Page 38 of Home to Christmas Island
I fear they have a look about them, he says, with mock gravity. Like they may replace the maple muffins for my number one Florence MacLeod treat. I laugh, but a wave of pride crashes over me all the same.
People start trickling in, drinks start flowing, and Alba puts on her playlist called Xmas Bops which is loaded with the most upbeat Christmas songs she can find, along with some Cape Breton classics. We’re starting off strong with one of Destiny’s Child’s holiday covers.
I hear Rose’s parents arrive before I spot them. Mr. and Mrs. Denny are two of the most vivacious, social people I’ve ever met. Mom used to say they had a real-life love story. On the first day of high school, Mr. Denny saw her and said to his friends, That’s the girl I’m going to marry. He told everyone he felt it in his bones.
While I used to see them at community gatherings growing up, I haven’t officially met them since Alba and Rose got together, so I’m a bit surprised when Mr. Denny scoops me up into a giant hug. He’s tall, with broad shoulders and longer dark hair. His golden skin is the same shade as his daughter’s.
Florence! It’s been too long, he booms. Welcome home!
Thank you, I say a bit sheepishly. Alba had told me that the Dennys are much more affectionate than us, and to prepare myself for multiple hugs tonight. Are you ready for the wedding?
Yes, yes, I’ve got a big job that day you know, he winks. Father of the bride and all, have to get my Rose down the aisle. I’ve been warming up and everything. He breaks out into a full set of lunges, and I can only laugh.
And as for the mother of the bride, Mrs. Denny pipes in, I’ve been warming up as well—emotional warm ups, that is. Because I do not want to ruin my makeup on the day of the wedding. But so far, I haven’t been able to look at Rose in her dress without bursting into tears.
Mrs. Denny’s makeup looks incredible tonight, her eyeliner smooth and perfectly symmetrical, and her cheeks subtly contoured in a way I couldn’t dream of achieving. Rose definitely got her affinity for makeup from her mom and something about this sends a pang of loss through me.
She pulls me into a hug too, patting my shoulder affectionately. Well hello Florence, dear. You are absolutely glowing. Is this what cruise life does for you? She spins me around with her hand, the green sequins glittering in the light. I laugh again. My goodness, see David, I told you we should be going on a cruise, look how good the girl looks!
We chat for a bit before they’re swept away by the growing crowd. I see Alba and Rose on the other side of the room and my thoughts slip to Alistair. I wonder if he’s here yet, I also wonder if—
Hey, Fast Florence. His voice comes jolting through my thoughts, and I jump.
I turn around to find him wearing a soft smile that makes my stomach do somersaults. He has on black jeans and a dark-green flannel that, frankly, matches perfectly with my outfit. I’m really, really happy to see him.
So you did get my letter after all, Father Christmas! I say, motioning to his shirt. He looks puzzled. Green just looks so much nicer with my hair, you know? I say, tossing it over my shoulder. He tracks the movement and I swear there’s a flash of heat there. I point towards his green shirt and my green outfit. So glad we could match.
He shakes his head, laughing. Not where I thought you were going with the letter reference, since I only know about one thing you had written on your wish list. He gives me a look, clearly remembering my vibrator joke. Ol’ Father Christmas got scared for a second there.
I’m cackling now, but his face goes serious as his gaze drifts down my jumpsuit. It sends a shiver through me. His eyes are back on mine when he says, You do look lovely in green, Florence. My name on his tongue sets me on fire.
He’s standing close enough that I can smell his cologne, and it’s some kind of woody, pine scent today, but still with that hint of something spiced. I want to inject it into my veins immediately.
I hope you didn’t bring haggis to the potluck, I say, gesturing to the dish he’s holding. He laughs, shaking his head no, and I feel slightly relieved.
That’s only for special occasions, don’t you know? His eyes are dancing in a way that’s playful and fun and I’m trying my best not to smile like an idiot. I brought kilted soldiers, of course.
What the hell is a kilted soldier? I really wish I could do Alba’s eyebrow raise right now, but I’m certain my face has been overtaken by a look of goofy questioning.
It’s kind of like pigs in a blanket, except the sausage is wrapped in bacon instead of pastry. Extra salty. He winks when he says this.
Did you make them yourself?
He nods. Aye, I’d never bring something to a potluck that I hadn’t made myself. I try not to think too hard about the care he obviously put into this—the care he seems to put into everything he does.
Can I get you something to drink? I ask, trying to keep my voice light. All of the text flirting over the last week has really done a number on me. The excitement feels like something soft and fluttering under my skin.
We wander over to the makeshift bar, and my every atom is on high alert with him walking behind me. I grab one of the craft beers from a bucket of ice. Our fingers brush when I hand it to him and, Oh my god girl, get a grip!
Do you, um, have to work tomorrow? What the hell am I saying? Clearly, I’m trying to subconsciously throw ice on this conversation because I feel like I’m crawling out of my skin.
He chuckles. Not tomorrow, and not Christmas Day. Then four days on, but I’ll be off for the wedding on New Year’s Eve, thankfully. I usually work four days on, four days off. But I agreed to only two days off at the end of the month to help cover the holidays, so I’m back to work on New Year’s Day.
I nod at that, as he asks, How goes everything with the wedding?
I launch into more detail about what we’ve been doing the last few days to prepare for the big day. I find him easy to talk to in person as well, and I’m grateful that I can actually get the words out tonight, but it’s hard to ignore the spark crackling between us.
Well, well, look who’s making friends, Uncle Albie appears out of thin air. I silently will him with my eyes not to say anything that will make me want to crawl under a rock. But either he doesn’t read my gaze the same way as his daughter does, or he chooses to ignore it. What do you make of our Flora, then?
