Page 150 of Snowed In
“No, you didn’t. You were playing minigolf with Andrew.”
“But thinking of you the entire time.”
“How romantic,” I deadpan, but I can’t help my smile. “How is he?”
“Andrew?” He shrugs. “Excited. Happy. Relishing the attention. But let’s focus on you,” he says, stealing a kiss before I can protest.
“My lipstick—”
“Tastes delicious,” he says, kissing me again.
“You’re a real charmer today.”
“What can I say?” he murmurs. “Turns out I’m not great with the whole sleeping apart thing.”
I smooth my hands down the front of his suit, flushing slightly. Zoe had arranged a girls’ sleepover for Molly last night, meaning yesterday was one of the few days we hadn’t shared a bed since we moved in together.
That happened pretty quickly when we came back after Christmas last year. I’d been hesitant at first, wondering if it was just the magic of the season that made everything feel that muchmore. But not even a dark, rainy January could dull whatever had flared between the two of us, and, as if sensing I might be doubting everything, Christian had been all over me. The two of us were inseparable, and by March, I was spending so much time at his that I had basically moved in. And when he officially asked me to one morning in bed, I said yes.
It wasn’t all smooth sailing, though.
His apartment was just as fancy as I imagined it to be, and for the first few days, I was awkward as hell. He told me I could make myself at home, and I believed him, but it still felt likehis. His furniture. His things. Even when he did his best to make me welcome, clearing out half his wardrobe and buying a whole new dresser, I still felt like I couldn’t completely relax and only ended up bringing half my stuff with me so I wouldn’t clutter the space.
I was walking around on tiptoes until one day, I came home from work to find he’d painted the bedroom a soft pink and added an incredibly comfy yet slightly ugly armchair to the living room. He put it next to the midcentury lounge chair by the bookcase, so I could knit while he read.
“We can change it,” he’d said to me when I’d stood there wide-eyed. “Any of it. All of it. Don’t be scared to talk to me.”
Don’t be scared.
I wasn’t after that, meeting him halfway as, bit by bit, we transformed the apartment from his into ours. Until it felt like my home too. I don’t know if I want to stay there forever. I’d like a garden. I’d like a little room to work on my crafts. But it’s enough for now. And it’s exciting having something in the future to think about. A future with him.
But no sooner did both of us settle into our new lives together than something else happened to shake it up.
Three months ago, Aidan officially left Australia. It wasn’t as easy as packing his bags. There was his notice period and his apartment, a life he had to unpack bit by bit. He was staying in Madrid now, crashing with a friend, but was due to come back to Ireland before the new year for some job that he tried to explain to me and I couldn’t understand. With rent in Dublin being what it was, Christian immediately offered up our spare room until he got on his feet, but neither Aidan nor I was keen to enter that sitcom-esque territory just yet. We’re probably going to kill each other. But still, it will be nice to have him closer. Nice to have him home.
“I get first dance, by the way,” Christian says, snapping my attention back to the present. “And the last.”
I hesitate. “I promised your dad I’d dance with him first, so—”
“Megan.”
“I’m sorry! You’ve got to get in there quick. I’m in high demand.”
“Apparently,” Christian says, but he doesn’t look too mad.
That’s probably the unlikeliest of relationships to come out of all this. Or maybe it isn’t. His dad has a soft spot for me. Christian said he’d never seen him take so much time away from the farm, and yet whenever we came to visit, he popped around. Taking me to see the animals, asking me about my knitting, my job, my life.
I enjoyed spending time with him. I looked forward to it, even. But a deeper part of me was grateful that it seemed to bring Christian closer to him too. I think he’s spent more time with his dad in the last year than he ever did in his life, and the effect is noticeable. No more awkward conversations where they’re both scared they’re going to say something to set the other off, no more arguments, no more tension. They still might not know how to communicate fully with each other, but they’re getting there. They understand each other better now and at the heart of it, his dad just wants to see Christian happy.
We have that in common.
“You nervous?” he asks now.
“Kind of,” I say. “Not as much as Molly, but still. It’s exciting, isn’t it?”
“Extremely,” he says, distracted as he runs his fingers up and down my arms. “You ever want to do this again one day?” he asks, and I don’t need to ask what he’s referring to.
“One day,” I say softly. “Maybe.”
