Page 44 of Home to Christmas Island
Nothing, I mean, I think a lot of people believe anyone can be a baker, but not everyone can be a chef.
His eyes scan my face and I feel myself go a little red. It’s like I can see how much more he’s picking up on in this conversation, filing all this information away.
Doesn’t he know, Fast Florence, that dessert is everyone’s favourite? His tone is playful once more, but there’s an undercurrent here that says, This guy didn’t know what he had. His face goes serious again.
So, is it done?
It’s done, I say, and I hear the conviction in my own voice. I feel only a sweeping relief saying the words out loud.
Good, he says, standing and taking our plates over to the kitchen before coming back to the couch. In a single, fluid movement he sits down and scoops me into his lap.
He kisses me in a way that feels unleashed. It warms something in my chest to know that he wanted to be sure there was nobody else. I don’t even have to ask—I know Alistair wouldn’t be sitting here with me if there was anyone else for him.
I want to touch him everywhere. It’s like my hands can’t get him close enough. His skin is hot from sitting so close to the fire and I want to lick the freckles along his shoulders that I mapped out the day of the polar bear dip. I tug at his shirt, tempted to try and rip it off.
He runs his hands through my hair and groans into my mouth, This hair Florence. His voice is rough. It makes me feel a little wild. The way he draws out the word wild sends a sharp pang of need throughout my body. I think of all the times he’s touched my hair, like he couldn’t help himself. He drags a thumb along my neck, right under my ear.
Never stop doing that, I beg, and he laughs onto my lips. I can’t remember the last time I felt wanting like this, besides the other night when I would have crawled just to kiss him. I know I could ask Alistair for anything right now, and he would give it to me without a second thought.
But I’m so consumed with my base needs, I don’t think I could get the words out to ask him.
So instead, I rearrange my limbs, our mouths never breaking apart, and position my hips in just the right spot to create a little friction. It’s like I can feel the electric current between us.
Florence, he hisses, a warning in his voice that sends a rush of power through me.
If this is the only way I can get the upper hand with you, Alistair… I say, putting my lips to his ear and moving my hips again. The sound he makes short-circuits my brain. I try to finish my sentence. Then I’m taking it.
He scoffs, kissing lazily down my neck and says slowly, I never needed the upper hand. I just fucking love the look on your face when you’re furiously trying to think of something to say back to me, before returning his mouth to mine.
All those times I was so irritated with him, he was only trying to get under my skin knowing, somehow, that it would lead us here. That thought rolls around in my brain while he slides his tongue along my bottom lip.
He pulls away, both of us breathing heavily. We stare at each other and I’m sure my eyes are ravenous. Why the hell is he stopping?
It’s Christmas day, he says, his voice low and husky. He moves a strand of hair behind my shoulder. He’s sporting one of those classic Alistair frowns and his breaths are ragged. Isn’t this a bit blasphemous?
I giggle, and can’t stop myself when a pretend pout forms on my lips, as I cross my arms in mock petulance. But Santa never brought me that present I asked for.
He laughs a real, full laugh, throwing his head back. It reminds me of the day at the parade, seeing him laughing with the kids. I feel a smug sort of pride but it’s only for a second, before he pulls my right palm to his lips, kissing it gently and intertwining our hands. He lifts me up off the couch and pulls me in the direction of his bedroom.
Well then, Red Sizzler, we’ll have to do something about that.
Chapter 19
IT’S BOTH WEIRD AND NOT weird being in my childhood home with Alistair. His room feels so much like him that I can almost keep my own memories at bay. Everything smells like that balsam-and-cedar candle sitting on his nightstand.
And I’d been right about those end tables: Alistair made them himself.
We’re wrapped up in his duvet, neither of us in any particular hurry to untangle ourselves. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around what just happened here. My body feels limp and sated and perfectly content.
What was Christmas like for you growing up? The thought bubbles up from nowhere, and it’s out of my mouth before I can decide whether I should really be asking it, given what I know of his childhood.
He sighs, rubbing his hair off his forehead. I’m lying on my side to look at him and feel that feeling again, like a wave crashing into my chest.
Mum tried to make it as special as she could, Alistair says. Always found the coolest new toys for Finn and I, always went above and beyond to decorate the house and cook a full Christmas dinner. But, he takes another breath, there was always a fight, in the end. Something would set dad off and it would be downhill from there.
He turns from his back onto his side, facing me too, and I ask him, Did you ever call the police?
Mum never did. But when I got older, I would sometimes. He pauses, clearly trying to collect his thoughts. Sometimes they were great, helpful even. They would try and coax my mother into getting some help. Other times they seemed bored or like it was a waste of their time. No matter their attitude though, it would send my father into a white-hot rage. Mum would deny what was happening, so to my knowledge he was never charged with anything.
