Page 80 of Holiday Romance
“That sounds great,” he interrupts. “The shower part in particular. Plus I’d love to meet your folks. And Zoe.”
“You’re not allowed to like her more than me,” I say, only half-joking.
“Well, then you’ll have to up your game in the next twenty minutes now, won’t you?”
And it’s twenty minutes exactly until my sister messages back, confirming the new plan. By then the bus has dropped us at the top of O’Connell Street, a broad sweeping avenue in the center of the city, that might as well have been in the North Pole by the look of it.
The air is full of noise, of voices and laughter and Christmas music coming from every direction. Women call out as they sell pots of poinsettias and bouquets of red berries, clutching cups of coffee to keep warm. Enthusiastic teenagers collecting for charity shake rattling buckets of coins at passers-by. Every single store I can see has its doors thrown open, crammed with last-minute shoppers and people who apparently just live for chaos.
Even the cars have made an effort, dressed up in Rudolph noses and reindeer antlers as they crawl so slowly through the traffic that most people simply weave between them to cross the roads.
I gaze around at it all with a strange feeling in my gut, surprised at how happy the scene makes me. It’s like my head knows they’re just the same old decorations they put up every year, but something about them now makes my heart beat a little faster, makes me smile at the passing strangers, and even the exuberant choir belting out some Mariah Carey across the street is a little less irritating than it would usually be.
It’s Dublin at Christmas and there’s excitement in the air.
And yes, you would have to be a grinch not to be taken in by it all.
We need to go to Merrion Square to meet my sister, so we collect our luggage and start walking past the glittering hotels and impressively large Christmas trees down toward the Liffey, the river that splits the city into the north and south side. Even that hasn’t escaped the festive cheer, with the numerous bridges that cross it lit up in bright neon lights that shimmer gleefully in the reflection of the water, ready to be posted to a thousand Instagram accounts. Including mine, I guess, seeing as Andrew stops us halfway across to take a selfie.
We round the curve of Trinity College next, where giant snowflakes are projected onto the front entrance. Our progress slows considerably here, the narrow sidewalks congested with people, but Andrew doesn’t seem to mind, navigating his suitcase with good humor even as mine starts to sour. Eventually, I slide in front of him, intent on politely pushing people out of the way, but Andrew tugs me back and I follow his gaze toward Grafton Street, the busy shopping thoroughfare with its famed Christmas lights strung elegantly overhead.
“No,” I say as he raises a brow.
“Come on.”
“It’s jammed.”
“It’s Christmas.”
It’s Christmas.
And the smile on his face is so boyish, so hopeful, that I don’t resist too hard when he tugs me again, and we wind our way through the traffic and onto the busy street. The stores are still open here too, and people move in and out of them with cones of gelato and cups of hot chocolate, numerous shopping bags dangling from their arms.
We edge around a tight circle singing along to a busker, a rosy-cheeked teenager who looks like he’s having the night of his life, before Andrew brings us to a halt at the mouth of an alleyway to get our bearings.
“I feel like I should pop in somewhere and get your parents something,” he says, peering into the nearest store. “I’d offer the giant Toblerone, but I’m not that grateful.”
“What about one of your photos?” I suggest. “They’d love one. Truly.”
“You think?” He sounds distracted and I look over to see his face tilted to the sky, or more specifically, to the mistletoe hanging from the stone archway above.
“That could be anything,” I say. “It could be drugs. A lot of drugs in this city. It’s a big problem.”
“Worried you’re going to freak out again, huh?”
“No, I—”
“Because I’m too hot to handle? It’s the bobble hat, isn’t it? Nothing screams sex appeal like a knitted bobble—”
I kiss him, and both of us smile when I do.
Maybe we don’t need to talk about us. Maybe we’ll talk about it when we have time, without Christmas and family looming over us. We’ll talk when we’re back in Chicago. And in the meantime, we’ll share a kiss goodbye.
Except I don’t want this to be goodbye.
The thought comes to me as soon as his lips touch mine, sending a sharp spark of panic through me, and though he obviously means this to just be a quick one, I keep myself pressed firmly against him, clutching the ends of his coat as his hands settle on my arms.
“Do you know what?” he murmurs when he breaks away. “I think we’re both really good at that. Eight out of ten.”
