Page 52 of The Twelve Days of Christian
He settles onto the couch with a satisfied smile, sprawling down the length of it.
I move from the armchair nearest the hearth, where I’ve been covertly keeping an eye on his fire-making, while pretending to read.
I picked up a new Christmas rom-com in a little bookstore next to the coffee shop today. It’s nice and light, allowing me to supervise Christian, my phone ready to dial 999 if necessary, without losing the thread of the story.
As I approach, his grey sweatpants-covered legs spread wide for me and he pulls me down to tuck in between them.
I lean back against his broad chest, resting my head against the woolly jumper I tossed at him earlier to ward off the chill while he resurrected the fire. It’s a Christmas jumper I bought for Ollie last year.
Christian tried to fob it off, saying it was too small, but I knew it had enough stretch. He looks so damned adorable in it, his very masculine bearded face and solid build, contrasting with the whimsical ice-skating penguin plastered across his chest. But his frustrated frown and the small huff of displeasure every time he tugs it down tell me he’s not impressed.
Maybe he thought his mission to rev up the fire to maximum heat would provide an excuse to remove it. Not that I’d object. I love Christian in only his t-shirt, those patterns of leaves and vines twining across his hands and circling his forearms, then disappearing to where the secret animals lie hidden.
“Wanna watchWild For The Win?” I ask. “We missed Friday night.”
I don’t really want to watch it, but I still make the offer. After all, Christian has lived it. If he wants to see what happens in these last episodes, I’m not going to deny him.
“Fuck, no.” His answer is immediate. “I vote we give it a break. Until Wednesday. The final. I want to see who wins—even though the fact I have any interest in knowing kind of disturbs me.”
“Want to bet on who?” I offer, knowing it’s a wager I’ll most likely lose.
“Gavin Markham,” he says without hesitation.
“The football player?” He didn’t seem like a contender to me.
“Yeah. You’ve watchedTed Lasso, right?”
“He’s a Roy Kent,” I reply, catching his meaning.
“Exactly. Gavin’s had a rough time. He’s not a bad bloke. Was a good player. Just like Roy, injury dogged him till he had to throw it in. He’s doing some coaching now. I admire the guy. Firstly, the grit to play on for a couple of years, even when his body let him down. And secondly, the humility to get back in there to the game he loves, even if it’s not on the field.”
“Definitely a Roy Kent. Well, if that’s the case, I’m not taking a bet against him. Let’s both hope he makes it through on Wednesday. And that his charity is something decent.”
“Support for underprivileged kids to get into football.”
“I can live with that.”
Christian reaches a long arm to grab the remote. “And I bet you can live with this,” he says, switching onto the movie channel whereThe Holidayis queued ready to go.
I suspect Christian enjoys my Christmas movie selections as much as I do. I snuggle into him, trying to ignore the part of himthat hardens between us, nudging my spine and triggering a flood of heat between my legs.
“Cameron Diaz or Kate Winslett?” I quiz him as the closing credits roll.
I’m still basking against the warm width of his chest. Apart from getting up once for a pee and to restock the big bowl of snacks we’ve been munching on—I broke out the Christmas candy—I haven’t moved. Now I’ve eaten too much to move. In fact, it’s a wonder I’m not throwing up after scoffing all those sweets. Will we even be able to sleep tonight with that huge hit of sugar zinging through our veins?
Both of us pounced on the foil-wrapped ‘coins’ first. Every British kid shares memories of peeling off the stiff gold wrapper and biting into the hard chocolate disc beneath. The chocolate is never the best, not the smooth mouth-filling sweetness you’d expect, but nostalgia coats it with a layer of deliciousness.
I also have no willpower to resist the little chocolate-covered snowmen. The contrasting textures, a cloud of spongy white marshmallow, with a layer of chocolate so thin it crackles under my teeth, are irresistible. Christian hasn’t fought me for them. He spent the whole movie feeding an addiction to the Trebor candy-canes.
“Cameron,” he sighs, his peppermint breath against my ear. It’s tempting to spin around and press my mouth to his, taste his minty lips, and the faint lingering hint of chocolate. “Those big damn eyes,just like yours.” Christian leans down and plants a kiss on my nose. “How about you—Jack Black or Jude Law?” he asks.
“Definitely Jude,” I say, smiling up at him with dreamy eyes. I’m not usually a big Jude Law fan, but in this movie, no girl could help but fall a little in love with him. “It’s the single dad thing. There’s something attractive about a guy who’s a good dad.”
“Yeah,” he huffs, a pensive divot dividing his brow, and his jaw drawing tight. My words now seem insensitive when I recall his revelation of the fraught relationship between him and his own father, but it’s too late to take them back. “I didn’t have that. Not like you,” he says. “You and Ollie are lucky. To have your dad—and your mum—get it right.”
I give a small derisive snort and tip my head away from him. Christian’s view of my parents is no different to anyone else’s. The need to correct him is automatic.
“Mum and Dad are far from perfect,” I blurt. “Really, Sam’s mum and dad should take the credit for raising us, not them. We practically lived at their house.”
