Page 35 of The Twelve Days of Christian
I know she will. She’s been in her bedroom studying her notes for the last four hours. There can’t be a thing about dog and cat dermatology she doesn’t know by now.
“What time will you be home? I’ll cook.”
Not only is cooking something I love doing for Haley, it’s another way I can soothe my frustration at this whole fucking mess. There’s something so simple and normal about working in a kitchen that helps to push away the world outside and all its crap.
“Not sure,” she says, her voice trailing off as she fumbles in the drawer of the hall table for her keys.
“Hey, that’s OK, just whenever. I’ll make it something quick. Maybe a pad thai?”
I shouldn’t have asked her to commit to a time. Who do I think I am, imposing a commitment on her? She might want to go for a drink afterwards. Let off some steam with her vet nurse friends. Iwonder if they’re all female? I resent the thought some big-hearted, animal-loving dude might charm her. I shouldn’t. I have no right to Haley’s affections, but damned if I can help it.
She nods. “Sounds good.”
“And let’s crack another bottle of Ollie’s wine. To celebrate you finishing up your course.”
“Yeah. Let’s do that.” There’s hesitancy. Her chin dips, she sweeps her hair behind one ear, and doesn’t meet my eyes. The confidence of earlier, when she spoke of her studies, seems to have deserted her.
“Go well,” I say. “Remember, you’ve got this, babe.”
I swallow back the word the moment it’s out. Babe. God, there’s no way I should let these little terms of endearment pop out. I’ll scare her off. But she doesn’t seem to notice.
“Thanks, Christian. You’d make a great cheerleader,” she smiles, edging on her coat and pocketing the keys with a rattle.
Once she’s gone, I settle back onto the sofa and dive back into the book. The dark pointy-eared dude is about to make a move on the girl, having prised her off some other limp-dick fairy guy who seems to think he still has a right to her. Maybe the bad boy will get the girl after all. It might be a sign.
My attention flits towards a sound. The garage door opening. She must need something in there, but my brain doesn’t linger on exactly what. I’m too invested in my fictional doppelgänger’s success right now.
Until a distinctive rumble vibrates through the house. There’s a surge of the engine, a few stutters, and then a motor roars.
She’s taking the fucking Porsche.
I leap to my feet, fling open the front door and almost arse over on the icy steps. The skin on my bare feet screams from the pain as anintense chill shoots through them, and every nerve burns. My toes recoil from the stinging sensation and I spring back to the safety of the doorway.
I’m helpless to prevent this disaster. In fact, I unwittingly aided it when I neatly backed the car into the garage on Sunday. The Porsche surges out into the thankfully empty street. Haley doesn’t drive, but she is. And there’s nothing I can do to stop her.
Chapter 17
Day Seven
Now I know whymy brother and Christian call this car a beast. It certainly has a mind of its own, like a barely restrained wild thing. But I have no choice except to master it.
Sitting in the driver’s seat, feeling the pulsing of the engine, is like perching in a saddle atop an antsy pony that’s been chomping spring grass. There’s this sense that one little nudge and it will bolt.
I ease the car into the street, thankful I don’t have to reverse it out of the narrow garage. Backing a car isn’t something I’ve done too often, and the last thing I want is to graze the paintwork on my brother’s pride and joy. If I’m careful, he’ll never find out I’ve driven it. Christian’s not going to rat on me. Not after what I’m about to do.
It’s been at least a year since I’ve been behind the wheel. I don’t drive, but I can drive. Ollie encouraged me to do lessons, but I didn’t go the next step and sit my licence. Right now, I regret making what felt like a sensible decision. I couldn’t see the point when I didn’t have a car. Not only do I not need one—London’s public transport system is second to none—but it’s a luxury I can’t afford. Parked up most of the time, sucking pounds I don’t have for insurance and on-road costs, it wouldn’t be a smart move.
Once out of the driveway, I pause, knowing I should punch the address into the car’s navigation. I glance up and see Christian standing in the doorway, face rigid in shock, waving at me and yelling. This guy cares for me, so I know it only comes from a place of concern. I don’t like being the source of the distress on his face. But there’s no choice but to put him through this short-term pain. I’m doing this for him. Because, damn it all, this squooshy feeling inside of me, when I think of Christian Steele—the one that’s crept up on me on stealthy feet—tells me I care about him too.
I don’t hesitate. Slamming my foot on the accelerator—grateful it’s automatic and I don’t have to worry about my poor gear-changing skills—I’m off down the street, the raucous scream of the engine advertising my escape.
A few blocks away, while I’m still on the quiet leafy streets of Kensington, I find a spot to pull over. I pick up my phone, ignoring the two texts from Christian. My mind is made up and I fear reading them will only undermine my resolve to do what I must. Another arrives, and as the dog howl echoes through the car, I switch the phone to silent. Driving will take all my concentration and I don’t need that distraction.
Thinking about Christian in any way is a distraction. I’ve caught myself daydreaming at work. Chuckling about things he’s said—like “Do we really need that nativity scene in the kitchen? I feel like Baby Jesus is judging me every time I’m in the fridge reaching for a beer.” Smiling to myself about things he’s done—such as when I came home on Wednesday to find a five-foot inflatable Frosty the Snowman standing in a corner of the downstairs toilet, who now watches me every time I sit down to pee. I had no idea you could order and have such things delivered to the doorstep in literally an hour until Christian moved in.
For someone who is so adamant he’s not a fan of Christmas, Christian is more than just tolerating my obsession, but leaning into it for me. Much as I claim otherwise, his constant teasing about my OTT Christmas aesthetic is a flow of warmth and fun between us, and the thought it won’t be there when he goes next week gives me an unexpected pang of loss even now when it hasn’t yet happened. I told myself I liked being alone; I was happy having the freedom of a house to myself, with no one to tell me what to do.
But Christian’s not no one, he’s someone. Like all those fangirls out there, I may have fallen for him. Unlike them, my feelings are not built on an image, but a knowing of the man behind the rock star strutting around the stage. His vulnerability, the side of him they will never see, stirs a tenderness in me. He’s done it again, distracted me, and I go back to my task.
