Page 40 of The Twelve Days of Christian
“Did he tell you about the song?” One immaculate brow arches, and I can see she’s fizzing like a fresh glass of champagne.
“The song?”
“Untouchable. Is that right? His favourite.”
I nod. “Yeah, he wrote that one.”
She leans in and whispers it against my ear, a secret just for me.
“He wrote it for you, darling.”
“No,” I say, pulling back with a frown, shaking my head in disbelief. “He wrote that three years ago. I mean, I hardly knew him.”
“Oh, but he knew you, Haley,” she says.
‘Untouchable’. The songonlyChristian sings. The lyrics framed on his bedroom wall. For me. About me. I don’t argue with the truth now it’s in front of me. The pieces of the puzzle of Christian Steele’s feelings for me have fallen into place this afternoon, while my own lay scattered haphazardly; my mind in disarray, challenging me tomake sense of this picture. It’s complicated, even before I begin to consider the weight of the fact he’s my brother’s best friend.
As I coax the engine to life, with its decadent purr rumbling through the portico, Tommy and Loreena stand side by side on the front steps. They offer cheery waves as if they’re seeing me off after a tea party, not a secret meeting of the resistance. Things could still get ugly, but after our conversation, my anxiety has subsided. Hope we could actually win this war surges in me, knowing Tommy and Loreena are in our corner. Inourcorner. Christian’s and mine. It’s strange how easily the ‘he’ has become ‘we’. And this half of the ‘we’ has put him through unnecessary worry today.
Guilt drives me to pull over just before I get to the road and I send a response to his earlier frantic texts. I try to sound casual, like nothing much has happened, hoping he’ll forgive my recklessness when I later confess what I’ve already done for him, and what I’m about to do.
Chapter 20
Day Seven
The chirp of Haley’stext is the best sound I’ve heard all day. I plunge towards the coffee table where my phone has sat, silent, brooding like me. With every hour that’s passed, my worry has escalated. I’m like an anxious parent who’s let their kid take out the family car for the first time.
Part of me feels guilt at my fear. Haley’s a capable woman, not a silly teen, and doubting her ability seems disloyal to her and to the belief I have in her. But my feelings for this woman, and how important she is to me, ride roughshod over that.
My eyes race across themessage.
UNTOUCHABLE GIRL:Be there around 5. Hope the girls are behaving.
I glance at the sideboard where Haley’s treasured Christmas clock, a gift from her parents, ticks off the minutes. The little alpine town in miniature glows warmly in the deepening dusk. Lights have flickered on in the tiny cottages, and the realistic-looking flame of an old-fashioned gas street lamp has sprung to life. It’s been agony listening and watching the jaunty nutcracker figure—a more Christmassy alternative to a cuckoo—stride out every quarter hour, marking her absence with the blare of his cornet. The hands show ten past the hour. Four more outings for the little soldier and she’ll be here.
Forty minutes later, I hear the grumble of the automatic door.Thisis the best sound I’ve heard today. I leave the dogs where they are, frolicking in the back yard, their happy place despite the cold. With their knitted Christmas jumpers, neither seems to notice the wintery chill. I feel this need to meet Haley at the door by myself. Just me, without their welcome dance to distract us.
I hover in the hallway, as the thunk of a car door and the beep of a remote echo from the garage, then pace a little, trying to walk off the jangling emotions clashing in my brain. My chest is tight with relief—she’s home, and that’s the main thing—but I also harbour a simmering irrational anger at the risk she took. It’s not the possibility of the fine a cop would have slapped on her—a few hundred pounds wouldn’t be great, but it’s not the end of the world. I’d pay it for her in a heartbeat.
Nor is it the prospect of a pissed off Ollie if she’d damaged the car. He’d be as forgiving as I am where Haley’s concerned. These siblingshave a closeness I’ve not experienced. He adores her and she can do no wrong in his eyes.
It’s my protectiveness towards her that has caused worry and anger to battle it out in my head all day, preventing me from concentrating on anything. I abandoned the book even though I wanted to reassure myself the villain in the story still might actually get the girl. I should have read through all the contract paperwork again, but my brain was zinging in all directions—and anyway, what more could I find that Rachel couldn’t?
For five hours I’ve languished here, my gut tied in knots, sick with fear of her being harmed, conjuring up dire scenarios. I visualised some idiot pulling out in front of her, cutting her off, and her, lacking experience, unable to brake in time and avoid a collision. Or someone running a red—they do it all the time—ploughing into her, the airbags blooming around her like oversized flower petals. Even in a slow speed crash, people can get badly hurt—some die. The cocoon of the Porsche’s leather sports seats, tested on a racetrack, should protect her, but in a freak accident they might not.
Now I know I can relegate all of these worries to fiction, the product of my overactive imagination. I should relax, but I’m still coiled tight. Hearing the click of small booted heels, I can’t help myself; I fling the door wide.
Haley stands on the top step, hand poised in mid-air. Her pale face and the little furrow of tension between her brows trigger my concern. Wary wide green eyes meet mine, but her kissable rosebud mouth curves upwards in a small smile; there’s no hint of anything amiss. Worry has no place here anymore. She’s here, and she’s safe. My little wavering flame of anger sputters and dies, too. How could I ever be properly angry at Haley?
Relief takes over and on impulse, I scoop her into my arms, wrap her so tight, reassuring myself she’s whole and undamaged. No, I shouldn’t be doing this, but I am. And fuck it, I’m not damn sorry. I tense a little, pausing to put out tentative feelers of sensation, checking she’s OK with this, not repelled by the gesture.
She’s tired. I can feel the weariness and perhaps relief as well. Her exam is over; she drove that beast of a car without incident; she’s home. Maybe this is why she doesn’t flinch. It’s been a hell of a week for her, too. That she’d accept comfort in a friendly hug isn’t unexpected after everything that’s happened. But this is not a friendly hug to me. I don’t want to accept a future where this is as good as it gets. I’m not sure how to get to that future, so for now I savour the present, the warmth and softness of her damping down my own anxieties, helping me forgetwhyI’m here, and focus on justbeinghere in this moment.
The scent of green apples and flowers tantalises my nose as I rest my head on her shoulder. Outside, the chill of a dark winter evening has settled on the world, but I close my eyes and inhale the fragrance of this spring child in my arms.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. Her warm breath penetrates the flannel of my shirt, like a kiss against my collarbone. “For ignoring you when I left. For ignoring your texts.”
“It’s OK,” I say. “I shouldn’t have pestered you like that. Not while you were in your exam.”
