Page 59 of The Twelve Days of Christian
He immediately swings into action. With the dark glasses shoved back on his face, Christian is on his feet. “Sorry sweetie. Gotta go.”
And he’s off, heading for the gate, Tully sensing the urgency towing him through the crowd. No one would take him for a blind person with the speed he navigates the streams of people leaving the gardens.
“Wasn’t that Christian Steele?” The bewildered woman stares at his disappearing back.
“No. Just my brother.” I shake my head, trying to assemble my face to match the lie. I’m becoming surprisingly good at lying. “He gets that all the time. The likeness is uncanny, isn’t it?”
“Oh.” Confusion still whirls across her face, but as she takes the child’s hand, it seems she’s accepted my words.
“Nice meeting you,” I say, attempting a relaxed, cheerful tone. “But we really do have to go. Our ride will be waiting.” Mularkey and I sprint down the path, trying to catch him up without spilling the wine, leaving woman and child staring after us.
“Shit, that was close.” He’s breathing heavily when I finally make it to his side.
I’m puffing too, after zigzagging in and out of the trails of people like a pro footballer on attack.
“Sure was. I told you the glasses were a bad idea.”
I shove a cup of wine at him, and he takes it gratefully. We amble to the end of the queue for taxis and stand politely. A few sips of the hot wine, the sweetness and spice a pleasant contrast to the slight tang of underlying tannin, and my pulse has almost returned to normal.
I glance back towards the gardens, and there she is. The same woman, daughter in hand, walking our way. It doesn’t appear intentional, like she’s following us. However, the last thing we need is to be trapped in this line, unable to escape her scrutiny and more questions.
I elbow Christian. “Don’t make it obvious,” I hiss against his ear. “But look, she’s just over there.” She stands to our right by the gate, scanning up and down, as if trying to spot someone. I don’t think it’s us she’s hoping to find, but I’d rather be safe than sorry. “We should go.”
How we might escape, I don’t know. We’re still five from the front of the taxi line, and to jump ahead, breaking the very British rules around queuing, would draw unwanted attention.
“Fuck.” Christian’s low growl, as he gives a quick tip of his head to the left, immediately sets my teeth on edge. “Photographer.”
The man is conspicuous by the huge camera over one shoulder. He pauses by the entranceway and swings it upwards to one eye, steadying the unwieldy length of the lens with a practised hand. His hefty gear marks him out as a professional. No one else would bother with anything besides a phone.
An ominous whirr cuts the air as he shoots in rapid-fire, taking picture after picture of people leaving the gardens. They’ll be great photos, the stream of smiling faces, all still under the spell of the enchanted world inside. It’s unlikely he’ll turn his attention to theline at the taxi stand—unless someone points out there’s a celebrity lurking in between the rest.
Christian’s not going to take that chance. He grabs at my cup and before I can protest I’m not finished, stuffs it and his own into a nearby bin. He grabs my hand and tugs me and the dogs to the front of the queue.
We fall into the next cab as it edges forward. Ignoring the indignant cries from some of those waiting in line, we organise ourselves and the dogs in the generous back seat. Others in the queue make the same assumption as the child. Allowing for Christian’s ‘disability’, they admonish the ones complaining about us. I slam the door on the fuss.
Luckily, the driver doesn’t object to canine passengers. Maybe he, too, is reluctant to test the possibility that Christian really is blind. This time, the dark glasses might have saved us. We ride in silence for the whole twenty minutes, but my blood hums with a mix of fear and exhilaration from the close call. Christian maintains the charade, only ripping off the sunglasses as we sprint up the steps, still high on the danger, and stumble into the house.
“That could have ended really badly, couldn’t it?” I say. We stand in the entrance hall, the reality of the risk Christian took so I could have this night beginning to sink in.
“Ahh, the things I do for you, Haley Templeton.”
He shakes his head and tries to look severe, but fails.
“Including impersonating the blind,” I quip.
We both dissolve into relieved laughter. The dogs wag happily as if they’re laughing too, nudging at our knees. We pull off our gloves, tucking them into coat pockets and, taking charge of one dog each, set to work unbuckling their harnesses and leads. Once free, theydance away from us down the hallway and I hear them land with dual thumps on my bed.
“Well, at least they had a good night.” He coils the two leads into a tidy circle and scoops up the harnesses.
“Admit it Christian,” I tease. “You’re actually starting to like Christmas. In fact, I think you enjoyed every minute of this evening. Including the thrill of the chase.”
“The thrill ofavoidingthe chase,” he corrects, his back to me as he kneels to stash the dogs’ stuff on the bottom shelf of the hall table. When he stands, his eyes meet mine, dark and unfathomable. “Yeah, it was a bit of a thrill,” he admits. “But not as thrilling as being here with you.” Anticipation seems to battle with apprehension in that blue velvet gaze. The husk in his voice ignites every nerve in my body. And I’m a goner.
Christian strips off his hat, his dark wayward hair all tousled underneath, his eyes not once leaving mine, as he unwinds his scarf slowly. I’m not sure how he manages to make taking off bulky winter clothing look sexy, but he does. The moment his face is fully revealed, my eyes are drawn to his mouth. As if aware of my obsession with his lips, they slide into a slanted, panty-melting smile. My god, I think he’s discarded going slow along with his hat and scarf. I’m ready to do the same.
Last night we shared a bed while tiptoeing around the possibility of going further. I may have slept in his arms, and woke with his obvious desire prodding at my back, but somehow he kept our touch chaste and controlled. While every part of me was begging him to forget who I am, forget who he is, to ignore what I’ve been through this past year, to not wrap me up in cotton wool and simplytake me and make my body hum, still I held back the words. I usually don’t ask for what I want. Now I’m about to.
“Christian…” I barely recognise my voice. “How about we forget going slow?”
