Page 42 of Snowed In
“Oh, well, apologies if you’ve only been with selfish lovers, Megan. I can’t help that I’m generous in the bedroom.”
“No one is generous in the bedroom. Or you think you are, but all you do is get her off, and then you’re like,cool, my turn.”
He’s laughing now. “I haveneversaid—”
“It’s what you’re all thinking.”
“What’s your move then?” he asks, glancing at me when I don’t respond. “Come on.”
“I just did it,” I say, doing it again. “I do lots of pelvic floor exercises.”
He’s confused for an instant before recognition dawns on his face. “That’s cheating.”
“I’ve had no complaints.”
“How did we go from knitting to this?”
“It’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for,” I say, and watch him smile as he makes a turn and drives us out of the city.
* * *
We make great progress until we hit the motorway, when we slow to a near halt, with everyone else trying to get home for Christmas. When my stomach starts to rumble after forty minutes of crawling along, Christian mutters something under his breath and turns off at the next exit, pulling into a roadside pub.
Despite all the traffic on the road, the place is nearly empty, and we’re waved over to a small booth where we get tap water and plastic-covered menus, to which a bubbly waitress informs us they only have half of. I order a club sandwich. Christian gets the roast of the day.
It’s a nice place. The lounge is worn, but they’ve made an effort with the decorations, with plastic garlands hanging from the bar and a small tree in the corner with fake presents underneath. A family nearby has a baby who won’t stop staring at me, and despite making severalhilariousfaces for her, doesn’t seem impressed, so I turn my attention to Christian who barely gave his order before he started checking his phone.
“Work?” I ask.
“Yeah. I’ll probably have to do some while we’re back. Nothing too much, but I’m technically on call.”
“Whatever you need to do,” I shrug. “We don’t need to be tied at the hip, do we?”
“Not unless that’s something you’re into,” he winks. I throw a napkin at him. “No, I don’t think so. Though, if you like, we can disappear for an afternoon or two. Give ourselves a break from pretending.”
“Can we go to a cinema?” I ask, and he smiles. “What? Not romantic enough for you?”
“The cinema’s very romantic,” he says. “But projectors at Christmas. Movies on our day off…”
“I’m a film girl,” I explain. “But theJurassic Parkkind. Not your kind.”
“What’s my kind?”
“Probably ones without dinosaurs,” I say, and a waitress arrives with our drinks.
We spend the next hour chatting about a million different things while we eat. Our jobs, our colleagues, the last television show we watched, the pub we both like that’s closing down. I get apple pie for dessert while he has a coffee, and when we’re done, we stay right where we are, talking easily until we’re politely asked to free up the table. Aka, to leave.
“Regretting that pie yet?” he asks, as we navigate our way back to the car.
“No.” Yes.
“Told you not to get it.”
“If you offer to pay for dessert, a girl is going to order dessert. This is on you.” We stop at the car, and I shuffle my feet, grateful as always for my big warm coat, as Christian checks one pocket and then another. “You lose your keys?”
“No.”
“You lost your keys.”
