Page 47 of The Twelve Days of Christian
“You’re too good to me.” He climbs over me carefully, lying alongside me, nuzzling against my ear, his breath tickling my hair. “You’re too good for me,” he whispers.
I spin to face him. “Don’t say that.”
“It’s what I’ve always felt. Why I never…”
“Shhh.” I lift my head, pressing a kiss to his lips, silencing his doubt.
Chapter 23
Day Eight
I’m dragged into thenew day, as on most days, by the sound of dog feet scrabbling on the floor, tap dancers warming up for their routine. I fight against facing it for a moment, allowing myself a little longer to luxuriate in our cosy nest. Christian is twined around me, his soft snores comforting, the safety of his arm thrown across me, his large hand gently cupping one breast, a reminder of this new territory we’ve crossed into. There’s no regret. I could get used to waking up like this. Even if it is on the couch in the lounge.
I reach carefully to lift his arm off me, trying not to disturb him. The sliver of grey half-light spilling in from the edge of the bay window, finding its way around the bulk of the Christmas tree, tells me it’s morning. Saturday morning. My still sleep-fogged brainregisters other sounds. The rattle of a key in a lock, the click of the door opening.
The dog dance becomes a flurry, an Irish jig, excited feet flying. By the time Rachel steps into the lounge, they’ve gone full-on Riverdance, while I’m struggling to swing my legs onto the floor, still heavy from sleep. She flicks on the light, and my eyes scrunch against the painful glare. So much for keeping this secret.
“What the fuck?” she says. I’ve never worked out how Rachel keeps a filter on her foul mouth in a courtroom. You’d swear she picked up her vocabulary from graffitied bathroom walls. She scans the scene, me in pyjamas, barely upright, a sleepy Christian rousing behind me. “Still, I’m not surprised.” Her mouth tilts up in a sly grin.
“What do you mean?”
“That’s what happens when you let the wolf into the house.”
“Actually, I find that comparison rather flattering,” his voice drawls from behind me, amusement dancing in his words.
“He just wants to eat you all up,” she announces. “And it looks like he has.”
His breath is warm at my nape. He smiles against my skin. “No, but I’d like to.”
I can’t help but grin at the words just for me, but I squash it back, composing my face in what I hope is an innocent expression.
“No, Rachel, it’s not what you think.”
I make my hands into fists, rubbing at my eyes, then stretch my arms, trying to iron out the kinks. Damn, I’m stiff. The couch is wide, but not exactly designed for sleeping on. Especially not confined against a large, although rather comfortable, body for an entire night.
“Look. Pyjamas,” I say, pointing at myself. “Clothes.” I jerk a thumb towards Christian, whose chin rests on my shoulder.
I wince a little at the thought—if it wasn’t for him being such a gentleman, if he’d taken advantage of my little flash of lust—there may well havenotbeen clothes.
“That doesn’t mean much,” Rachel says, weighing my evidence and finding it unconvincing. It’s as if she knows a few hours earlier her friend teetered on the edge of doing something very rash. “But hell, why not?” She stands, hands on hips, ignoring the dogs who’ve settled at her feet. “About time you had some fun. It’s also about time you got your lazy arses out of bed. We’ve got work to do. Besides, I don’t see why you should get to linger in your little love nest when I’ve had to drag myself out of mine. Pierre is not happy.”
Beyond her friends, Pierre is the only person whose opinion truly matters to Rachel. Which is good, since she’s agreed to marry him. As he’s arrived back on a late flight from New York last night, where he’s been busy doing the mysterious but very important work hedge-fund managers do, I can imagine he’s unhappy with her working a Saturday morning. Probably very unhappy if she’s confessed it’s working for free.
“Tell him I’ll shout him a drink,” I offer.
“Buy you both dinner?” Christian adds.
She ignores us. “Get in the shower, Haley. And, you—” She stabs a finger Christian’s way. “Make yourself useful and make me a coffee. I brought breakfast.”
She tosses a box onto the coffee table. I recognise the bold lettering on the lid: Bread Ahead, my favourite doughnut place next to the tube station. If anyone wanted to kidnap me, all they’d have to do iswave one of those boxes out the door of the van, and I’d jump right in.
“Maple bacon?” I breathe.
“Of course.” She knows me so well.
“Wasn’t sure what he’d eat, so I threw in a few other flavours.”
“More maple bacon?” Christian asks, hopefully.
