVE
It’s harder than you might think. It’s another thirty minutes before we’re finally brought landside and another twenty after that while we wait for Andrew’s ridiculously large luggage to be released.
“You hiding a body in there?” I ask as he unpacks his coat. His suitcase is at least three times the size of mine.
“Just clothes, presents, and all manner of American contraband to be swapped for Irish contraband on the way back.”
“You should start a little black market,” I say, eyeing the dozens of people settling in for a night on the airport floor. I feel a twinge of guilt just looking at them. Should we be doing that? Maybe we could—
“Stop it,” Andrew says.
“Stop what?”
“Whatever you’re thinking about.”
“I’m not—”
“You are. I can always tell.” He straightens, zipping up his coat. “They’ll put on more flights in the morning and we can check then. In the meantime, do you know what we should do?”
“Book a massage?”
“We should get a charcuterie board.”
I snort at the seriousness of his expression. “We can get whatever we want,” I tell him.
“I want a panettone,” he says. “And some cheesecake. What do you want?”
“Mince pies. Though I’ve never been able to find them here.”
He makes a face. “Because no one actually likes mince pies.”
“I like mince pies.”
“And you are wrong.”
I ignore him as we wind our way slowly around the other passengers, heading for the exit. I’m feeling much calmer now that we have a plan. I’m great with plans. “Where are we going to do this?” I ask, trying not to step on anyone. “My place or yours?”
“Yours,” he says immediately. “Not just because it’s nicer, even though it is. But my roommate’s inviting his girlfriend over for the week and I’d rather not listen to them having sex while we’re watchingMiracle on 34th Street.”
I nod, secretly relieved. My placewasnicer. I’ve lived for the past three years in a pretty decent two-bed apartment in Uptown. I sometimes rented out the spare room to friends of friends or offered it up to visiting relatives, but I’ve had the place to myself for the past few weeks and even deep-cleaned it last night so there’s no dirty dishes or underwear lying around.
